The New pleasing instructor: or, Young lady's guide to virtue and happiness. Consisting of essays, relations, descriptions, epistles, dialogues, and poetry. / Carefully extracted from the best modern authors. Designed principally for the use of female schools; but calculated for general instruction and amusement. By a lady.

THE NEW PLEASING INSTRUCTOR.

PART I. Extracts, Essays, Descriptions, Tales, &c.

READING.

TO be able to read with propriety, is cer|tainly a genteel accomplishment, and not so easy to be acquired as most people imagine; and perhaps you will not find one woman in five hundred, that is possessed of it. There are so many faulty ways of reading, which young people are apt to run into, that it is difficult to avoid them all; and when once a bad habit is contracted, it is almost impossible to correct it.

There is your aunt Filmer, who reads with such a canting tone as grates the ears of the whole company. She has frequently almost sung me to sleep, though read|ing one of the most diverting books in the world. Your cousin Pultency, you know, reads with such hurry and rapidity, and such neglect of the proper stops and pauses, that the most attentive hearer cannot understand one sen|tence

she pronounces; whilst Mrs. Dashwood reads in such a slow and slovenly manner, and draws out the words to such an immoderate length, that nobody has patience to follow her. Mrs. Nugent reads with such a loud and shrill voice as stuns the ears of the whole audience. It might do very well in a public assembly, but is altogether unfit for a tea-table: whereas Miss Littleton's accent is so faint and feeble, that you must apply your ear almost to her mouth, before you can understand the subject.

I would therefore have you form yourself upon the ex|ample of your governess, who, indeed, is one of the best readers I ever heard. She reads with the same easy nat|ural voice as she uses in conversation. She observes the stops and pauses with great exactness. She reads so slow as to be easily understood by any person, who will give a proper attention, and is not absolutely dull; and yet so fast, as not to disgust those of the quickest apprehension. Her voice she carefully adapts to the number and extent of her audience. When she reads to a large company, her voice is high without being shrill; when to a small one, it is low, but withal distinct. In a word, she is a complete mistress of the art of reading; and you cannot fail to become so too, if you imitate her manner, and fol|low her directions.

WRITING AND SPELLING.

WRITING, my dear, is one of the most useful arts that ever was invented. Were it not for this art, the knowledge of every person would be contracted within the narrow circle of his own experience and obser|vation; but by means of this, we can enjoy the knowl|edge and discoveries of all those, who have lived before us; and, in some measure make them our own. By means of this art, you may converse with your friend, though removed to the most distant corner of the world, almost as well as if personally present. By means of this art, you can preserve on paper whatever you read, hear,

or see, that is worth remembering; and which it would otherwise be impossible to treasure up in your memory.

But it is not only an useful, it is likewise a polite qualifi|cation; nor should any one pretend to the character of an accomplished woman, who cannot write a distinct and legible hand. Let me therefore advise you to be remark|ably careful and diligent in learning the art of writing. Follow the directions of your master, who, I presume, will lay before you the most perfect copies and examples. Of all the various hands, a round hand is, in my opinion, the most proper; for when you are a mistress of that, you may, with great ease, learn either a neat running or Italian hand; but if you begin with the latter, you never can arrive at any degree of perfection in the former. When you write, never be in a hurry, but proceed with the greatest care and deliberation: always write as well as you can, and then your hand will be still improving; for if you do not, instead of improving, it will, every day, become worse. But before you put pen to paper, you must resolve not to indulge yourself in the wrong spelling of a single word; and if you faithfully observe this rule for a short time, you will soon be able to spell any word without the help of a dictionary. Nothing, indeed, is more unworthy the character of a gentlewoman, than false spelling: and yet, in this respect, I am sorry to say it, most of our sex are shamefully deficient; and some of them too, whom I know to be persons of excellent good sense and distinguished abilities: but this must have been owing to bad habits contracted in their youth, of which they were never afterwards able to get the better. It is therefore your part to prevent, what it is so extremely difficult to correct.

CYPHERING.

OF all the various qualifications of an ac|complished woman, there is not any one more useful and necessary than cyphering. Without this, you must de|pend

upon your memory for every farthing of money that passes through your hands. Without this, you can neither keep an account of the money you receive, nor of what you expend. Without this, you will be in danger of being cheated by every person you deal with. With|out this, you will not be able to assist me in the man|agement of our family, which, however, I expect you should be in a few years; and still less will you be able to superintend the economy of your own, when, in the course of providence, you come to be mistress of one. In a word, without this, you will be altogether unqualified for several of the most important duties in life.

Let me therefore persuade you, my dear, to give par|ticular attention to your cyphering, and to acquire such a competent knowledge in this useful art, as is proper for a woman. I say, a woman; for it is not necessary that she should understand it so perfectly as a man: as her sphere of action is more confined, so her knowledge, in this respect, should be more confined likewise. You ought, however, I think, to be a complete mistress of the four simple rules of arithmetic, the rule of proportion, and a plain method of book-keeping. And I would ad|vise you to begin to keep a distinct account of all the money you receive or lay out, and, indeed, of every thing belonging to you, that can be numbered; as soon, I mean, as you have acquired a knowledge of cyphering sufficient for that purpose. By this means, you will, at once, im|press the rules of arithmetic more deeply in your mem|ory, and insensibly acquire such a habit of accuracy and regularity, as will be of great service to you in your fu|ture conduct.

GRAMMAR.

I AM glad to hear that you have, at length, entered on the study of grammar. I hope you will go on, with spirit and perseverance, and not be discouraged by its apparent difficulty; for, however great this may

be, these will enable you to overcome it; and in propor|tion to your trouble in the acquirement of grammatical knowledge, will be your satisfaction in the possession of it. Of all studies, you will probably find grammar the least entertaining: it is, however, one of the most necessary, and therefore ought not to be neglected. Without a competent knowledge of this science you cannot express yourself with propriety, either in conversation or in writ|ing; and the possession or want of it is one great occa|sion of the difference observable in the language of the polite and the vulgar, the learned a•• ••he ignorant. A striking instance of this difference o••s in two of your female acquaintance, Caroline M. and Sophia S. The former, possessed of excellent sense, but without any knowl|edge of grammar, expresses herself in so awkward and in|correct a manner, that, with all her understanding, she is often disgusting; while the latter, with not half her abil|ities, or general knowledge, by being mistress of the rules of grammar, expresses herself, both in writing and con|versation, in so easy, correct and graceful a manner, as charms all who hear her converse, or enjoy her corres|pondence. You will, I hope, make her your model, and not think you have attained sufficient knowledge in that branch of your education, till you can speak and write as correctly and with as much propriety as she does.

GEOGRAPHY.

I HAD lately the pleasure of hearing, from your governess, that you are daily improving in all the different branches of your education, and particularly in geography, which, she says, you have been learning for some months past. This is an accomplishment equally useful and genteel; but in which, I am sorry to say it, most of our sex are shamefully deficient; as I could prove by a variety of examples. Your aunt Delaval has frequently asked me whether Constantinople lay in Asia or Africa, and a thousand other questions no less ridicu|lous.

Miss Fenton, whose wit is greater than her knowl|edge, and her vanity greater than both, is perpetually committing blunders of this kind. Mr. Grenville hap|pened, the other day, to be reading the news papers to a large company, and, among other articles, one from Warsaw, giving an account of a certain nobleman, who, for some slight cause, had divorced his lady. He had no sooner finished, than Miss, with her usual forwardness, observed that these Spaniards were the worst husbands in the world. Some of the company blushed, others smiled, and the rest remained demurely grave. Miss, perceiving her error, was confounded and abashed: but the gentle|man, out of his great humanity, endeavoured to apolo|gize for her, as well as he could, by adding, that the young lady's remark was very just; that, though the place mentioned in the news-paper was the chief city in Poland, he believed there was a town somewhere in Spain of the same name, and it was a very easy matter to mis|take the one for the other. Into such shameful blunders do young ladies frequently fall, from their ignorance of geography; and to such pitiful shifts must their friends have recourse, to save them the blush of confessing their ignorance. But the knowledge of geography will effec|tually prevent your committing any blunders of this kind, as it will teach you the names of all the principal towns in the world. Nor is this all; it will further acquaint you with the climate, the soil and produce of all the dif|ferent parts of the earth; and with the customs, manners, government and religion of the several inhabitants: by which means you will be able to talk pertinently on most subjects that occur in conversation.

MUSIC.

YOUR governess writes me, that you are become a great proficient both in vocal and instrumental music. This, though not the most useful, is certainly one of the most genteel qualifications which a young

lady can possess. It is, of all others, the most agreeable amusement, the most pleasant recreation; and she that understands music, ••eed never complain that her time lies heavy on her hand. It is at once the best preventa|tive, and the most effectual cure for melancholy and low spirits, as it can banish every gloomy and desponding thought, and inspire us with cheerfulness and good humour.

The power of music over the human mind is very surprising, and almost irresistible. When we are depress|ed with sorrow and grief, it can cheer and enliven our drooping spirits. When we are elated with excessive and immoderate joy, (for joy may be immoderate and even dangerous) it can allay the violence of the passion, bring us down from the giddy height, and reduce us to a state of pleasing tranquillity. If inflamed with anger, or boiling with rage, it can soften and melt us into pity and compassion. In a word, hatred, malice, envy, and every other vicious passion, may, by the power of music, be presently banished, or at least charmed and allayed for a while, and if the charm be frequently repeated, they may at last be overcome.

These are a few of the many advantages which may be derived from music. But all this is only meant with regard to those who have a taste for music, or, as it is commonly called, a good ear; for there are some people so utterly devoid of this taste, that they can make no other distinction of sounds, than that of more or less loud. To them, the noise of a blacksmith's hammer, and the finest airs of a violin, are the same; whilst a person of a good ear, improved by practice, receives from such an entertainment the most exquisite and refined pleasure; perhaps the most refined that can be enjoyed in this world, except that of doing a good action.

DRAWING.

WERE drawing only to be considered as an innocent amusement, even in this light would it merit your attention; for innocent amusements are of more

importance to our happiness, and perhaps to our virtue too, than many people imagine. The most active and busy stations of life have still some intervals of rest, some hours of leisure. The body, as well as the mind, requires it. And, if these are not employed in innocent amuse|ments, they will either lie heavy on our hands, and, in|stead of raising, depress our spirits; or, what is worse, tempt us to kill the time, as it is called, by such amuse|ments as are far from being innocent.

But drawing is not only an innocent amusement: it is more; it is an useful qualification. It will exercise, de|light, and improve your imagination, by filling it with the images of every thing that is beautiful or curious in the works of nature or art. It will strengthen and cor|rect your judgment, by obliging you to examine the ob|jects you copy with greater care and accuracy than you would otherwise have done; and it may sometimes be an assistance to your memory, as it will enable you to take down on paper a greater variety of objects, or cir|cumstances of the same object, than it would be easy, or perhaps possible, to remember. It will likewise be of great use in furnishing you with beautiful patterns and designs for sewing, which those who are ignorant of this art must borrow from others, without being able to judge whether they are good or bad.

But I have neither time nor inclination to enumerate all the advantages which a young lady may derive from the art of drawing. What I have said, however, will, I hope, be sufficient to kindle in you a desire of acquiring an accomplishment, at once so useful and genteel. Allow me to give you one general advice, which is this; let the objects from which you copy, be chiefly the works of nature; and carefully avoid every thing that is unnatural, whimsical, or romantic, as most Chinese drawings are. To imitate the former, has a natural tendency to improve the taste; to copy the latter, has a natural tendency to corrupt and pervert it.

NEEDLE-WORK.

THOUGH there are many other female ac|complishments more showy and specious, yet there is not any one more useful than needle-work; nay, I may ven|ture to say, there is none equally so. What an infinite number of the female sex, and, perhaps, the most virtu|ous part of it too, live by the needle? How greatly does it contribute to render our persons more decent, more agreeable, and more beautiful? What a surprizing dif|ference is there between the appearance of Lady Morton, whom you have often seen at church, and Doll Common, the cinder-wench? and yet this difference is chiefly ow|ing to dress; and dress depends chiefly on the needle.

After all, I do not desire you to apply to your needle so as to hurt your eyes, or weaken your constitution: far from it. On the contrary, I would have this, and all your other studies, carried on in a perfect consistency with your health, which is never to be sacrificed to any consideration whatever. All I mean is, that you should not neglect this qualification as useless, nor despise it as mean, or beneath a gentlewoman. Useless it cannot be, for there is no station of life in which a woman can be pla••ed, where it is not highly serviceable, and for the most part absolutely necessary. And it is so far from be|ing mean and unworthy the character of a lady, that I will venture to say, there never was an accomplished wo|man without a competent skill in this useful art.

CLEANLINESS.

CLEANLINESS is a habit, I had almost said a virtue, which you cannot learn too soon, nor re|tain too long, both from a regard to yourself, and the world around you. It will, at once, contribute to the ease and health of your body, and be the means of intro|ducing

you into polite and genteel company; at least the opposite extreme of dirtiness will certainly deprive you of that advantage; it will either make your compa|ny to be shunned; or, if that cannot be done, it will al|ways render your presence disagreeable.

But beware that you do not confound cleanliness with finery; nor mistake the one for the other. They are as distinct in their nature as any two things can well be; and, though not inconsistent, are frequently found to be separated. A woman may be very neat and clean in a plain and simple dress; and she may be very dirty and tawdry in a fine and costly one. There is Miss Moles|worth, she never wears any thing above a plain silk gown; but that, and all the other parts of her dress, which are equally simple, she puts on and adjusts with such elegance and propriety, as pleases the eye of every one that beholds her: whilst Lady Dormer, on the con|trary, though drest in the richest sattin brocade, and loaded with a profusion of jewels and pearls, is, after all, so slovenly and tawdry, that she may be said rather to carry her clothes like a porter, than to wear them like a well drest lady.

But you say, it consumes a great deal of time: I am persuaded you always find as much as you ought to be|stow, in order to be neat, between the time that is usual for leaving off school, and that of going to dinner. Be|sides, it will every day require less, for the more you practise it, the easier it will become; and a twelvemonth hence, I dare say, you will be able to dress yourself as well in half an hour, as you can do at present in a whole one.

CONVERSATION.

FIRST of all, take care never to interrupt any person when she is speaking. This is the height of ill manners. If she talks longer than she ought, and even deserves to be interrupted, yet be not you the first to do it. That will come with a better grace from one

of greater age and experience. If she be guilty of one fault, that is no reason why you should be guilty of another. If you have a reflection to make upon any thing she has said, you must reserve it till the end of the story; though perhaps you may imagine it would have come in with greater propriety in the middle of it. If the remark would have been very pertinent then, it will not be impertinent now; but if it appears to be trifling here, you may be assured it would not have been very sensible even there. By this means you will at once discover your prudence and discretion, and insensibly ac|quire a habit of retaining and examining your thoughts before you throw them out in conversation.

I am the more anxious to caution you against this prac|tice of interrupting people in the middle of their dis|course, because it is an error which young persons, from the natural heat of their temper, and the vivacity of their spirits, are most apt to commit. Your friend is telling a story: in consequence of something she says, a good thought strikes your fancy; out it comes; for you can contain yourself no longer: your friend is stopt: the rest of the company smile; and yet perhaps your re|mark was very smart and witty. But was it really, do you think, or could it possibly be, so very smart and wit|ty, as to apologize for your ill manners in interrupting your friend? Every sensible person will tell you that it could not.

Another rule which you ought carefully to observe, is, never to take up too much of the conversation your|self, and far less to engross the whole of it. This, even in persons of the greatest age, knowledge, and experience, must appear ridiculous; but, in one so young, so igno|rant, and so inexperienced as you are, it would be con|demned as the height of arrogance and presumption. Indeed, every one seems to be entitled to a greater or less share of the conversation, in proportion to her years and knowledge: but no person, let her years and knowl|edge be what they will, has a right to the whole of it; nor should any one, however young and ignorant, be en|tirely excluded. This would destroy the very end of conversation, which is mutually to impart and receive

knowledge, pleasure, and improvement. For, what knowledge or improvement can she possibly receive, who is always talking herself, and never allows the rest of the company to open their mouths? Or, what pleasure can they enjoy, who are condemned to profound silence, and have their ears perpetually stunned with the noise of the same tongue? If, indeed, they could enjoy any pleas|ure in such circumstances, they must be endued with great patience and humility; greater, I am afraid, than fall to the share of any individual of the human kind.

In company, never speak ill of any absent person, whether friend, stranger, or enemy. The first would be base, the second unjust, and the last low and mean-spirit|ed. By speaking ill of your absent friends, you deserve to lose, and certainly would lose, both them and those who are present; for who, in their senses, would culti|vate a friendship with one guilty of so much perfidy and baseness? By speaking ill of strangers, you would make all the world your foes; for she, who, without the least provocation, can asperse the character of those with whom she has little acquaintance and no connexion, de|serves to be the object of universal detestation. By in|veighing against your absent enemies, you would discover the most contemptible meanness of spirit and littleness of mind; and if it should come to their ears, might flatter their pride and vanity too much, by making them ima|gine, that they had ruffled your temper more perhaps than they had really done, or, at least, than you should give them an opportunity of knowing.

Another rule which you ought to observe in conversa|tion, is, never to say any thing that may give pain or uneasiness to any one of the company. By this I do not mean any of the errors which I have described and con|demned above. All these, to be sure, give pain and un|easiness to the persons that suffer by them; but then they do so in plain and open terms, and, of consequence, may be the more easily corrected or refuted. What I mean at present is, that you ought never to say any thing that seems to reflect, even in the most distant manner, upon the faults or foibles of any of the company, or of their ab|sent friends. If this proceed from malice, it betrays a bad

heart; if from want of thought, it discovers a weak head: and the ill-natured and foolish are equally unqualified for the delicate intercourse of polite conversation.

DIVERSIONS.

WITH regard to diversions in general, I would have you to remember, that they are to be con|sidered merely as diversions, and not as serious business. They are intended not to dissipate and unsettle the mind, but only to relax and unbend it; that it may return to the performance of the important duties of life with great|er alacrity and vigour; and therefore you ought never to allow them to take up too much of your time, and far less to engross the whole of it, as is the practice, I am afraid, of too many young ladies. What with shopping in the forenoon, visiting in the afternoon, and plays, balls and concerts in the evening, I doubt they find but little time for more useful employments. This might do ex|tremely well, had we been sent into the world only to di|vert ourselves for a while with baubles and gew-gaws, like children; but that would be a supposition equally unworthy our great Creator, and the dignity of our own nature: on the contrary, we were placed here to con|tribute to the happiness and welfare of our fellow-crea|tures, and to improve our minds in knowledge, virtue and piety, in order to qualify us for a better and happier state hereafter.

Let me therefore advise you, never to have recourse to diversions, till once you are fatigued and wearied with business. By this means you will enjoy them with double pleasure; whereas, should you make them your employment, instead of your amusement, they will lose all their relish. For it is with diversions as it is with all other sensual pleasures; the more frequently they are enjoyed, the less agreeable do they become; they pall upon the sense, grow tasteless and insipid, and at last perfectly nauseous and irksome: so that, as well from a

regard to your own happiness, as from a sense of duty, you should take care never to throw away too much of your time upon them. And that you may not be tempt|ed to do so, learn to employ yourself in some more seri|ous and useful business: for I believe in my conscience, that it is not so much from an immoderate love of pleas|ure, as for want of something else to do, that so many young ladies squander away the whole of their time in a perpetual round of diversions.

EMPLOYMENT.

I AM glad to see by your last, that you are fully convinced of the truth of what I said concerning dress and diversions, and are so sensible of the inestima|ble worth and value of your time, which indeed is the most precious treasure you can possess, as it is the foun|dation and ground-work of every other blessing you enjoy.

But precious as our time is, yet there is not any one thing of which we are so careless, or rather prodigal and profuse. We either squander it away upon mere trifles, or allow it to pass in a state of listless indolence, or lazy inactivity. The present moment we seldom enjoy, or improve to any good purpose. We are perpetually bu|sied in forming schemes for some future and distant pe|riod; but when that period is come, we neglect it, as we have done those that are already past; and then lay new schemes for some other period more distant still: and so on without end; till, at last arrived on the verge of old age, we begin to take a review of our past con|duct, and find that we have consumed the greatest part of our time in forming schemes and resolutions; but have hardly ever had the wisdom and courage to put so much as one of them in execution.

Such is the picture of a lazy, indolent, and idle per|son: for, I believe, even the laziest of that lazy tribe have still some thoughts of doing better to-morrow; but

to-morrow comes and passes like to-day, and another morrow after that; and thus they doze away their whole lives in a kind of waking dream or reverie. Such a conduct us this would be extremely foolish and absurd, even upon the supposition that they were certain of ar|riving at old age, though indeed it were to be wished, for the honour of their character, that they never reach|ed that period, since the longer they live, they only be|come the more ridiculous: but when it is considered that no one can promise herself another year, and hard|ly even another day or hour, then folly is too gentle a name for such a behaviour; it is madness, it is phrenzy in the highest degree: and yet with this phrenzy and madness every person may be said to be seized, who consumes her whole life in idleness and indolence.

But do not mistake me. I do not mean to insinuate, by any thing I have now said, that the mind should always be kept on the stretch; but this, I think, I may safely affirm, that it ought always to be engaged one way or other, either in some useful and profitable em|ployment, or in some innocent and cheerful diversion, that it may return to the duties of life with greater vig|our and alacrity; but never should, by any means, be suffered to rust in sloth and inactivity.

Idleness is a most pernicious and fatal vice, whether we consider its influence on the mind or body. It weak|ens the strength and impairs the beauty of the latter; for an indolent person will hardly be at the pains to take so much exercise as is necessary to keep the body in health and vigour. It stupifies and benumbs the under|standing; for she will not take the trouble to improve it either by reading or conversation. Nay, it will even corrupt and debase the heart; for it is inconsistent with a state of ease and indolence to have the strong but fine affections of love, pity, compassion, sorrow, sympathy, and the like, frequently awakened and excited in the breast: and yet if these tender passions are not frequent|ly excited either by real or imaginary objects, the heart will gradually become hard and unfeeling, and at last perfectly callous and insensible.

This disease of idleness has different effects upon dif|ferent tempers. What tempts Mrs. Stanley to spend the greatest part of her time in scandal and defamation? Why it is idleness working upon a disposition naturally sour and splenetic. What makes Miss Temple trifle away her whole life in an insipid round of public and private diversions? Because she has got nothing else to do; it is idleness working upon the natural levity and giddiness of her mind. In a word, idleness is the parent, or at least the nurse, of most of the follies and vices in|cident to human nature, and from which we might easi|ly be preserved, would we only take care to keep our|selves always engaged either in some useful employment, or innocent amusement.

THE BEAUTY OF VIRTUE.

A BEAUTIFUL person, with a vicious mind, is no better than a painted sepulchre, fair and comely without, but ugly and deformed within. A wit, without humanity and good-nature, is a pest and a nui|sance; like a venomous wasp, or poisonous serpent, she stings and bites every one she meets, without distinction of friend or foe. And a person of knowledge and learning, without humility and modesty, is generally a vain, conceited, and prattling pedant.

On the other hand, a beautiful young lady, if she is virtuous at the same time, becomes by that means, at once more virtuous and beautiful: more virtuous, be|cause her temptations to vice are more frequent and strong; and every time she resists these temptations, she gives the most convincing proof of her untainted chastity and unspotted honour: more beautiful; for what is beauty? it is not a set of features formed with the nicest symmetry and proportion; it is not a complexion com|posed of the purest white and red; no: but it is both these informed, inspired, lighted up, and animated by the ema|nations of a virtuous mind: it is chastity, modesty,

good-nature, compassion, benevolence, and all the other virtuous dispositions and tender affections streaming forth from the eyes, those windows of the soul, and playing in every lineament of the face. Unless these virtues pre|vail in the soul, and are strongly marked and expressed in the countenance, the finest features and complexion are little better than the face of a painted baby, or life|less statue: all is dull, dead, and inanimated; or, what is still worse, groomy, four and sullen.

Hence the graceful blush of modesty, and the pleasing smile of good-nature, so frequently and so awkwardly af|fected by those who are possessed of neither of these vir|tues, but perhaps are remarkable for their opposite vices: no matter; they are paying a compliment to virtue; they confess, by their hypocrisy and dissimulation, that the appearance of it is amiable and lovely; and if the appearance of it be lovely, how much more so must the reality be? The truth is, virtue is the only thing that is good and amiable: sense, wit, knowledge, and learning, are, in their own nature, indifferent; they are either good or bad, just as they are well or ill employed. In the hands of a virtuous person they may be the means of much good; in the hands of a vicious person, they may be the means of much ill: but virtue, in its own nature and consequences, is certainly and infallibly productive of happiness, as well to the person possessed of it in par|ticular, as to the world in general.

MODESTY.

MODESTY is the outward expression of a pure and chaste mind; and, therefore, every word you speak, every action you perform, every gesture of your body, every look of your eyes; in fine, every thing, by which the inward dispositions of the mind can be express|ed and discovered, comes under the regulation of this virtue.

Modesty, as it relates to dress, has already been consid|ered under that article: as it relates to conversation, it

has been, in some measure, explained. After the advice I then gave you to shun the lewd and immodest conver|sation of others, it would certainly be unnecessary to use any other arguments to dissuade you from running into the same error yourself. There is something in this prac|tice so base and vulgar, that I will not even suppose you capable of a thing at once so unpolite and immoral.

Nothing is more inconsistent with modesty, than to talk with a loud, shrill and harsh tone of voice. This is very unbecoming, even in a man, but much more in a woman, and most of all in a young woman, whose accent should be low, smooth and gentle, an emblem of the in|ward softness and delicacy of her mind. It is no less in|consistent with the rules of modesty, to talk in a positive and peremptory strain. This is scarce tolerable, even when you are talking of things that cannot be contra|dicted; but it is absolutely intolerable, when you are speaking of matters that are of a doubtful nature, as, in|deed, most subjects of conversation are. It is the duty of a young lady to talk with an air of diffidence, as if she proposed what she said, rather with a view to receive in|formation herself, than to inform and instruct the com|pany.

Modesty, as it regards the countenance, and especially the expression of the eyes, is no less worthy of your atten|tion, because, perhaps, it appears more in this than in any one thing whatever. Young as you are, you cannot be ignorant, that all the different passions of the mind may be painted and expressed in the countenance. An|ger and meekness, joy and sorrow, love and hatred, pride and humility, impudence and modesty, have each a par|ticular air of the face, naturally adapted to express them; and whatever passion happens to be uppermost in the mind, the countenance will take its tincture and expres|sion from thence. Though I know the face is sometimes a false glass, still I am persuaded it is often a true one; and that the countenance is often a faithful picture of the mind.

In a word, the only way to have a modest look, a modest gait, or a modest behaviour, in general, is to have a modest mind. Without this, all the formality, gravity,

and grimace, in the world, will signify nothing; for, though by this means, you may be able to impose upon the thoughtless and ignorant, yet the sensible and judi|cious observer will always see through the mask, and perhaps but despise you the more for your hypocritical solemnity. But do not mistake me; while I advise you to be modest, I do not advise you to be sheepish and bash|ful; far from it. Modesty and sheepishness, however alike they may be in appearance, are as different in their nature as any two things can well be. A modest person will not talk too much or two high in company, because she knows it is improper: a sheepish person will hardly talk at all, or at least not so as to be understood, because she is afraid. A modest person looks with a decent assurance; a sheepish one is abashed, and blushes at she don't know what. A modest person will never contradict the general taste of the company, unless it be inconsistent with decency and good manners; a shepish person will hardly contradict it, even when it is. The one acts from principle, the other from mere instinct; the one is guided by the rules of right reason, and therefore is consistent in her conduct; the other is guided by no rules at all, and consequently has no uniformity of character.

Let me advise you carefully to guard against false modesty, which is one of the greatest enemies of virtue, and perhaps has betrayed young people into as many vices as the most abandoned impudence. Never be so extremely modest as to comply with any thing that is bad, how much soever it may be in vogue; nor ever be ashamed to follow what is good, however singular or uncommon.

True modesty is meant to be the preserver, not the betrayer of your virtue; it will be a kind of guard and protection to your chastity; it will secure you from the rudeness and impertinence of the impudent and aban|doned part of the other sex. There is such a dignity and majesty in a modest behaviour, as never fails to command respect: it confounds and abashes even the most prodigate, and makes them either ashamed or

afraid of giving vent to their low and obscene ribaldry, when they are sure it will be received with a blush or frown, with contempt or aversion.

GOOD-NATURE.

THE virtue directly opposed to anger and peevishness, and which I would recommend to your study and practice, is humanity and good-nature; a certain meekness of temper and gentleness of disposition, that makes us happy in ourselves, and prompts us to communicate happiness to all around us. This temper of mind, it must be confessed, is rather the gift of nature than the attainment of art. Some people are born with such a happy constitution, that hardly any thing can disturb or discompose them. The former may be said to be more happy than the latter, but not more virtuous, for nothing deserves the name of virtue that is not of our own acquisition: and, however difficult the task may appear, yet this virtue of good-nature, may, in some measure be acquired by every one who will apply herself to the study of it with care and diligence.

In order to excite you to the study and practice of good-nature, let me entreat you to consider the many happy effects that flow from it. It is an inexhaustible fund of inward peace and tranquillity. What the wise man says of a good conscience (without which, perhaps, good-nature cannot exist, at least not in its highest per|fection) may properly enough be applied to this virtue, to wit, that it is "a continual feast." A person blessed with this happy temper of mind, possesses within herself a never-failing source of joy and pleasure: she derives happiness from almost every incident and occurrence of life, even from those, which to the peevish and ill-natur|ed, are the cause of pain and uneasiness. Thus the bee imbibes honey from the very same herbs from which more noxious animals extract venom.

ENVY.

TO take a sincere pleasure in the blessings and excellencies of others, is a much surer mark of benevolence than to pity their calamities; and you must always acknowledge yourself ungenerous and selfish, whenever you are less ready to "rejoice with them that do rejoice," than to "weep with them that weep."

If ever your commendations of others are forced from you by the fear of betraying your envy, or if ever you feel a secret desire to mention something that may abate the admiration given them, do not try to conceal the base disposition from yourself, since that is not the way to cure it.

Human nature is ever liable to corruption, and has in it the seeds of every vice, as well as of every virtue; and the first will be continually shooting forth and growing up, if not carefully watched and rooted out as fast as they appear. It is the business of religion to purify and exalt us from a state of imperfection and infirmity, to that which is necessary and essential to happiness. Envy would make us miserable in heaven itself, could it be ad|mitted there; for we must there see beings far more ex|cellent, and consequently more happy than ourselves; and, till we can rejoice in seeing virtue rewarded in proportion to its degree, we can never hope to be among the number of the blessed.

Watch, then, my dear child, and observe every evil propensity of your heart, that you may in time correct it, with the assistance of that grace which alone can con|quer the evils of our nature, and which you must con|stantly and earnestly implore.

FRIENDSHIP.

FRIENDSHIP, in the highest sense of the word, can only subsist between persons of strict integrity, and true generosity. Before you fancy yourself possessed

of such a treasure, you should examine the value of your own heart, and see how well it is qualified for so sacred a connexion: and then a harder task remains, to find out whether the object of your affection is also endued with the same virtuous disposition. Youth and inexpe|rience are ill able to penetrate into characters; the least appearance of good attracts their admiration, and they immediately suppose they have found the object they pursued.

It is a melancholy consideration, that the judgment can only be formed by experience, which generally comes too late for one's own use, and is seldom accepted for that of others. I fear it is in vain for me to tell you what dangerous mistakes I made in the early choice of friends; how incapable I then was of finding out such as were fit for me, and how little I was acquainted with the true nature of friendship, when I thought myself most fervently engaged in it! I am sensible all this will hardly persuade you to choose by the eyes of others, or even to suspect that your own may be deceived.

A due regard to reputation is an indispensable qualifi|cation in the choice of a friend. "Have regard to thy name," saith the wise son of Sirach, "for tha•• will con|tinue with thee above a thousand great treasures of gold." The young person who is careless of blame, and indiffer|ent to the esteem of the wise and prudent part of the world, is not only a most dangerous companion, but gives a certain proof of the want of rectitude in her own mind. Discretion is the guardian of all virtues, and when she forsakes them, they cannot long resist the attacks of an enemy. There is a profligacy of spirit in defying the rules of decorum, and despising censure, which seldom ends otherwise than in extreme corruption, and utter ruin. Modesty and prudence are qualities that early display themselves, and are easily discerned; where these do not appear, you should avoid, not only friend|ship, but every step towards intimacy, lest your own character should suffer along with that of your com|panion; but where they shine forth in any eminent de|gree, you may safely cultivate an acquaintance, in the reasonable hope of finding the solid fruits of virtue be|neath

such sweet and promising blossoms; should you be disappointed, you will at least have run no risk in the search after them, and may cherish as a creditable acquaintance the person so adorned, though she may not deserve a place in your inmost heart.

Fancy, I know, will have her share in friendship, as well as in love. You must please, as well as serve me, before I can love you as a friend of my heart. But the talents that please for an evening, may not please for life. The humorous man soon runs through his stock of odd stories, mimicry, and jests; and the wit, by con|stantly repeated flashes, confounds and tires one's intel|lect, instead of enlivening it with agreeable surprize; but good sense can neither tire nor wear out; it improves by exercise, and increases in value the more it is known: the pleasure it gives in conversation is lasting and satis|factory, because it is accompanied with improvement: Its worth is proportioned to the occasion that calls for it, and ••ses higher on the most interesting topics; the heart, as well as the understanding, finds its account in it; and our noblest interests are promoted by the entertainment we receive from such a companion.

But family friendships are friendships made for us, if I may so speak, by God himself! With kindest inten|tions, he has knit the bands of family love, by indispen|sable duties; and wretched are they, who have burst them asunder by violence and ill-will, or worn them out by constant little disobligations, and by the want of that attention to please, which the presence of a stranger always inspires, but which is often most shamefully neglected towards those whom it is most our duty and interest to please. May you, my dear, be wise enough to see that every faculty of entertainment, every engaging qualification which you possess, is excited to the best advantage for those, whose love is of the most importance to you—for those who live under the same roof, and with whom you are connected in life, either by the ties of blood, or by the still more sacred ties of a voluntary engagement.

Conversation, which is so apt to grow dull and insipid in families, nay, in some to be almost wholly laid aside,

must be cultivated with frankness and openness of friend|ship, and by the mutual communication of whatever may conduce to the improvement or innocent entertain|ment of each other.

Reading, whether apart, or in common, will furnish useful and pleasing subjects, and the sprightliness of youth will naturally inspire harmless mirth and native humour, if encouraged by a mutual desire of diverting each other, and making the hours pass agreeably in your own house: every amusement that offers, will be heightened by the participation of these dear companions, and by talking over every incident together, and every object of pleasure. If you have any acquired talent for entertainment, such as music, painting, or the like, your own family are those before whom you should most wish to excel, and for whom you should always be ready to exert yourself, not suffering the talents you have gained, perhaps by their means, and at their expense, to lie dormant, till the arrival of a stranger gives you spirit in the performance. Where this last is the case, you may be sure vanity is the only motive of the exertion: but how little sensibility has that heart, which is not more gratified by the silent pleasure painted on the countenance of a partial parent, or of an affectionate brother, than by the empty compli|ments of a visitor, who is, perhaps, inwardly, more dispo|sed to ridicule and criticise, than to admire you.

ECONOMY.

ECONOMY is so important a part of a wo|man's character, so necessary to her own happiness, and so essential to her performing properly the duties of a wife and of a mother, that it ought to have the prece|dence of all other accomplishments, and take its rank next to the first duties of life.

Economy consists of so many branches, some of which descend to such minutenesses, that it is impossible for me in writing to direct you in every particular.

The first and greatest point is to lay out our general plan of living in a just proportion to our fortune and rank: if these two will not coincide, the last must cer|tainly give way; for, if you have right principles, you cannot fail of being wretched under the sense of the injustice as well as danger of spending beyond your in|come, and your distress will be continually increasing. No mortifications, which you can suffer in retrenching in your appearance, can be comparable to this unhappi|ness. If you would enjoy the real comforts of affluence, you should lay your plan considerably within your in|come, not for the pleasure of amassing wealth; though, where there is a growing family, it is an absolute duty to lay by something every year: but to provide for con|tingencies, and to have the power of indulging your choice in the disposal of the overplus, either in inno|cent pleasures, or to increase your funds for charity and generosity, which are in fact the true funds of pleasure.

In your table, as in your dress, and in all other things, I wish you to aim at propriety and neatness; or, if your estate demands it, elegancy, rather than superfluous figure: to go beyond your sphere, either in dress, or in the appearance of your table, indicates a greater fault in your character than to be too much within it. It is im|possible to enter into the minutiae of the table: good sense and observation on the best models, must form your taste, and a due regard to what you can afford, must restrain it.

Ladies, who are fond of needle-work, generally choose to consider that as a principal part of good housewifery: and, though I cannot look upon it as of equal impor|tance with the due regulation of a family, yet, in a middling rank, and with a moderate fortune, it is a necessary part of a woman's duty, and a considerable ar|ticle in expense is saved by it. Many young ladies make almost every thing they wear; by which means they can make a genteel figure at a small expense. This, in your station, is the most profitable and desirable kind of work: and, as much of it as you can do, consistently with a due attention to your health, to the improvement of your mind, and to the discharge of other duties, I

should think highly commendable. Absolute idleness is inexcusable in a woman, because the needle is always at hand for those intervals, in which she cannot be other|wise employed. If you are industrious, and if you keep good hours, you will find time for all your employments. Early rising, and a good disposition of time, is essential to economy.

The neatness and order of your house and furniture, is a part of economy, which will greatly affect your appear|ance and character, and to which you must yourself give attention; since it is not possible even for the rich and great to rely wholly on the care of servants, in such points, without their being often neglected. The more magnificently a house is furnished, the more one is dis|gusted with that air of confusion, which often prevails where attention is wanting in the owner. But, on the other hand, there is a kind of neatness, which gives a lady the air of a house-maid, and makes her excessively troublesome to every body, and particularly to her hus|band: in this, as in all branches of economy, I wish you to avoid all parade and bustle. Those ladies, who pique themselves on the particular excellence of neatness, are very apt to forget that the decent order of a house should be designed to promote the convenience and pleasure of those who are to be in it; and that, if it is converted into a cause of trouble and constraint, their husbands and guests would be happier without it. The love of fame, that universal passion, will sometimes shew itself on strangely insignificant subjects; and a person, who acts for praise only, will always go beyond the mark in every thing. The best sign of a house being well governed is that nobody's attention is called to any of the little affairs of it, but all goes on so well of course that one is not led to make remarks upon any thing, nor to observe any extraordinary effort that produces the general result of ease and elegance, which prevails without.

CONTENT.

THE utmost happiness we can hope for in this world is contentment; and, if we aim at any thing higher, we shall meet with nothing but grief and disap|pointments.

A sure method to secure content, will be to observe the following rules; first, never to see superiors with en|vy; secondly, to reflect on the various calamities and misfortunes that human nature is subject to; and, third|ly, to form a regular impartial comparison, between ourselves and those who are placed below us in the enjoyments of life. Those considerations will fortify and strengthen the mind against the impressions of sor|row; will reconcile it to the natural distresses that befal it, and will prepare it for the enjoyment of peace and tranquillity. Great inconveniences attend running into any extreme. Much of our happiness depends upon an evenness of temper; in not suffering the scale of our reason to mount us too high, in the season of prosperity, nor to sink us too low with the weight of adverse fortune. Wherefore, my advice is, that you never may exult im|moderately, upon a new accession of good, nor be abject|ly cast down, at the sudden approach of evil. The true regard of your own private satisfaction, should incline you to stability and resignation, upon any change, and to keep your spirits always calm and even; because your life would be a labyrinth of perplexities without it. Had you all the desirable properties in the world, you could be no more than pleased and contented with them; and, if by a right way of thinking, you can reconcile yourself to your own condition, you will fall very little short of the most complete happiness that mortals can enjoy.

Greatness in glittering forms display'd, Affects weak eyes much us'd to shade; And, by its falsely envy'd scene, Gives self-debasing fits of spleen;

But they, whom blest content inspires, This science learn—to bound desires: By happy alchymy of mind They turn to pleasure all they find: They both disdain in outward mien The grave and solemn garb of spleen: Unmov'd, when the rude tempest blows, Without an opiate they repose; Nor meddling with the gods' affairs, Concern themselves with distant cares; But place their bliss in mental rest, And feast upon the good possest.

CHASTITY.

CHASTITY is the next virtue that is to fall under your consideration: no charm can supply its place: without it, beauty is unlovely; wit is mean and wanton; quality contemptible, and good breeding worthless. Chastity is so essential and natural to your sex, that every declination from it is a proportionable receding from womanhood. An immodest woman is a kind of monster, distorted from its proper form. She who forfeits her chastity, withers by degrees into scorn and contrition; but she who lives up to its rules, ever flourishes, like a rose in June, with all her virgin graces about her—sweet to the sense, and lovely to the eye. Chas|tity heightens all the virtues, which it accompanies; and sets off every great talent that human nature can be possessed of. It is not only an ornament, but also a guard to virtue. This is the great point of female hon|our, and the least slip in a woman's honour is never to be recovered.

This, more than any other virtue, places your sex in the esteem of ours; and invites even those to admire it, who have the baseness to profane it. I therefore recom|mend it to your approbation, in the minutest circum|stances. Chastity is a kind of quick and delicate feeling in the soul, which makes her shrink, and withdraw her|self

from every thing that is wanton, or has danger in it. This makes it so great a check to loose thoughts, that I prescribe to you the practice of it in your greatest solitudes, as if the best judges were to see and censure all you do.

It is reported of one Lucretia, a Roman lady, that hav|ing been ravished by Sextus, eldest son to Tarquin, the king of the country, she took a dagger in her hand; and, after having publickly exhorted her relations to revenge her injury on the barbarous ravisher, she plunged it in her bosom, at once putting an end to her life and her disgrace. And such was the opinion which the Romans entertained of this crime, as well as of the fatal conse|quences which followed the commission of it, that the whole nation rose in arms, and not only dethroned the king, and banished the royal family, but even, if I may so speak, banished kings, in general, making a decree, that, for the future, no king should ever sway the sceptre over the Roman people, but that their government, instead of a monarchy, should thenceforth become a republic.

OBEDIENCE TO PARENTS.

IT is impossible that young people should steer their course aright in the world, before they are ac|quainted with the situation of the many dangers that lie in their way; wherefore it is necessary, that they should be under the government and direction of those, who are appointed, by the laws of nature, to take the charge of their education. If children had but sedateness enough, how readily would they embrace the counsel of their pa|rents; how attentively listen to their precepts; and how strenuously pursue their advice! They have already walk|ed in the difficult wilderness of life, and observed the va|rious dangers that lurk in the paths of it, to annoy the footsteps of those who never trod the way. Of these, with much tenderness and affection, parents make a dis|covery to their children; and intersperse gen•••••• ••••vices, what course to take. Children, for this reason, should

not take it ill, if the commands of their parents sometimes seem difficult and disagreeable. Perhaps, upon experi|ment, they may prove as pleasing as if they had followed their own choice. However, this they may be certain of, that all such cautions are intended out of true love, by those who are more experienced than themselves, and therefore better judges what their conduct should be.

To those who honour their parents, it is promised by the word of eternal truth, that their days should be long in the land of their inheritance. From this we may learn how amiable the performance of this duty is in the sight of Heaven. Let your obedience to your mother be there|fore your delight and exercise. God has given her pow|er over you, to bring you up in his fear and service. She was the guardian of your childhood, and is the guide of your yet inexperienced youth; this must naturally enliv|en your love for her, and melt you into the gentlest obe|dience to her. Therefore let filial affection be your gov|erning principle; and behave yourself towards her with all humility and observance. Let no pretence of your being in the right, ever provoke you to answer her with indifference or contempt. You must love her, and be grieved at every thing that disquiets her. You are to please her in all circumstances; to comfort her on all occasions; to obey her commands with pleasure; to con|sult her in all affairs, and to reverence all her precepts. Consider, that all this is but a moderate return of grati|tude, for the toils and hardships, expense and inquietudes, she has suffered for you; for the care she has taken to educate and instruct you; for the good examples she has shewn you, and for the honest principles, and improve|ments of the mind, she has conveyed unto you.

THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL.

MANY are the arguments that establish this great 〈◊〉〈◊〉. First, it is reasonable to believe, that an immaterial being, enriched with so many beautiful facul|ties,

as the human soul is, can naturally have no internal principle of corruption, or be subject to annihilation; and hence arises a certainty of its being a particle of an im|mortal and eternal essence. Again, its love of existence; its hopes of undying happiness; its satisfaction in the practice of virtue; its remorse on the commission of vice; and the delight it takes, in the contemplation of its divine original, are irresistible proofs of its immortal nature. He must be lost in stupidity, who can either imagine, or believe, that a thinking being, which is in a perpetual progress of improvement, that is always capable of new accomplishments and further enlargements, and is still travelling on, from perfection to perfection, should, in the beginning of her inquiries, and after a few discov|eries of her own excellencies and acquirements, fall away into nothing, and perish with corruption. Besides, the justice, wisdom, goodness and veracity of God, are all concerned in the proof of her eternity. In this world, man, let his talents be ever so great, and his labour ever so constant, can never take in his full measure of knowl|edge; can never establish his soul in virtue, or come up to the perfection of his nature. Would it then agree with the infinite justice and wisdom of God, to create such noble beings, for so mean a purpose, as to perish with the beasts of the field? That would be, to give us reason to be abortive, talents not to be exerted, and ca|pacities not to be gratified; which would destroy that in|finite wisdom and goodness of the Deity, that shines through all his works.

We are to look upon this world as a nursery for the next, and are only to receive our first rudiments of exist|ence here, and afterwards to be transplanted into eternal dominions; where our immortal souls will still be add|ing knowledge to knowledge, and virtue to virtue; and will shine forever with new accessions of glory to all eter|nity. This is the triumphant pleasure of our souls: this is the highest perfection of our nature; and it must be a prospect pleasing even to God himself, to see his crea|tion drawing nearer to him by greater degrees of resem|blance.

RELIGION.

HITHERTO you have "thought as a child, and understood as a child; but it is time to put away childish things."—If you desire to live in peace and honour, in favour with God and man, and to die in the glorious hope of rising from the grave to a life of endless happiness; if these things appear worthy your ambition, you must set out in earnest in the pursuit of them. Vir|tue and happiness are not attained by chance, nor by a cold and languid approbation; they must be sought with ardour, attended to with diligence, and every assistance must be eagerly embraced, that may enable you to obtain them. Consider that good and evil are now before you; that, if you do not heartily choose and love the one, you must undoubtedly be the wretched victim of the other.

The first step must be to awaken your mind to a sense of the importance of the task before you; which is no less than to bring your frail nature to that degree of Christian perfection, which is to qualify it for immortality, and, without which it is necessarily incapable of happiness; for, it is a truth never to be forgotten, that God has an|nexed happiness to virtue, and misery to vice, by the un|changeable nature of things; and that a wicked being (while he continues such) is in a natural incapacity of en|joying happiness, even with the concurrence of all those outward circumstances, which in a virtuous mind would produce it.

As there are degrees of virtue and vice, so there are of reward and punishment, both here and hereafter: but do not aim only at escaping the dreadful doom of the wicked; let your desires take a nobler flight, and aspire after those transcendant honours, and that brighter crown of glory, which await those who have excelled in virtue; and let the animating thought, that every secret effort to gain his favour is noted by your all-seeing Judge, and that he will, with infinite mercy, proportion his good|ness to your labour, excite every faculty of your soul to

please and serve him. To this end, you must inform your understanding what you ought to believe and to do. You must correct and purify your heart; cherish and im|prove all its good affections; and continually mortify those that are evil. You must form and govern your temper and manners, according to the laws of benevo|lence and justice, and qualify yourself, by all means in your power, for an useful and agreeable member of so|ciety. All this, you see, is no light business, nor can it be performed without a sincere and earnest application of the mind, as to its great and constant object.

True devotion is not a melancholy sentiment that de|presses the spirits, and excludes the ideas of pleasure which youth is so fond of: on the contrary, there is nothing so friendly to enjoyment, so productive of true pleasure, so peculiarly suited to the warmth and inno|cency of a youthful heart. Do not therefore think it too soon to turn your mind to God; but offer him the first fruits of your understanding and affections: and be assured, that the more you increase in love to him, and delight in his laws, the more you will increase in hap|piness, in excellence and honour;—that, in proportion as you improve in true piety, you will become dear and amiable to your fellow creatures, contented and peace|ful in yourself, and qualified to enjoy the best blessings of this life, as well as to inherit the glorious promise of immortality.

What an example is set before us in our blessed Mas|ter! How is his whole life, from his earliest youth, ded|icated to the pursuit of true wisdom, and to the practice of the most exalted virtue! When you see him, at twelve years of age, in the temple, amongst the doctors, hear|ing them, and asking them questions, on the subject of religion, and astonishing them with his understanding and answers,—you will say perhaps, "Well might the Son of God, even at those years, be far wiser than the aged; but can a mortal child emulate such heavenly wisdom? Can such a pattern be proposed to my imita|tion?" Yes, my dear, remember that he hath bequeath|ed to you his heavenly wisdom, as far as concerns your good. He has left you such declarations of his will,

and of the consequences of your actions, as you are, even now, fully able to understand, if you will but at|tend to them. If then you will imitate his zeal for knowledge, if you will delight in gaining information and improvement, you may even now become "wise unto salvation." Unmoved by the praise he acquired amongst these learned men, you see him meekly return to the subjection of a child under those who appeared to be his parents, though he was in reality their Lord: you see him return to live with them, to work for them, and to be the joy and solace of their lives; till the time came, when he was to enter on that scene of public ac|tion, for which his heavenly Father had sent him, from his own right hand, to take upon him the form of a poor carpenter's son. What a lesson of humility is this, and of obedience to parents! When having received the glorious testimony from heaven, of his being the beloved Son of the Most High, he enters on his public ministry, —what an example does he give us, of the most exten|sive and constant benevolence! How are all his hours spent in doing good to the souls and bodies of men! Not the meanest sinner is below his notice: to reclaim and save them, he condescends to converse familiarly with the most corrupt, as well as the most abject. All his miracles are wrought to benefit mankind; not one to punish and afflict them. Instead of using the almighty power, which accompanied him, to the purpose of exalt|ing himself, and treading down his enemies, he makes no other use of it, than to heal and to save.

A MODEL OF CONDUCT FOR ONE DAY.

THE surest way you can take, to live a|bove such mistaken, perishing enjoyments, as this world can boast, is to put yourself under the necessity of observ|ing, how one day goes through your hands, and let vir|tue, sincerity, and religion be the rules of actions for that day. Oblige yourself to a certain order of time, in

your devotions, in your business, in your retirements, amusements, recreations, and pleasures. Let your first care be to please the Deity, who presides over all your cheerful hours, and innocent conversations; the next to avoid the reproaches of your own heart; and the next, to escape the censures of the world. A lady is never so sure of her conduct; as when the verdict she passes upon her own behaviour is confirmed by the opinion of all that know her. By an observation of these rules, you will come to a discovery of all the foibles that lurk in the secret corners of your soul; and will soon arrive at a true and impartial knowledge of yourself. You are likewise carefully to consider, how far you deserve the ap|probation, with which the world favours you: whether your actions proceed from worthy motives, and how far you are really possest of those virtues, that they imagine you are. Friends may not see our faults; they may be partial and conceal them from us; or else they may soft|en them, so as to reconcile us to them, and make them appear too trivial to be taken notice of. I therefore, cannot think it improper, to consult, what character we bear among our enemies, whose malice (though it may inflame our imperfections, and expose them in too strong a light) has frequently some ground for what it advanc|es. By the reproaches which an enemy casts upon us, our eyes are opened to several blemishes and defects in our conduct, which otherwise would escape our observa|tion.

The exercise of some social virtue or other will fall in your way almost every day in your life. To relieve the needy, and comfort the distressed; to make allowance for the stips and defects of others; to advise the igno|rant, and soften the envious; to rectify the prejudiced, and quiet the angry; to silence detraction, and justify the deserving; to overlook hatred, and forgive an injury; to mitigate the fierceness of others, and to subdue our own passions; are virtues that may give daily employ|ment to the most industrious tempers, and in the most active station of life. Those are exercises suited to rea|sonable creatures, and always bring delight to the dis|creet manager.

POLITENESS AND ACCOMPLISHMENTS.

WHILST you labour to enrich your mind with the essential virtues of christianity—with piety, be|nevolence, meekness, humility, integrity, and purity, and to make yourself useful in domestic management, I would not have you neglect to pursue those graces and acquirements, which may set your virtue in the most ad|vantageous light, adorn your manners, and enlarge your understanding; and this not in the spirit of vanity, but in the innocent and laudable view of rendering your|self more useful and pleasing to your fellow creatures, and consequently more acceptable to God. Politeness of behaviour, and the attaining such branches of knowl|edge, and such arts and accomplishments as are proper to your sex, capacity, and station, will prove so valuable to yourself through life, and will make you so desirable a companion, that the neglect of them may reasonably be deemed a neglect of duty, since it is undoubtedly our duty to cultivate the powers entrusted to us, and to ren|der ourselves as perfect as we can.

You must have often observed that nothing is so strong a recommendation on a slight acquaintance as polite|ness; nor does it lose its value by time or intimacy, when preserved, as it ought to be, in the nearest con|nexions, and strictest friendships. This delightful qual|ification, so universally admired and respected, but so rarely possessed in any eminent degree, cannot but be a considerable object of my wishes for you; nor should either of us be discouraged by the apprehension that neither I am capable of teaching, nor you of learning it, in perfection; since whatever degree you attain will am|ply reward our pains.

Whatever tends to embellish your fancy, to enlighten your understanding, and furnish you with ideas to reflect upon when alone, or to converse upon in company, is certainly well worth your acquisition. The wretched expedient, to which ignorance so often drives our sex,

of calling in slander to enliven the tedious insipidity of conversation, would alone be a sufficient reason for en|riching your mind with innocent subjects of entertain|ment, which may render you a fit companion for per|sons of sense and knowledge, from whom you may reap the most desirable improvements; for, though I think reading indispensably necessary to the due cultivation of your mind, I prefer the conversation of such persons to every other method of instruction: but this you cannot hope to enjoy, unless you qualify yourself to bear a part in such society, by at least a moderate share of reading.

Natural philosophy, in the largest sense of expression, is too wide a field for you to undertake; but the study of nature, as far as may suit your powers and opportu|nities, you will find a most sublime entertainment: the objects of this study are all the stupendous works of the Almighty hand that lie within the reach of our observa|tion. In the works of man, perfection is aimed at, but it can only be found in those of the Creator. The con|templation of perfection must produce delight; and every natural object around you will offer this delight, if it could attract your attention:—if you survey the earth, every leaf that trembles in the breeze, every blade of grass beneath your feet is a wonder as absolutely be|yond the reach of human art to imitate as the construc|tion of the universe. Endless pleasures, to those who have a taste for them, might be derived from the endless variety to be sound in the composition of this globe and its inhabitants. The fossil, the vegetable, and the ani|mal world, gradually rising in the scale of excellence; the innumerable species of each which preserve their specific difference from age to age, yet of which no two individuals are ever perfectly alike—afford such a range of observation and inquiry as might engross the whole term of our short life, if followed minutely. Besides all the animal creation, obvious to our unassisted senses, the eye, aided by philosophical inventions, sees myriads of creatures, which by the ignorant are not known to have existence; it sees all nature teem with life; every fluid, each part of every vegetable and animal swarm with its peculiar inhabitants, invisible to the naked eye,

but as perfect in all their parts, and enjoying life as in|disputably as the elephant or the whale.

But, if from the earth, and from these minute won|ders the philosophic eye is raised towards the heavens, what a stupendous scene, there, opens to its view! Those brilliant lights, that sparkle to the eye of ignorance as gems adorning the sky, or as lamps to guide the travel|ler, assume an importance that amazes the understand|ing! They appear to be worlds, formed like ours for a variety of inhabitants; or suns, enlightening numberless other worlds too distant for discovery! I shall ever re|member the astonishment and rapture with which my mind received this idea, when I was about your age: it was then perfectly new to me, and it was impossible to describe the sensations which I felt from the glorious▪ boundless prospect of infinite beneficence bursting at once upon my imagination! Who can contemplate such a scene unmoved? if your curiosity is excited to enter upon this noble inquiry, a few boooks on the subject, and those of the easiest sort, with some of the common experiments, may be sufficient for your purpose; which is, to enlarge your mind, and to excite in it the most ar|dent gratitude and profound adoration towards that great and good Being, who exerts his boundless power in communicating various portions of happiness through all the immense regions of creation.

THE FOLLY OF PRIDE.

MARY now went up to Leonora, a rich Baronet's daughter, and taking her good-naturedly by the arm, she said—Come, Leonora, let us take a walk round the garden; the race does not suit well with our fine holiday dresses.

But Leonora was very proud, and drew her arm hasti|ly back, saying—Pray, Miss Jones, take care, or you will rumple the lace on my sleeves. She then drew up her head, bridled her chin, and turned up her nose; as

much as to say, a tradesman's daughter like you ought not to be so familiar with me. The lace on my dress is very rich, and the flowers the finest that have lately come from France, continued she; my mother purchas|ed them, that I might have something to distinguish me, when I was forced to mix with nobody know•• who; for I am a young lady of a good family, and it is in|supportable to see citizens daughters imitate, in every thing, people of condition, said the lady who so often visits my mother, Lady Upstart. I had these paste book|les lately sent home; they were bought of the Prince of Wales' jeweller: what pedlar set yours? I never saw any thing so vulgar. I put mine on for the first time when I sung at a private concert before the Prince. For you must know, that I am allowed to sing charmingly; Lord Smoothtongue, who dined at our house the other day, said that I had a fine angelic Italian voice. He spoke in French to me too for half an hour, and declared, that I prattled like a native of France. I shall soon begin to learn Italian; it is not very difficult; but nothing in|deed is difficult to me; I shall be able to speak it in six months.

Thus did she run on, till poor Mary was quite weary of her foolish pride and chat, and longed to leave her, to enjoy her vain thoughts alone. She looked anxiously round for an opportunity, and saw a young lady coming whom she had been in company with before. She in|stantly left Leonora, and joined Charlotte, saying—Will you take a walk with me, for this is a sweet garden? With all my heart, answered she; and they turned down another walk, and left Leonora, with her fine lace and paste buckles, to count her steps, and look in vain at the trees for admiration.

The rest of the company gathered round these two girls, and all agreed that Leonora was haughty and foolish. Let her go, said Charles; a Miss who knows so much is not fit company for us; we might rumple the lace on her fine dress. Who will play at questions and commands? I, I, cried they all, and away th••y ••an to a feat at the upper end of the garden, to begin to play.

The haughty, vain Leonora, who saw herself excluded from this amusement, was ready to bite her nails with vexation. She walked up and down the path with a grave step, looking at them as if she expected to be in|vited by some one, to play with them; but no one took notice of her. She passed by with a pretty pocket-book in her hand, hoping that they would ask to see it, and admire its silver clasp and enamelled figures. But, in|stead of that, the little folks began to whisper, and then burst into a loud laugh.

Leonora perceiving that they were laughing at her, turned away blushing with anger, and at last began to weep, because she could not vent her passion on them.

Then she happened to meet her father, who was a sensible man, and saw with pain that his wife spoiled her daughter. What is the matter with you? Why do you weep? Has any accident befallen you? How should I laugh, answered she; those children have no manners. They sit there together, and laugh and play without in|viting me. They appear what they are, poor vulgar creatures; I ought not to have expected better from them. Would you believe it, when I passed by, they laughed me out of countenance. Is not that very rude and ill-bred?

True, said her father, it was indeed very rude; but, perhaps, you offended them first.

I, answered she; I have done nothing to them; I would not demean myself to quarrel with such—. She stopped short, because she saw a frown on her father's brow. She then related to him, that she had only informed them how her singing was admired, and that she spoke French remarkably well. I told them indeed, added she, that I was soon to learn Italian, and kept them at a distance, that they might not tear my lace, they were so rude. Leonora! Leonora! said he, you have acted very simply. If you wish to be respected and loved, and that people should like to be in your company, you must not always speak of yourself and your talents, for you will then cer|tainly disgust them. You must attend to what others say, and observe their good qualities, and not be eager to intrude the little you know on every body you meet.

I am not surprised that they laughed at you. If a man were to be in my company, who only talked of himself, and took care to let me see that he thought me an in|ferior, because he had a larger fortune than myself, I should laugh in his face. For a proud man is always ri|diculous.

He took her out of the garden and sent her home, tell|ing her as he led her to the carriage, that he would take away her fine clothes, and send her to a little farm-house in the country, if she did not soon appear to have more sense; for pride is folly. A fool may wear fine clothes; but a fool will never become wise.

THE STEP-MOTHER. DETRACTION.

MARY chatted during this time with little Emilia, Mr. Goodman's daughter, who gave her a de|scription of every thing remarkable in her village and house. Amongst other things, she said, that her present mother was not her own mother, but a step-mother: her own mother, she said, she had never known, because she died when she was an infant. A step-mother, do you say? replied Mary, quite surprised; a step-mother! Poor child! I have always heard that step-mothers were very cruel; that they beat poor children, and do not give them enough to eat. Do not believe such stories, dear Mary, answered Emilia! I remember I heard the same thing, but I found it very different. It is possible there may have been many cruel step-mothers; and for that reason I wish that all good children may keep their own parents; but my step-mother is certainly the best woman in the world. She has her own children, and my moth|er's, but she loves us all as well as her own. The cake and fruit she distributes amongst us are always in equal shares: when they are naughty, they are always punish|ed as severely as I am, when I am careless or neglect my work. She has only once given me a blow; and I am ashamed to tell you I deserved it, for telling her a lie,

and persisting in 〈◊〉〈◊〉 though she took me gently by the hand, and told me ••hat a dreadful thing a lie was. And this is her usual method; she melts me by her kindness, and I promise to try to become better; for I know that I acquired some bad habits before my father married again. What then would have become of me if I had not had a step-mother? My own mother was gone to heaven; I never knew her: but my step-mother had pity on me, and has taught me to read and work; nay, to tell truth, and be orderly: my father loves me twice as well as he did; and I love my father, though people say I am passionate and have a bad temper. I wish to be good. And then, when I was sick, yes, very sick, she sat up with me all night, and was so kind—who knows where I should have been now, but for her?

Mrs. Jones did not meet with such an agreeable com|panion. She walked with the sister of an amiable young lady, lately married to a very worthy man. She found her conversation very tiresome; nay, it gave her great pain. She had been brought up by a relation; and, in her childhood, been with thoughtless, idle people; and had learned from them the dreadful custom of slandering, or speaking ill of every body. Mrs. Jones did not yet know her evil propensity: she took her arm in a friendly manner, and said, your sister's marriage with such a wor|thy man gave me great pleasure. I congratulate you, and sincerely wish that they may all their lives enjoy the happiness they merit. Hannah (for that was the name of this malicious girl) thanked her coldly for the part she took in the happiness of her family. But, con|tinued she, with a sneering laugh, I know not whether the doctor's happiness, or, if you please, the professor's, will be so very great. Now it is only the honey-moon. But when he has his wife at home a month or two, he will soon see what a fine choice he has made. I really do not know what he will do with her. She knows nothing of the management of a family; and she has such a bad temper, God help those who are to live always with her! for my part, I am very glad that she is now out of our house. The worthy professor will have trouble enough with her; but then, (she laughed again)

the worthy professor has no right to find fault with her. I know him, and know all his tricks. I must not mention them: but, Mrs. Jones, if you knew what I know, you would form quite a different opinion of him.

Mrs. Jones now testified her surprise, and assured her that she never had heard any thing but good of him and her sister. Besides, Mr. Goodman had praised them, and he was certainly a worthy, sensible man.

He may be a learned man, answered Hannah, but he is nothing more. He leaves all things at sixes and sev|ens; and if any one will give him a glass of wine, he will say all that is kind and good of them for it. I do not love to speak ill of others; but I know very well what they say of his wife; ha! ha! ha! she can skin a flint in the management of her house; you will see more sunshine than bread there, I fear.

Mrs. Jones earnestly endeavoured to defend her friends; for she knew them, and would not suffer such artful cal|umny to shake her good opinion. But the more she de|fended their characters, the more ill this malicious girl said of them. She then turned the conversation to other persons; and she had something bad to tell of every one. Mrs. Jones listened above half an hour to these malicious slanders, for she could not stop her: unable to bear it any longer with patience, she looked at her with contempt, and abruptly interrupted her. Madam, said she to her, you have recollected something ill of every person you have mentioned; I should be glad to hear you, just to turn the torrent, say something good of them.

How can I help it, said she, if people are not better? How can••t I speak well of them, when they have nothing good in them?

What, continued Mrs. Jones, are you not ashamed of yourself? Have you heard nothing good of any of those persons you have been calumniating? I love and esteem them all, because I know them to be good; but if I only believed half what you have said of them, they would sink so low in my opinion, that they would forfeit the place they have in my esteem: I should be forced to despise them, as being destitute of virtue and honour.

Is not this detestable? Hannah! Hannah! if you robbed me of my watch or purse, it would be very wrong; but it would not be so blameable an action as slandering, if you deprived me of my reputation, and thus robbed me of my honour! However precious my watch may be, I can purchase another if it be stolen; but gold cannot rub out the stains you might fix on my good name. But only think how much you have injured yourself. How can I respect a person who has spoken in such a style of her own sister and brother! If I were to repeat to them, to Mr. Goodman, or any of the other persons you have mentioned, only half what you have said of them, what do you suppose would be the consequence?

What do you say, dear Madam? (interrupted the frightened Hannah) surely you will not repeat what I have spoken to you, because I considered you as my friend. I did not mean any harm.

If I (answered Mrs. Jones) spare you, you will soon betray yourself: you will soon lose every friend you have. All your acquaintance will fly from you; they will despise and loathe you. We loathe a slanderer as we do a viper. I, at least, shall take care in future not to come near you, lest you should again fasten on my ear, as you have done to-day, to instil poison into my heart; for whoever speaks ill to me of all the world, will certainly not speak well of me when my back is turned.

So saying, she hastily left the malicious girl standing alone, not knowing what to do with herself, she was so vexed. She walked angrily up and down the garden; and, meeting her sister, would have begun to speak ill of Mrs. Jones; but she would not hear her, and turned from her, saying, I know you sister, and I know Mrs. Jones. I have not time to listen to you.

This made her very angry. When the whole company were cheerful, and walked about chatting and laughing, Hannah flew to a dark corner, and seated herself there, the prey of her own malice.

CHILDREN TAUGHT THE USEFULNESS OF SERVANTS.

THE frequent amusements in which Mr. Jones's family had been engaged for some time past, inter|rupted too much their regular employments. Charles had not done what his master every day required; Ma|ry's work was left unfinished; Mrs. Jones had several things to do in the family, and Mr Jones many accounts to settle, which made him say to his wife and children, we have lately enjoyed much pleasure, perhaps more than we ought, because we have neglected our necessary employments. But now it is proper for us to return to our respective occupations with fresh vigour; else we shall lose by degrees all desire for employment, and our whole family would then fall into such disorder, that we should no longer find any comfort in it.

He desired Charles, after he had given this caution, to prepare his exercise, and went himself to his compting-house.

At first the children did not much relish work, and even Mr. Jones himself found it more troublesome than usual; but imperceptibly every thing returned into its former order. Every one fulfilled his appointed task; and finding themselves very well, they were happily con|vinced that regular employment affords more real satis|faction than continual amusements and feasts.

This order was not interrupted till the middle of October, when the two maids begged Mrs. Jones to let them go to a fair in a neighbouring village. Scarcely were they gone out of the house, when the man servant entered, and, bursting into a violent fit of crying, he could only bring out—What shall I do? what shall I do? Mrs. Jones was alarmed, and asked him what ailed him; but he could only answer—They say my father is dying. Mr. Jones pitied the poor man, and asked if he wished to go and nurse him during his illness? O yes! O yes! said the man; let me but see him before he dies, or I

shall never know a happy day again! Mr. Jones then instantly gave him leave to go, saying, I would rather do all your work myself, than keep you from your sick father. Go, and attend him; and ask my wife for something to take with you, to revive his spirits. Then Harry soon hastened away, with his pockets full of nour|ishing things for the poor sick man.

Mrs. Jones determined to avail herself of this opportu|nity, to impress a useful lesson on the minds of her chil|dren; and would not send for any assistance, though all the servants were absent.

They having left every thing in order, much incon|venience was not felt during the remainder of the day; but the next morning, Mary, going to wash herself, found no water, and was obliged to go to the pump for it her|self, trembling from head to foot. The children now felt the absence of the servants, and how much they went indebted to them for waiting on them. When breakfast time came, the milk was brought; but there were no clean basons to put it in, and the children must drink out of those in which some milk remained since the day before, or wash them themselves. When they entered the parlour, every thing was in disorder and out of its place; all stood as they had left them the night before; the floor was covered with crumbs, bits of paper, and dust; in short, it looked like a dwelling in which idle people lived.

Mrs. Jones said, that to-day she must dust and sweep the room herself, since no one thought of doing it for her.

The children, who dearly loved their mother, would not suffer her to do it, but began to work themselves.

Mary took the broom and swept it clean, with some labour; and Charles put the things in order.

Meanwhile the wind rose, and made the panes rattle; and the pattering of the rain and hail rendered it still more dreary. The poor children's teeth chattered, their fingers were stiff with cold, and they asked their mother if they were not to have a fire to-day?

I should be very glad of a fire, she replied, but I have nobody to light it. If then you do not choose to stand trembling, you must contrive to make a fire yourselves.

Charles lighted some matches, and put them into the grate, but they went out: he tried again, and sometimes the wood caught fire; but they had not placed the cin|ders properly to admit air to draw up the blaze, so it went out again; the wood did not burn. Mary assisted as well as she could; but as she had never lighted a fire before, she did not know how to make it, so her help was of no avail. They stood trembling and crying till Charles's master luckily came in, and told them how they ought to place the wood, and pile the cinders light|ly over it, so as to admit the air; and not heave a quan|tity of fresh coals on, which were damp, and would not readily burn, till the flame had some strength to curl around them.

They were now comfortable and warm; the children rubbed their hands, rejoicing, and saying, now we have lighted it, we will not soon stir out of the warm room. But scarcely was Charles seated by the side of his master, when Mr. Jones entered with some letters in his hand, which must instantly be taken to the post.

Here, Charles, said he, run immediately; these letters must be carried to the post-office. Oh, dear father, cried he, I would gladly go; but see what dreadful weather it is! it rains violently; and how it blows! may I wait till the shower is over? Fie, fie, the letters must go: the post never waits for good weather. Come, start up quickly, lest he should be gone. Then Charles ran away, and came back quite wet: he would have changed his clothes, but had not time; for his father sent him out again with some other messages.

Mary could not stay much longer by the fire, because she had several things to do in the kitchen. When it struck one, they came again into the parlour, and clap|ped their hands when they heard they were to have mutton-chops and apple-dumplings for dinner, of which they were very fond. But, when they were ready, the cloth was not laid, nor the salt-sellars brought in, nor the glasses washed. Mrs. Jones had taken care to send her husband his dinner warm into his little compting-house, where he had a great deal of business to do. But she left the children to prepare the table for themselves;

and, before every thing was ready, full half an hour had slipped away. They now seated themselves at table, but the mutton was cold, and the dumplings overdone, so that their dinner did not taste half as good as they had expected.

After dinner they had still many things to do, and were so dreadfully fatigued in the evening that they thro•• themselves on a sofa, scarcely able to move a limb. I could not have believed, said Mary to Charles, that the servants had so much to do: now I feel it; and I will never give them unnecessary trouble again. Poor peo|ple! they are obliged to wait on us the whole day. When we are sleeping comfortably, in our warm beds, they are forced to get up to light our fires and sweep our rooms, that we may find every thing in order when we rise. When it rains and blows hard, we sit in a warm comfortable room; but they must go out, and not wa••t till the shower is over.

In the winter, when it freezes so hard that their fin|gers are quite benumbed with cold, they must go to the well for water. How often they are obliged to eat their dinners cold; and sometimes through our fault, I fear. I have frequently been ill-natured to them; I am now very sorry for it. I am, indeed, very sorry!

And so am I, interrupted Charles, very sorry; for I have often forgotten myself, and spoken very improperly to the servants. I must tell you what vexes me: I late|ly called Henry a blockhead, because he forgot to clean my shoes, though the poor fellow had been running about the whole day for my father: but, believe me, I will never do it again; I will always be civil to Henry, Jen|ny and Catharine, when I want them to do any thing for me. I will take care never to speak hastily to them; and, above all, not to call them names. Poor Henry, how he cried about his father! I wish I had not called him a blockhead! I shall not be easy till I ask him to forgive me. Mary made the same resolution; and they both longed for the return of the servants.

The next morning the two maids returned; but Cath|arine was sent with some medicines to Henry's father; and, for three days, the children were obliged to assist

Jenny to do the work of the house; and at night they were so tired, that they did nothing but wish for the next day, hoping that Catharine, at least, would come back. The fourth day, Mary was standing at the window, think|ing how much work she should have to do the next day, and almost afraid to think of it, when she heard some one ring the bell; she threw up the window—it was Catharine; and at the same time Henry ran up the steps. What joy! She forgot to pull down the sash. Charles! Charles! cried she, Catharine is come! Henry is come! They both ran to the street door; and, eagerly opening it, caught hold of their hands, saying—Welcome, wel|come, dear Henry! good Catharine! we often wished for you. Their pleasure was still greater, when Henry informed them that his father would soon be well.

The next day every thing was again in order, and these children never afterwards behaved rudely to the servants; on the contrary, they were always civil and good-natured to them, and not only pitied them, when they had more work than usual to do, but endeavoured to assist them; and resolved never more to give unneces|sary trouble to those who had at all times so many hard|ships to bear.

AGAINST CRUELTY TO ANIMALS.

AS Mr. Jones and his family were, one day walking through a field just sown with wheat, James, all at once, sprang forward, bent down on the ground, then started up again, threw his hat before him, as if to catch something, and then darted forward again. Mary, who was curious to know what he had in his eye, ran after him. At last he caught what he pursued, as Mary came up with him, and both rejoiced at having taken a little pris|oner. Meanwhile, Mr. and Mrs. Jones were in conver|sation, and did not observe them. However, they were soon obliged to stop, for they heard Mary scream out, in a terrified tone—Dear James, ah! do not do it; pray,

pray hold your hand! And these entreaties having no effect, she called to her father and mother for help. Mr. Jones could not imagine what the children were disput|ing about, but waved his hand for them to come near him. Dear father, said Mary, you do not know what a wicked boy James is! he has just caught a field-mouse, and for all I can say, will cut its ears and tail off. The poor mouse! it never did him any harm! he has already op|ened his knife! only look at him. James came up smil|ing, holding the mouse in one hand, and the knife in the other. What are you going to do? asked Mr. Jones.

James.

I wish to punish this little thief, who steals the poor farmer's corn.

Mr. Jones.

You are a cruel boy! fie, for shame. He who can torment a little helpless animal, has certainly a bad heart. He accustoms himself by degrees to cruelty, and at last he will find a savage joy in it; and after tor|menting animals, will not fail to torment men.

James.

But could we not do very well without mice▪ They are insignificant creatures, which are of no use in the world.

Mr. Jones.

And is the watch, which your father has given you, something insignificant?

James.

By no means: I would not give it for a thou|sand mice.

Mr. Jones.

Nevertheless, there appears in the struc|ture of this little mouse's body a thousand times more contrivance than in your watch. Look at this little ear, through which it hears all that passes round it: through this organ it was warned when you pursued it; and these pretty eyes, in which the forms of all the objects before it are painted; and these sharp teeth, with which it can gnaw the hardest grain; and these neatly turned paws; this skin as soft as velvet. But you would be still more astonished if you could see its inside; if you could see how every thing passes there to preserve life; how the little stomach dissolves the food; how it separates the best juices, and carries them by very fine channels still further; how flesh, blood, and bones are formed of them. Put your hand on its breast, and feel how its heart beats, to push the blood through its little veins. Your watch may

be very ingeniously made; but do you think it would ever produce any little watches? To this degree of per|fection they can never be carried. The most beautiful things made by man are dead, and without sense: God alone can give life and reason.

James.

But still mice do harm; they devour the poor peasant's wheat and rye.

Mr. Jones.

The injury they do is very trifling. They commonly only gather up the grains which the farmer lets fall; and the most part of it would probably perish, if those little notable mice did not carry it to their nests. And supposing they are led by hunger sometimes to steal a couple of ears out of a sheaf of corn, what injury is that? the farmer will never miss it.

James.

But I have heard they sometimes multiply so fast, that they often ravage a whole field.

Mr. Jones.

Then, indeed, it is time to destroy them; but without tormenting them; and they should be put to death as quickly as possible. If the torments they en|dured would bring back the wheat, or teach them hon|esty, there would be some excuse for it; but this mouse will not be less a thief after you have cut off its ears and tail.

James.

Well then, I will kill the little thief before he does any more harm.

Ah! my dear James! cried Mary, do not kill it; give me the little mouse; I pray you give it me! Can you deny me?

He gave it her, and, as soon as she got it, she let it run away, calling after it—Run, run, poor animal, till you find again your little children.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Jones were pleased with her. Mrs. Jones kissed Mary, and said, good girl! you have perhaps saved the lives of four or five little mice, who must have perished with hunger if their mother had been killed.

Mr. Jones still continued the subject. He said, that the smallest animals were of some use; and that a good man ought not to kill the least worm, unless it injured him, or that its death would be useful to him; but even in that case it would be unjust and cruel to torment them.

OF FLOWERS.

FLOWERS are formed to please us, and it is for our sakes that they have received their lovely ap|pearances: no eye but ours can enjoy their beauties: the animals never seem to be affected with pleasure, when they behold them; nor do they ever stop to consider them with attention: they confound them with the com|mon herbage of the field; they trample on the most beau|tiful of the tribe, and are perfectly insensible of this or|nament of the earth. Whereas, man, amidst a crowd of objects and riches that surround him, distinguishes and pursues the flowers with a peculiar complaisance.

They have likewise an agreeable correspondence with our eyes, and a set of powerful attractions, that invite us to approach them. Whenever we gather them, they present us with new perfections in proportion to our re|garding them with nearer attention. The greatest part of them not only regale our view with the beauty and arrangement of their colours, but gently delight our smell with an excellent perfume; and, when they have gratified our senses with an innocent satisfaction, the mind still discloses wonders in them, which ravish its faculties.

When we have carefully surveyed the structure of a flower, we always find one or more inclosures appointed for the reception of the seed: around that inclosure is a set of chives sustaining several packets of powder, which they scatter on all parts. The whole is encompassed with an empalement, or soft robe, that unfolds and encloses, with a kind of precaution, according to the disposition of the air. All these things convince us, that these parts, which are disposed with so much art and regularity, and wither round the enclosure, when the seed is formed, are instrumental in the generation of the seed. We are like|wise convinced of the original design of flowers: the Al|mighty, by dispensing the verdure of the earth to man|kind, has perpetuated his gifts through all ages, in conse|quence

of the commission he has given to flowers to renew each plant from year to year, by infusing fertility into the seed.

This important and first design to procure immortality to plants, is not inconsistent with a second, which is to de|light the view of man. When God created the flower, he thought fit to blend utility with pleasure. If he had on|ly appointed them to furnish each plant with a reproduc|tive seed, he would not have graced the generality of them with such lovely forms and engaging colours; but they would have resembled roots, which, being only cal|culated to impart nourishment to the plant in a situation of obscurity, were not provided with any embellishment: whereas that great Being, who formed the flowers, seems to have taken pleasure to shape and paint the greatest part of them in such a manner, as qualifies them to re|gale the view of man, and adorn his habitation. It is difficult to conceive how far the design to delight man with the beauty and profusion of flowers has been extended. They rear their heads on the lofty tops of trees, and are diffused through the herbage that creeps along the earth; they embellish the vallies and the mountains, and the meadows are enamelled with their colours; they are gathered from the skirts of woods, and make their appearance even in deserts: the earth is a garden entirely covered with their bloom.

The beauty of flowers never fails to inspire us with joy; sculpture imitates them in its softest ornaments; architec|ture bestows the embellishment of leaves and festoons, on those columns and fronts, which would otherwise be too naked. The richest embroideries are little more than foliage and flowers; the most magnificent silks are al|most covered with these charming forms, and are thought beautiful, in proportion as they resemble the lively tinge of natural flowers.

The festivals in the country are never celebrated with|out garlands, and the entertainments of the polite are ush|ered in with flowers: a young bride, in all the magnifi|cence of her nuptial array, would imagine she wanted a necessary part of her ornaments, if she did not improve them by a sprig of flowers: a queen, amidst the greatest

solemnities, though she is covered with the jewels of the crown, has an inclination to this rural ornament; she is not satisfied with mere grandeur and majesty, but is de|s••rous of assuming an air of softness and gaiety, by the me|diation of flowers.

We may, indeed, in some measure, consider it as a mis|fortune, that we should ever be deprived of the view of beautiful flowers. But, alas! what more is the beau••y of our fair readers, than the emblem of a short-lived flower.

The fairest forms that nature shows Sustain the shortest doom: Beauty is like the morning rose, That withers in its bloom.

If the Divine Wisdom seems to have had complacency in the distribution of those colours that array the flowers, what a new charm has it imparted to them in their partic|ular airs and forms! We observe some rising with a mei•• of dignity and grandeur, while others, without the least pomp or ostentation, attract the eye by the regularity of their lineaments. What an aspect of majesty is visible in the growth of tulips! how elegant is the symmetry of those pyramids, in which the lilies appear!

Flowers are not only intended to beautify the earth with their brilliant colours; but the greatest part of them, in order to render the entertainment more exquisite, dif|fuse a fragrance, that perfumes all the air around us; and it should seem as if they were solicitous to reserve their odours for the evening and morn, when walking is most agreeable; but their sweets are very faint during the heat of the day, when we visit them least.

To conclude—even flowers furnish us with instruction, and conduct us, by gentle steps, to the knowledge of the First Being, who has thus condescended to shape and paint them with so much delicacy, and to grace them with such a variety of beauties. How amiable must he then be, who is the source of so many charms in such an infin|ity of objects, to whom he constantly imparts the same lustre they disclosed, when they first appeared on the earth! and, if he has been pleased to bestow so magnificent an array on creatures of such a trans••ent duration, and who

to-morrow will be withered and trodden under foot, like the herbage of the field, what will he not do for us, who are the objects of his complacency.

THE UTILITY OF RELAXATION.

WE do not expect that women should al|ways utter gr•••••• sentences, no men neither. It were in|consistent with the state of mankind. It cannot be ex|pected from philosophers of the h••st rank▪ nor, if it could, do I know that it would be desirable. I am e••en in|clined to believe that they who understand the art of what has been termed trifling agreeably, have gained a very considerable point. The frailty of human nature, and the infelicity of human life, require to be relieved and soothed. There are many occasions, on which this is not to be done by sage admonitions, or solemn reflections. These, to well-disposed minds, are often highly solacing; but to dwell on them always were to strain the machine be|yond its powers. Besides, in fact, a seasonable diversion to anxiety, a temporary forgetfulness of grief, is frequently a far better method to remove it, than any direct applica|tion or laboured remedy. To change the metaphor; when the road proves rugged, or is in danger of grow|ing tedious, one successful method of beguiling it is, for travellers to cheer and amuse one another by the play of fancy, and the facetiousness of mirth. But then the end of the journey must not be forgotten. Because we are weak, there is no reason why we should be silly. The brow of care may surely be smoothed without convert|ing it into the laugh of folly. While we indulge the recreation necessary for mortal, let us maintain the tem|per requisite for immortal beings. To reconcile these two things, and to blend them happily, seems the proper science of creatures on their journey through time to eternity. From you, my gentle friends, we look for every thing that, next to the diviner influence of religion, can soften the inequality, and animate the dulness of the way.

THE FEMALE CHOICE.—A TALE.

A YOUNG girl, having fatigued herself one hot day, with running about the garden, sat herself down in a pleasant arbour, where she presently fell asleep. Dur|ing her slumber, two female figures presented themselves before her. One was loosely habited in a thin robe of pink, with light green trimmings. Her sash of silver gauze flowed to the ground. Her fair hair fell in ringlets down her neck; and her head-dress consisted of artificial flowers interwoven with feathers. She held in one hand a ball-ticket, and in the other a fancy-dress all covered with spangles and knots of gay ribbon. She advanced smiling to the girl, and, with a familiar air, thus address|ed her:—

My dearest Melissa, I am a kind genius, who have watched you from your birth, and have joyfully beheld all your beauties expand, till at length they have render|ed you a companion worthy of me. See what I have brought you. This dress and this ticket will give you free access to all the ravishing delights of my palace. With me you will pass your days in a perpetual round of ever varying amusements. Like the gay butterfly, you will have no other business than to flutter from flower to flow|er, and spread your charms before admiring spectators. No restraints, no toils, no dull tasks, are to be found with|in my happy domains. All is pleasure, life and good humour. Come then, my dear! Let me put on you this dress, which will make you quite enchanting; and away, away, with me!

Melissa felt a strong inclination to comply with the call of this inviting nymph; but first she thought it would be prudent at least to ask her name. My name, said she, is Dissipation.

The other female then advanced. She was clothed in a close habit of brown stuff, simply relieved with white. She wore her smooth hair under a plain cap. Her whole person was perfectly neat and clean. Her look was se|rious, but satisfied; and her air was staid and composed.

She held in one hand a distaff; on the opposite arm hung a work-basket; and the girdle round her waist was gar|nished with scissars, knitting-needles, reels, and other im|plements of female labour. A bunch of keys hung at her side. She thus accosted the sleeping girl:—

Melissa, I am the genius who have ever been the friend and companion of your mother; and I now offer my protection to you. I have no allurements to tempt you with like those of my gay rival. Instead of spending all your time in amusements, if you enter yourself of my train, you must rise early, and pass the long day in a va|riety of employments, some of them difficult, some la|borious, and all requiring some exertion of body or mind. You must dress plainly, live mostly at home, and aim at being useful rather than shining. But, in return, I will insure you content, even spirits, self-approbation, and the esteem of all who thoroughly know you. If these offers appear to your young mind less inviting than those of my rival, be assured, however, that they are more real. She has promised much more than she can ever make good. Perpetual pleasures are no more in the power of Dissipation, than of Vice or Folly, to bestow. Her delights quickly pall, and are inevitably succeeded by languor and disgust. She appears to you under a disguise, and what you see is not her real face. For myself, I shall never seem to you less amiable than I now do; but, on the contrary, you will like me better and better. If I look grave to you now, you will hear me sing at my work; and when work is over, I can dance too. But I have said enough: it is time for you to choose whom you will follow; and upon that choice all your happiness depends. If you would know my name, it is House|wifery.

Melissa heard her with more attention than delight; and though overawed by her manner, she could not help turning again to take another look at the first speaker. She beheld her still offering her presents with so bewitch|ing an air, that she felt it scarcely possible to resist; when, by a lucky accident, the mask with which Dissipation's face was so artfully covered, fell off. As soon as Melis|sa beheld, instead of the smiling features of youth and

cheerfulness, a countenance wan and ghastly with sick|ness, and soured by fretfulness, she turned away with horror, and gave her hand unreluctantly to her sober and sincere companion.

DIFFERENCE AND AGREEMENT; Or, SUN|DAY MORNING.

IT was Sunday morning. All the bells were ringing for church, and the streets were filled with peo|ple moving in all directions.

Here, numbers of well-dressed persons, and a long train of charity children, were thronging in at the wide doors of a large handsome church. There, a smaller number, almost equally gay in dress, were entering an elegant meeting-house. Up one alley, a Roman Catholic con|gregation was turning into their retired chapel, every one crossing himself with a finger dipt in holy water as he went in. The opposite side of the street was covered with a train of Quakers, distinguished by their plain and neat attire, and sedate aspect, who walked without cere|mony into a room as plain as themselves, and took their seats, the men on one side, and the women on the other, in silence. A spacious building was filled with an over-flowing crowd of Methodists, most of them meanly hab|ited, but decent and serious in demeanour; while a small society of Baptists in the neighbourhood, quietly occu|pied their humble place of assembly.

Presently the different services began. The churches resounded with the solemn organ, and with the indistinct murmurs of a large body of people following the minis|ter in responsive prayers. From the meetings were heard the slow psalm, and the single voice of the leader of their devotions. The Roman Catholic chapel was enlivened by strains of music, the tinkling of a small bell, and a per|petual change of service and ceremonial. A profound silence and unvarying look and posture announced the self-recollection and mental devotion of the Quakers.

Mr. Ambrose led his son Edwin round all these different assemblies as a spectator. Edwin viewed every thing with great attention, and was often impatient to inquire of his father the meaning of what he saw: but Mr. Ambrose would not suffer him to disturb any of the congregations, even by a whisper. When they had gone through the whole, Edwin found a great number of questions to put to his father, who explained every thing to him in the best manner he could. At length, says Edwin—But why cannot all these people agree to go to the same place, and worship God the same way?

And why should they agree? (replied his father.) Do you not see that people differ in a hundred other things? Do they all dress alike, and eat and drink alike, and keep the same hours, and use the same diversions?

Ay! but those are things in which they have a right to do as they please.

And they have a right, too, to worship God as they please. It is their own business, and concerns none but themselves.

But has not God ordered particular ways of worship|ing him?

He has directed the mind and spirit with which he is to be worshipped, but not the particular form and man|ner. That is left for every one to choose, according as suits his temper and opinions. All these people like their own way best, and why should they leave it for the choice of another? Religion is one of the things in which man|kind were made to differ.

The several congregations now began to be dismissed, and the street was again overspread with persons of all the different sects, going promiscuously to their respective homes. It chanced that a poor man fell down in the street in a fit of apoplexy, and lay for dead. His wife and children stood round him crying and lamenting in the bitterest distress. The beholders immediately flock|ed round, and, with looks and expressions of the warm|est compassion, gave their help. A Churchman raised the man from the ground, by lifting him under the arms, while a Dissenter held his head, and wiped his face with his handkerchief. A Roman Catholic lady took out her

smelling-bottle, and assiduously applied it to his nose. A Methodist ran for a doctor. A Quaker supported and comforted the woman; and a Baptist took care of the children.

Edwin and his father were among the spectators. Here, said Mr. Ambrose, is a thing in which mankind were made to agree.

THE FOUR SISTERS.

I AM one of four Sisters; and having some reason to think myself not well used either by them or by the world, I beg leave to lay before you a sketch of our history and characters. You will not wonder there should be frequent bickerings amongst us, when I tell you that in our infancy we were continually fighting; and so great was the noise, and din, and confusion, i•• our continual struggles to get uppermost, that it was im|possible for any body to live amongst us, in such a scene of tumult and disorder. These brawls, however, by a powerful interposition, were put an end to; our proper place was assigned to each of us, and we had strict orders not to encroach on the limits of each other's property, but to join our common offices for the good of the whole family.

My first sister (I call her the first, because we have generally allowed her the precedence in rank,) is, I must acknowledge, of a very active sprightly disposition; quick and lively, and has more brilliancy than any of us: but she is hot: every thing serves for fuel to her fury, when it is once raised to a certain degree; and she is so mis|chievous whenever she gets the upper hand, that, not|withstanding her aspiring disposition, if I may freely speak my mind, she is calculated to make a good servant, but a very bad mistress.

I am almost ashamed to mention, that notwithstanding her seeming delicacy, she has a most voracious appetite, and devours every thing that comes in her way; though,

like other eager thin people, she does no credit to her keeping. Many a time has she consumed the product of my barns and store-houses, but it is all lost upon her. She has even been known to get into an oil-shop or tallow-chandler's, when every body was asleep, and lick up, with the utmost greediness, whatever she found there. Indeed, all prudent people are aware of her tricks, and though she is admitted into the best families, they take care to watch her very narrowly. I should not forget to mention, that my sister was once in a country where she was treated with uncommon respect; she was lodged in a sumptuous building, and had a number of young wo|men of the best families to attend on her, and feed her, and watch over her health; in short, she was looked up|on as something more than a common mortal. But she always behaved with great severity to her maids, and if any of them were negligent of their duty, or made a slip in their own conduct, nothing would serve her but bury|ing the poor girls alive. I have, myself, had some dark hin••s and intimations, from the most respectable authori|ty, that she will some time or other make an end of me. You need not wonder, therefore, if I am jealous of her motions.

The next sister I shall mention to you, has so far the appearance of modesty and humility, that she generally seeks the lowest place. She is indeed of a very yielding easy temper, generally cool, and often wears a sweet placid smile upon her countenance; but she is easily ruf|fled, and when worked up, as she often is, she becomes a perfect fury. Indeed she is so apt to swell with sudden gusts of passion, that she is suspected at times to be a lit|tle lunatic. Between her and my first mentioned sister, there is a more settled antipathy than between the The|ban pai••; and they never meet without making efforts to destroy one another. With me she is always ready to form the most intimate union, but it is not always to my advantage. There goes a story in our family, that when we were all young, she once attempted to drown me. She actually kept me under a considerable time, and though at length I got my head above water, my consti|tution is generally thought to have been essentially in|jured

by it ever since. From that time she has made no such atrocious attempt, but she is continually making encroachments upon my property; and even when she appears most gentle, she is very insidious, and has such an undermining way with her, that her insinuating ar•••• are as much to be dreaded as open violence. I might indeed remonstrate; but it is a known part of her charac|ter, that nothing makes any lasting impression upon her.

As to my third sister, I have already mentioned the in offices she does me with my last mentioned one, who •• entirely under her influence. She is besides of a very uncertain variable temper, sometimes hot, and sometimes cold, nobody knows where to have her. Her lightness is even proverbial, and she has nothing to give those who live with her more substantial than the smiles of courtier••. I must add, that she keeps in her service three or four rough blustering bullies with puffed cheeks, who, when they are let loose, think they have nothing to do but 〈◊〉〈◊〉 drive the world before them. She sometimes joins with my sister, and their violence occasionally throws me into such a trembling, that though naturally of a firm consti|tution, I shake as if I was in an ague fit.

As to myself, I am of a steady solid temper; not shin|ing indeed, but kind and liberal, quite as lady Bountiful Every one tastes of my beneficence; and I am of so grate|ful a disposition, that I have been known to return 〈◊〉〈◊〉 hundred fold for any present that has been made me. I feed and clothe all my children, and afford a welcome home to the wretch who has no other home. I bear with unrepining patience all manner of ill usage; I am trampled upon, I am torn and wounded by the most cutting strokes; I am pillaged of the treasures hidden in my most secret chambers; notwithstanding which, I am always ready to return good for evil, and am contin|ually subservient to the pleasure or advantage of others; yet, so ungrateful is the world, that because I do not pos|sess all the airiness and activity of my sisters, I am stig|matized as dull and heavy. Every sordid miserly fellow is called by way of derision one of my children; and if a person, on entering a room, does but turn his eyes upon me, he is thought stupid and mean, and not fit for good

company. I have the satisfaction, however, of finding that people always incline towards me as they grow older; and that those, who seemed proudly to disdain any affin|ity with me, are content to sink at last into my bosom. You will probably wish to have some account of my per|son. I am not a regular beauty; some of my features are rather harsh and prominent, when viewed separately; but my countenance has so much variety of expression, and so many different attitudes of elegance, that those who study my face with attention, find out continually new charms; and it may be truly said of me, what Titus says of his mistress, and for a much longer space:

For five whole years, each day she meets my view; Yet every day I seem to see her new.

Though I have been so long a mother, I have still a sur|prising air of youth and freshness, which is assisted by all the advantages of well-chosen ornament; for I dress well, and according to the season.

This is what I have chiefly to say of myself and my sis|ters. To a person of your sagacity it will be unnecessary for me to sign my name. Indeed, one who becomes acquainted with any one of the family, cannot be at a loss to discover the rest, notwithstanding the difference in our features and characters.

DESCENT AND RISE OF THE EMPRESS CATHARINE OF RUSSIA.

"SHE was born at Runghen, a small village in Livonia, of very poor parents, who were only boors, or vassals: her father and mother dying, left her very young in great want; the parish clerk, out of compassion, took her home to his house, where she learnt to read. Dr. Glack, minister of Marienburgh, seeing her there, inquired of the clerk who she was; and being informed she was a poor orphan, he had taken into his house out of charity, what from a wish to relieve the poor clerk from a burthen he was not well able to support, and a

liking to the little orphan, the Doctor took her home to his house, notwithstanding he had a numerous family of his own. Here her company and opportunities for im|provement were better, and her deportment such, that she became equally esteemed by the Doctor, his wife and children: her steady, diligent, and careful attention to all their domestic concerns ingratiated her so much with the Doctor and his wife, that they made no distinction be|tween her and their own children. She ever after show|ed her acknowledgment with the utmost gratitude, in richly providing for all those, who could lay claim to any alliance with the Doctor's family; nor did she forget her first benefactor, the clerk of Runghen. In this happy situation she grew up to woman, when a Livonian ser|jeant, in the Swedish service, fell passionately in love with her; she likewise liking him, agreed to marry him, provided it could be done with the Doctor's consent; who, upon inquiry into the man's character, finding it unexceptionable, readily gave it. The marriage day was appointed, and indeed, came; when a sudden order came to the serjeant that very morning, to march direct|ly with a detachment for Riga. Soon after this, General Baur, at the head of an army, came before the town and took it, in the year 1742, when all the inhabitants were made prisoners, and amongst the rest this lovely bride. In the promiscuous crowd, overwhelmed with grief, and bathed in tears at her unhappy fate, the General observ|ing her, saw a je ne sçai quoi in her whole appearance, which attracted him so much, that he asked her several questions about her situation; to which she made answer with more sense than is usual with persons of her rank. He desired her not to be afraid, for he would take care of her, and gave immediate orders for her safety and re|ception into his house, of which he gave her the whole charge, with authority over all his servants, by whom she was very much beloved, from her manner of using them: the General afterwards often said, his house was never so well managed as when she was with him.

Prince Menzikoff, who was his patron, seeing her one day at the General's, observed something very extraor|dinary in her air and manner; and inquiring who she was,

and on what sooting she served him; the General told him what has been already related, and with due ••nco|miums on the merits of her conduct in his house. The Prince said, such a person would be of great consequence to him, for he was then very ill served in that respect: to which the General replied, he was under too many obli|gations to his Highness, to have it in his power to refuse him any thing he had a mind to; and immediately call|ing for Catharine, told her that was Prince Me••••ikoff, and that he had occasion for a servant like herself; and that the Prince had it much more in his power to be a friend to her than he had; adding, that he had too great a re|gard for her to wish to prevent her receiving such a piece of honour and good fortune. She answered only by a profound courtesy, which shewed, if not her cons••nt, that it was not in her power to refuse the offer that was made: in short, the Prince took her home the same day, and she lived with him till the year 1744, when the Czar, one day dining with the prince, happened to see her, and spoke to her: she made a yet stronger impression on that mon|arch, who would likewise have her to be his servant; from whence she rose to be Empress of Russia."

STORY OF A VIRTUOUS YOUNG LADY.

DURING my residence in Moscow, I was told the following particulars of the Czar. He was born in the year 1672, and was married in 1690, at the age of eighteen, to Ottokessa Lupochin, a beggar's daughter, by whom he had Prince Alexis. Some time after, he turned her away, and shut her up in a monastery, on suspicion of disloyalty to his bed. After the divorce, one Miss Mons, a very beautiful young lady, born at Mos|cow of foreign parents, was much in favour with the Czar; but when he was abroad, Mr. Keyserling, then resident at. Moscow, as Envoy from the King of Prussia, paid his addresses to, and married her.

The Czar was sometime after smitten with the charms of another beautiful young lady, the daughter of a for|eign merchant in this city: he first saw her at her fa|ther's house, where he dined one day. He was so much taken with her appearance, that he offered her any terms she pleased, if she would live with him, which this virtuous young woman modestly refused; but, dreading the effects of his authority, she put on a resolution, and left Moscow in the night, without communicating her design even to her parents. Having provided a little money for her support, she travelled on foot several miles into the coun|try, till she arrived at a small village, where her nurse lived with her husband and their daughter, the young lady's foster sister, to whom she discovered her intention of concealing herself in a wood near that village: and to prevent any discovery, she set out the same night, accom|panied by the husband and daughter. The husband be|ing a timber man by trade, and well acquainted with the wood, conducted her to a little dry spot in the middle of a morass, and there he built a hut for her habitation. She had deposited her money with her nurse to procure little necessaries for her support, which were faithfully conveyed to her at night, by the nurse or her daughter, by one of whom she was constantly attended in the night time.

The next day after her flight, the Czar called at her father's to see her; and, finding the parents in anxious concern for their daughter, and himself disappointed, fancied it a plan of their own concerting. He became angry, and began to threaten them with the effects of his displeasure, if she was not produced: nothing was left to the parents but the most solemn protestations, with tears of real sorrow running down their cheeks, to con|vince him of their innocence, and ignorance what was be|come of her; assuring him of their fears that some fatal disaster had befallen her, as nothing belonging to her was missing, except what she had on at the time. The Czar, satisfied of their sincerity, ordered great search to be made for her, with the offer of a considerable reward to the person who should discover what was become of her; but to no purpose. The parents and relations, ap|prehending

she was no more, went into mourning for her.

Above a year after this, she was discovered by accident. A Colonel, who had come from the army to see his friends, going a hunting into that wood, and following his game, through the morass, he came to the hut, and looking into it, saw a pretty young woman in a mean dress. After inquiring of her who she was, and how she came to live in so solitary a place, he found out at last that she was the lady whose disappearance had made so great a noise. In the utmost confusion, and with the most fervent entreaties, she prayed him, on her knees, that he would not betray her. To which he replied, that he thought her danger was now past, as the Czar was then otherways engaged; and that she might with safety discover herself, at least to her parents, with whom he would consuit how matters should be managed. The lady agreed to his proposal; and he sat out immediately, and overjoyed her parents with the happy discovery. The issue of their delibera|tions was to consult Madam Catharine (as she was then called) in what manner the affair should be opened to the Czar. The Colonel went also upon this business, and was advised by Madam to come next morning, and she would introduce him to his Majesty, when he might make the discovery, and claim the promised reward. He went according to appointment; and, being introduced, told the accident by which he had discovered the lady, and represented the miserable situation in which he found her, and what she must have suffered by being so long shut up in such a dismal place, from the delicacy of her sex. The Czar shewed a great deal of concern that he should have been the cause of all her sufferings, declaring that he would endeavour to make her amends. Here Madam Catharine suggested, that she thought the best amends his Majesty could make, was to give her a hand|some fortune, and the Colonel for a husband, who had the best right, having caught her in pursuit of his game. The Czar, agreeing perfectly with Madam Catharine's sentiments, ordered one of his favourites to go with the Colonel, and bring the young lady home; where she ar|rived, to the inexpressible joy of her family and relations,

who had all been in mourning for her. The marriage was under the direction and at the expense of the C••, who himself gave the bride to the bridegroom; saying that he presented him with one of the most virtuous of women; and accompanied his declaration with very val|uable presents, besides settling on her and her heirs three thousand rubles a year. This lady lived highly esteemed by the Czar and every one who knew her. Besides t•••• concurring reports of other people, I had the story from her own mouth.

ANECDOTES OF SMITH, A GERMAN ARTIST.

SOME years ago, while professor Krahe was superintendant of the gal••y of paintings, he received a visit from a young ••a••er of the town; who, after a short introduction, took a book out of his pocket, which he presented to Mr. Krahe, expressing a desire that he would purchase it. The superintendant found, upon examina|tion, that it was a prayer-book, ornamented in the an|cient style of religious foppery, with a number of colour|ed figures and engravings. It was the one which the Elector Clement Augustus, of Cologne, had ordered to be published, and was become very scarce and valuable. The professor inquired whence he had it? and the young man answered with a modest blush, that it was a copy from one he had borrowed. "By whom?" "By myself," rejoins the youth. Upon a close examination, Mr. Krahe could scarcely distinguish the copy from the original. He could not conceal his surprise, and asked why he did not practise engraving, rather than continue a baker? The youth answered, that it was the wish of his soul; but his father having a numerous family, could not afford the expense of suitable instructions. "I design to travel," adds he; "but as my father cannot furnish the means, and as I knew that you was fond of drawings, I was emboldened to make this application to you, in hopes that you would purchase the copy, to furnish im|mediate

help, and I must trust to my industry and good fortune for future advancement."

"Call here to-morrow, without fail," says Mr. Krahe, with an emphasis that manifested pleasure and astonish|ment.

Early the next morning, the professor called upon an intimate friend at Keysersworth, a few miles from Dussel|dorff, of which place the young man was a native.

This friend, with the power, had the disposition to do good. Krahe told him the story, shewed him the work|manship, and begged him to lend the young artist two hundred crowns. "He will, doubtless," adds he, "be|come, in a few years, a distinguished engraver, and be able to reimburse you. I will be security for the pay|ment."

"I take no security," answered his friend; and he ad|vanced three hundred crowns.

Krahe returned to the astonished and transported ba|ker with the money. He quitted the oven, learned ge|ometry and perspective, applied to drawing according to the rules of the art, and acquired a competent knowledge of history.

After assiduous application, for the space of two years, the young man had made such rapid progress, that Mr. Krahe advised him to quit Dusseldorff, where no further improvement was to be expected, and visit Paris, promis|ing him a letter of introduction to Mr. Willes, a celebrat|ed engraver in that metropolis.

Smith (for this was the young man's name) put his advice into execution; and, in order to economize his little store, he travelled on foot from Dusseldorff to Paris. But unfortunately, he fell ill immediately upon his arriv|al; and, although he applied to a monastery, where he was hospitably received, and carefully attended, yet inci|dental expenses, during an illness of some continuance, had entirely exhausted his little store. Upon his recov|ery, that delicate kind of pride, which so frequently ac|companies true genius, forbade his making application to Mr. Willes, while he must appear an indigent beggar.

One day, as he was walking, pensively in the streets, his mind occupied with his unfortunate situation, he was

met by two soldiers of the Swiss guards; one of whom accosted him with the inquiry, "Young man, are you not a German?"—"Yes."—"From whence?"—"From Keysersworth, near Dusseldorff."—"You are my country|man.—What do you do here?" Smith related to him the particulars of his history; adding, that a long illness had exhausted a large portion of his time, and all his money; and that he could not support the idea of being troublesome to any one. The soldiers advised him to enlist, assuring him that the service was not severe, and that he would have leisure to follow the bent of his ge|nius. Smith accepted the proposition, was introduced to the captain of the regiment, was enlisted for four years, and shortly after was introduced to Mr. Willes, by the captain himself. As much time was indulged to him, as the nature of the service could possibly admit, to pur|sue his favourite object, under Mr. Willes. He continu|ed in this situation the four years, when he received his dismission.

Finding that he was in the line of improvement, he continued at Paris two years longer, applying himself, with the utmost diligence, to the art of engraving: at the expiration of which term, he returned home, with the best attestations concerning his talents, industry, and moral conduct.

Professor Krahe received him with open arms, was charmed with the progress he had made, and engaged him to work in the cabinet. He continued to work un|der the inspection of the professor, about two years, con|ducting himself in such a manner, as to gain upon the af|fections of his patron.

It was about this period, that the professor invited our artist to an entertainment, where several of his friends were to be present. He met his friends, and was enter|ing into the joys of convivial conversation, when he was informed that the entertainment was in honour of a stran|ger. But alas! this stranger was the destined husband of the professor's eldest daughter;—beautiful, in his eyes as an angel; and wise, in his judgment, as the goddess of wisdom. He made as precipitate a retreat as decency

would permit, and left the brisk glass and jovial song to circulate among the happy.

The next morning he returned to the cabinet with the utmost dejection of mind and countenance. This sud|den change was noticed by his benefactor, who inquired into the cause. Smith, in confused expressions, and with faultering voice, confessed that he had fallen deeply in love with that very daughter who was shortly to be in the possession of another.

"Have you intimated to my daughter the strength of your affections?"

"Never," answered the noble youth; "not in the most distant manner. Could I, without title, fortune, or pre|tensions of any kind, be so base as to speak of love to the daughter of my friend, my patron, my benefactor? I was contented to see her, and was careful to conduct myself in such a manner, that no suspicions might arise, to debar me of that happiness; and now I learn, that I am shortly to be deprived of the only satisfaction to which I dared to aspire."

The benevolent professor tried his utmost to soothe and comfort him; assured him of the strength of his affection; that he loved him as his own child: but warned him to subdue his love for Henrietra; expatiating upon the crim|inality, circumstanced as they were, of indulging the passion.

The poor young man admitted the force of the argu|ment, and promised to obey. But the struggle was too much for his constitution. He fell ill, and continued in a dangerous state upwards of four months. Mr. Krahe paid him every attention, and gave him every consolation in his power. But, in all their interviews, the name of Henrietta was never mentioned. His lamentable situa|tion, however, could not be concealed from her. She sympathized with, and most sincerely pitied him; but, though "pity is so near a-kin to love," duty and honour interposed a barrier between them.

The intended husband returned to his parents; and it was not difficult to perceive, from the tenor of his let|ters, that certain objections were started by them to the union. Although he dared not to express his own senti|ments

fully upon this occasion, yet Henrietta divined the••, and gave him full power to follow the genuine bent of his own inclinations, renouncing every claim upon his prom|ise. The answer was correspondent to her expectations; and, allowing a short interval for the suppression of th•• chagrin, which the injured pride of every young lady must suffer in such delicate situations, she permitted the sufferings of Smith to engage more of her thoughts, gen|erously indulged her compassion, until she found it blend|ed with affection; and, finally, addressed her father thus: "Sir, I know it has been your wish to have Smith for your son-in-law—every obstacle is removed. Tell him that Henrietta will be his, if she can promote his ••••+licity."

The joyful father informed him of this declaration in his favour: But the good news was as like to have proved fatal as his despair. Recovering from his emotion, and leaning on the arm of his benefactor, he was conducted to the generous object of his passion; and, by passing the evening in her company, he was cheered, comforted, and restored.

But how great was the surprise of every one, wh•••• they learned, the next morning, that the lover had l•••••• the town, in a carriage with four horses, and had carried his plates and drawings with him!—What astonishment to Krahe!—What a thunderstroke to poor Henrietta▪

This was so apparently the act of a disordered brain, that his return was dreaded as much as his flight was lamented. Nor did they receive a single line in the in|terval, to remove their doubts. On the ninth day ••e returned from Munich, with an order for a pension of six hundred florins per annum, to be paid to Smith by the treasurer of the palatinate.

He had been to throw himself at the feet of the Elector Palatine. He discovered to him his love, his situation; shewed him the certificates of his conduct, and the speci|mens of his workmanship. The heart of the Elector was moved, and he gave him the pension.

"Now, Sir," said the generous hearted Smith, "I am more worthy of my Henrietta."

See there, my friend, in one short history, the eulogium of numbers!—I beseech you to make due comments up|on the excellent character of our artist, the hero of the piece—upon the benevolence of the professor—his friend, of Keysersworth—the monks in the convent—the two soldiers, with their captain—the engraver Willes—the Elector Palatinate—and the amiable Henrietta; and then revert to my proposition, that the private history of in|dividuals would, in general, give us more favourable ideas of human virtue, and of human happiness, than those are apt to imagine, who direct their chief attention to the ambition of the great, and the subversion of em|pires. Numberless are the instances, where individuals emerge from obscurity, and act a conspicuous part on the theatre of life. We behold and applaud the actor, without adverting to the different stages through which he must have passed, before he was prepared for this honourable exhibition, and how far he must have been assisted, in each stage, by those around him.

Go to, ye libellers of your species! ye defamers of God's most perfect workmanship below! ye that delight to sketch out figures with charcoal, add horns, a tail, and cloven feet to your sketch, and call it human! Man is naturally a friend to man. Adventitious circumstances may suppress this kindly temper, until the most contract|ed selfishness is deemed a system of genuine prudence! Tyranny may depress the mind, until it be rendered in|capable of one virtuous exertion! False theology, by rep|resenting the heart as naturally vicious and depraved, may destroy the choicest springs of action; may persuade us that to act the knave or fool, is merely to act in char|acter: whereas a consciousness that we are capable of doing much good—a conviction that we are naturally disposed to do good—that the instinct was given us, that we might become the active instruments of the divine benevolence—an instinct so strong, that it is deemed in|human to stifle its impulse; these are admirably calcu|lated to quicken the disposition, improve the habit, and extend the effects.

CHARACTER OF MARY STUART, QUEEN OF SCOTS.

SUCH was the melancholy fate of Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, in the forty-fifth year of her 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Her abilities were an honour to her birth, which 〈◊〉〈◊〉 most illustrious. Her virtues were great; her mi••••+tunes greater. While she was capable of profo•••••• views, and a bold policy, she was firm and strenuo•••• Her understanding was clear, her judgment penetrati•••• her spirit lofty, her application vigorous. But she was called to the exercise of royalty, in an unhappy and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 critical period. The troubles of the reformation 〈◊〉〈◊〉 confirmed the turbulence of her nobles; and she had b•••• accustomed to the orderly government, and the refin•••• and seducing manners of France. The zeal of her p••••+ple for the new opinions was most passionate; and s•••• was attached to the ancient religion with a keenness t•••••• excited their fears. Her prime ministers, though able and popular, were destitute of integrity and patriotism; and a conspiracy to disturb her peace, and to accomplish her ruin, was formed early by an imperious rival, who, to exorbitant power and immense wealth, added the sin|gular felicity of being directed by statesmen devoted to her purposes, and possessed of the greatest talents. Wi•••• the happiest intentions; with public spirit and love of jus|tice; with moderation, liberality and splendor, she attain|ed not the praise of true glory. Circumvented by the treachery of smiling and corrupted counsellors, and e••|posed to the unceasing hatred and suspicions of turbulen•• ecclesiastics, she perpetually experienced the miseries of disappointment, and the malignity of detraction. With great capacity for business, she was unsuccessful in affairs. Infinitely amiable in her private deportment, she enjoyed not tranquillity and happiness. She was candid and open, engaging and generous. Her manners were gen|tle, her temper cheerful, her conversation easy and flow|ing,

her wit polite, her information various, her taste elegant. But her husbands, like her courtiers, were ea|ger to interrupt her prosperity and enjoyments; and while her administration was deformed with disasters and faction, her domestic life was embittered with disquietudes and sorrow. With every claim to felicity, she was exposed to all the crosses of fortune; and her form, which gave a splendour to her rank, her abilities, her virtues, and her accomplishments, served to ennoble her afflictions. The incomparable beauty and expression of her countenance, the exquisite propriety of her stature, and the exact sym|metry of her shape, attracted and fixed the admiration of every beholder. In her air, her walk; her gesture, she mingled majesty and grace. Her eyes, which were of a dark grey, spoke the situations and sensibility of her mind; the sound of her voice was melodious and affect|ing; and her hair, which was black, improved the bright|ness of her complexion. To give the greatest lustre to her person, she took a full advantage of the adventitious aids of dress. She discovered an inexhaustible fancy in the richness and variety of her garments. She delight|ed in jewels and precious stones; and she was anxiously curious in the fineness and fashion of her linen. But while her mind and her person were so perfect and so al|luring, she was not exempted from frailties. Though capable of dissimulation, and acquainted with the arts of management and address, she did not sufficiently accom|modate herself to the manners of her people. Her re|spect for her religion was too fond and doating, to consist with the policy and the dignity of a great sovereign. In her counsellors she uniformly reposed too unbounded a confidence; and from the softness of her nature, she could be seduced to give them her trust even after their demea|nour was equivocal and suspicious. Her clemency was not guided by prudence, and was generally repaid with ingratitude and insult. To the protestant clergy, whose insolence was inordinate and seditious, she conducted her|self, sometimes with a passion that was unbecoming, and sometimes with a remissness that detracted from her con|sequence. A determined contempt or a vigorous severity would have suited better with her royal condition. She

received her impressions with too much vivacity; and from the delicacy of her organization, she was disposed to that spirit of caprice which is in some measure character|istic of her sex; but which, though often pleasant and de|lightful in the still and endearing intercourse of private life, betrays in public concerns the suspicion of inconstancy and indiscretion. Her faults, however, were the result of amiable weaknesses; and they excite regret rather than indignation. The most unpardonable error of her life, was the romantic imprudence with which she ventured into England, and entrusted herself to the power of Elizabeth. By courage and perseverance she might have defeated the turbulence and ambition of her nobles; and experi|ence and time would have opened to her all the arts of government. But by this fatal step she involved herself in difficulties which she was never able to surmount. Eliz••|abeth, to whom her abilities and beauty were a source of the most unrelenting jealousy and anger, embraced with a ferocious ardour the opportunity of humbling her com|pletely as a Queen and as a woman. She was exposed to all the practices of a cunning and a wicked vengeance. The vilest calumnies, the most insulting mortifications, the most studied barbarities, were practised against her. She was made to exchange a kingdom for a prison! An inclement and suspicious adversary, who dreaded to encounter her when at liberty, tarnished the glory of an illustrious reign by trampling upon her sceptre, while she was a captive. The rivalship of beauty, still more per|haps than of talents, softered the resentments of Elizabeth; and while she made Mary to suffer under her power, she found the most exquisite delight in overturning the do|minion of her charms. It pleased her, to the greatest degree, that the beauty of the Scottish Princess should waste itself in solitude; that she should be kept at a dis|tance from admiration and homage; and that she should never experience, in any fortunate alliance, the melting tenderness, and the delicate sensibilities of connubial love. During the long period, which passed from the flight of Mary into England till her death, her miseries were in|tense, piercing and uninterrupted. The bitter cup of her fortune, which often overflowed, never ceased to be

full. But though agonizing with constant afflictions, and though crowned with thorns, she still remembered that she was a Queen, and maintained the elevation and the dignity, which became her. To overwhelm her with distress and anguish, Elizabeth scrupled not to insult and to violate the most established principles of law and justice, the honour of hospitality, the reverence of her sex, the holiness of religion, the solemnity of engage|ments, the ties of relation, the feelings of humanity, the sanctity of innocence, and the majesty of Kings. But no insolence of tyranny, no refinement of anger, and no pang of woe could conquer or destroy her greatness and her fortitude. Her mind, which grew in its powers un|der struggles and calamity, seemed even to take a strain of vigour from the atrocious passions of her rival; and during her lamentable captivity, and in her dying scene, she displayed a magnanimity and a heroism, that per|haps may have been equalled, but which has never been surpassed in any age, or in any nation.

STORY OF AMELIA NEVIL—FOUNDED IN FACT.

IT was the custom of Mrs. Wormwood to profess the most friendly solicitude for female youth, and the highest admiration of beauty: she wished to be con|sidered as their patroness, because such an idea afforded her the fairest opportunities of secretly mortifying their insufferable presumption. With a peculiar refinement in malice, she first encouraged, and afterwards defeated, those amusing matrimonial projects, which the young and the beautiful are so apt to entertain. The highest gratification which her ingenious malignity could de|vise, consisted in torturing some lovely inexperienced girl, by playing upon the tender passions of an open and unsuspect•••••• heart.

Accident threw within her reach a most tempting sub|ject for such fiend-like diversion, in the person of Amelia

Nevil, the daughter of a brave and accomplished officer, who, closing a laborious and painful life in very indi|gent circumstances, had left his unfortunate child to the care of his maiden sister. The aunt of Amelia was such an old maid as might alone suffice to rescue the sister|hood from ridicule and contempt. She had been at|tached, in her early days, to a gallant youth, who un|happily lost his own life in preserving that of his dear friend, her brother: she devoted herself to his memory with the most tender, unaffected, and invariable attach|ment; refusing several advantageous offers of marriage, though her income was so narrow, that necessity obliged her to convert her whole fortune into an annuity, just before the calamitous event happened, which made her the only guardian of the poor Amelia. This lovely but unfortunate girl was turned of fourteen on the death of her father. She found, in the house of his sister, the most friendly asylum, and a relation, whose heart and mind made her most able and willing to form the char|acter of this engaging orphan, who appeared to be as highly favoured by nature as she was persecuted by for|tune. The beauty of Amelia was so striking, and the charms of her lively understanding began to display themselves in so enchanting a manner, that her affection|ate aunt could not bear the idea of placing her in any lower order of life: she gave her the education of a gen|tlewoman, in the flattering and generous hope that her various attractions must supply the absolute want of for|tune, and that she should enjoy the delight of seeing her dear Amelia settled happily in marriage, before her death exposed her lovely ward to that poverty, which was her only inheritance. Heaven disposed it otherwise. This amiable woman, after having acted the part of a most affectionate parent to her indigent niece, died be|fore Amelia attained the age of twenty. The poor girl was now apparently destitute of every resource, and ex|posed to penury, with a heart bleeding for the loss of a most indulgent protector. A widow lady of her ac|quaintance very kindly afforded her a refuge in the first moments of her distress, and proposed to two of her op|ulent friends, that Amelia should reside with them by

turns, dividing her year between them, and passing four months with each. As soon as Mrs. Wormwood was informed of this event, as she delighted in those ostenta|tious acts of apparent beneficence, which are falsely call|ed charity, she desired to be admitted among the volun|tary guardians of the poor Amelia. To this proposal all the parties assented; and it was settled that Amelia should pass the last quarter of every year, as long as she remained single, under the roof of Mrs. Wormwood. This lovely orphan had a sensibility of heart, which ren|dered her extremely grateful for the protection she re|ceived, but which made her severely feel all the miseries of her dependence. Her beauty attracted a multitude of admirers, many of whom, presuming on her poverty, treated her with a licentious levity, which always wound|ed her ingenuous pride. Her person, her mind, her man|ners, were universally commended by the men; but no one thought of making her his wife. "Amelia," they cried, "is an enchanting creature; but who in these times, can afford to marry a pretty, proud girl, supported by charity?" Though this prudential question was never uttered in the presence of Amelia, she began to perceive its influence, and suffered the painful dread of proving a perpetual burden to those friends, by whose generosity she subsisted: she wished a thousand times that her af|fectionate aunt, instead of cultivating her mind with such dangerous refinement, had placed her in any station of life, where she might have maintained herself by her own manual labour: she sometimes entertained a project of making some attempt for this purpose; and she once thought of changing her name, and of trying to support herself as an actress on one of the public theatres; but this idea, which her honest pride had suggested, was ef|fectually suppressed by her modesty; and she continued to waste the most precious time of her youth, under the mortification of perpetually wishing to change her mode of life, and of not knowing how to effect it. Almost two years had now elapsed since the death of her aunt; and, without any prospect of marriage, she was in her second period of residence with Mrs. Wormwood. Amelia's understanding was by no means inferior to her other en|dowments.

She began to penetrate all the artful disguise, and to gain a perfect and very painful insight into the re|al character of her present hostess. This lady had re|marked, that when Miss Nevil resided with her, her house was much more frequented by gentlemen than at any other season. This, indeed, was true; and it unluckily happened that these visitors often forgot to applaud the smart sayings of Mrs. Wormwood, in contemplating the sweet countenance of Amelia; a circumstance fully suf|ficient to awaken, in the neglected wit, the most bitter en|vy, hatred and malice. In truth, Mrs. Wormwood de|tested her lovely guest, with the most implacable viru|lence; but she had the singular art of disguising her de|testation in the language of flattery: she understood the truth of Pope's maxim,

"He hurts me most who lavishly commends;"

and she therefore made use of lavish commendation as an instrument of malevolence towards Amelia; she insulted the taste, and ridiculed the choice, of every new-married man, and declared herself convinced, that he was a fool, because he had not chosen that most lovely young wo|man. To more than one gentleman she said, you must marry Amelia; and, as few men choose to be driven into wedlock, some offers were possibly prevented by the treach|erous vehemence of her praise. Her malice, however, was not sufficiently gratified by observing that Amelia had no prospect of marriage. To indulge her malignity, she resolved to amuse this unhappy girl with the hopes of such an event, and then to turn, on a sudden, all these splendid hopes into mockery and delusion. Accident led her to pitch on Mr. Nelson, as a person whose name she might, with the greatest safety, employ as the instrument of her insidious design, and with the greater chance of success, as she observed that Amelia had conceived for him a particular regard.

Mr. Nelson was a gentleman, who, having met with very singular events, had contracted a great but very a|miable singularity of character. He was placed, early in life, in a very lucrative commercial situation, and was on the point of settling happily in marriage with a very beautiful young lady, when the house in which she resid|ed

was consumed by fire. Great part of her family, and among them the destined bride, was buried in the ruins. Mr. Nelson, in losing the object of his ardent affection, by so sudden a calamity, lost for some time the use of his reason; and when his health and senses returned, he still continued under the oppression of the profoundest melancholy, till his fond devotion to the memory of her, whom he had lost in so severe a manner, suggested to his fancy a singular plan of benevolence, in the prosecution of which he recovered a great portion of his former spi|rits. This plan consisted in searching for female objects of charity, whose distresses had been occasioned by fire. As his fortune was very ample, and his own private ex|penses very moderate, he was able to relieve many unfor|tunate persons in this condition; and his affectionate imagination delighted itself with the idea, that in these uncommon acts of beneficence, he was guided by the influence of that lovely angel whose mortal beauty had perished in the flames!

Mr. Nelson frequently visited a married sister who was settled in the town where Mrs. Wormwood resided. There was also, in the same town, an amiable elderly widow, for whom he had a particular esteem. This lady, whose name was Melford, had been left in very scanty circumstances on the death of her husband, and, residing at that time in London, she had been involved in additional distress by that calamity to which the atten|tive charity of Mr. Nelson was forever directed: he more than repaired the loss which she sustained by fire, and as|sisted in settling her in the neighbourhood of his sister. Mrs. Melford had been intimate with the aunt of Amelia, and was still the most valuable friend of that lovely or|phan, who paid her frequent visits, though she never re|sided under her roof. Mr. Nelson had often seen Ame|lia at the house of Mrs. Melford, which led him to treat her with particular politeness, whenever he visited Mrs. Wormwood; a circumstance on which the latter founded her ungenerous project. She perfectly knew all the sin|gular private history of Mr. Nelson, and firmly believed, like all the rest of his acquaintance, that no attractions could ever tempt him to marry; but she thought it possi|ble

to make Amelia conceive the hope that her beauty had melted his resolution; and nothing she supposed, could more effectually mortify her guest, than to find herself de|rided for so vain an expectation.

Mrs. Wormwood began, therefore, to insinuate, in the most artful manner, that Mr. Nelson was very particu|lar in his civilities to Amelia; magnified all his amiable qualities, and expressed the greatest pleasure in the pros|pect of so delightful a match. These petty artifices, how|ever, had no effect on the natural modesty and diffidence of Amelia: she saw nothing that authorised such an idea in the usual politeness of a well-bred man of thirty-seven; she pitied the misfortune, she admired the elegant and engaging, though serious manners, and she revered the virtues of Mr. Nelson; but, supposing his mind to be en|tirely engrossed, as it really was, by his singular charita|ble pursuits, she entertained not a thought of engaging his affection. Mrs. Wormwood was determined to play off her favourite engine of malignity, a counterfeited letter. She had acquired in her youth, the very dangerous talent of forging any hand that she pleased; and her passion for mischief had afforded her much practice in this treacherous art. Having previously and secretly engaged Mr. Nelson to drink tea with her, she wrote a billet to Amelia, in the name of that gentleman, and with the most perfect imi|tation of his hand. The billet said, that he designed himself the pleasure of passing that afternoon at the house of Mrs. Wormwood, and requested the favour of a pri|vate conference with Miss Nevil, in the course of the ev|ening; intimating, in the most delicate and doubtful terms, an ardent desire of becoming her husband. Mrs. Wormwood contrived that Amelia should not see the bil|let till just before dinner-time, that she might not shew it to her friend and confidant, Mrs. Melford, and by her means detect its fallacy before the hour of humiliation arrived.

Amelia blushed in reading the note, and, in the first surprise of unsuspecting innocence, gave it to the vigilant Mrs. Wormwood, who burst into vehement expressions of delight, congratulated her blushing guest on the full suc|cess of her charms, and triumphed in her own prophetic

discernment. They sat down to dinner, but poor Ame|lia could hardly swallow a morsel; her mind was in a tumultuous agitation of pleasure and amazement. The malicious impostor, enjoying her confusion, allowed her no time to compose her hurried spirits in the solitude of her chamber. Some female visitors arrived to tea; and at length Mr. Nelson entered the room. Amelia trem|bled and blushed as he approached her: but she was a little relieved from her embarassment by the business of the tea-table, over which she presided. Amelia was nat|urally graceful in every thing she did; but the present agitation of her mind gave a temporary awkwardness to all her motions: she committed many little blunders in the management of the tea-table; a cup fell from her trembling hand, and was broken; but the politeness of Mr. Nelson led him to say so many kind and graceful things to her on these petty incidents, that, instead of in|creasing her distress, they produced an opposite effect, and the tumult of her bosom gradually subsided into a calm and composed delight. She ventured to meet the eyes of Mr. Nelson, and thought them expressive of that ten|derness, which promised a happy end to all her misfor|tunes. At the idea of exchanging misery and dependence for comfort and honour, as the wife of so amiable a man, her heart expanded with the most innocent and grateful joy. This appeared in her countenance, and gave such an exquisite radiance to all her features, that she looked a thousand times more beautiful than ever. Mrs. Worm|wood saw this improvement of her charms, and, sicken|ing at the sight, determined to reduce the splendor of such insufferable beauty, and hastily terminate the tri|umph of her deluded guest. She began with a few ma|licious and sarcastic remarks on the vanity of beautiful young women, and the hopes which they frequently en|tertain of an imaginary lover; but, finding these remarks produced not the effect she intended, she took an oppor|tunity of whispering in the ear of Amelia, and begged her not to harbour any vain expectations; for the billet she had received was a counterfeit, and a mere piece of pleasantry. Amelia shuddered and turned pale: sur|prise, disappointment, and indignation, conspired to over|whelm

her. She exerted her utmost power to conceal her emotions; but the conflict in her bosom was too violent to be disguised. The tears, which she vainly endeavour|ed to suppress, burst forth, and she was obliged to quit the room in very visible disorder. Mr. Nelson expressed his concern; but he was checked in his benevolent in|quiries by the caution of Mrs. Wormwood, who said, on the occasion, that Miss Nevil was a very amiable girl, but she had some peculiarities of temper, and was apt to put a wrong construction on the innocent pleasantry of her friends. Mr. Nelson observing that Amelia did not return, and hoping that his departure might restore the interrupted harmony of the house, took an early leave of Mrs. Wormwood, who immediately flew to the chamber of Amelia, to exult like a fiend over that lovely victim of her successful malignity. She found not the person whom she was so eager to insult. Amelia had indeed retired to her chamber, and passed there a very miserable half hour, much hurt by the treacherous cruelty of Mrs. Wormwood, and still more wounded by reflections on her own credulity, which she condemned with that excess of severity so natural to a delicate mind in arraigning itself. She would have flown for immediate consolation to her friend, Mrs. Melford; but she had reason to believe that lady engaged on a visit; and she therefore resolved to take a solitary walk for the purpose of composing her spirits: but neither solitude nor exercise could restore her tranquillity; and, as it grew towards evening, she hasten|ed to Mrs. Melford's, in hopes of now finding her re|turned.

Her worthy old confidant was indeed in her little par|lour alone, when Amelia entered the room. The eyes of this lovely girl immediately betrayed her distress; and the old lady with her usual tenderness exclaimed, "Good Heaven! my dear child, for what have you been crying?" "Because," replied Amelia in a broken voice, and burst|ing into a fresh shower of tears, "because I am a fool." Mrs. Melford began to be most seriously alarmed; and, expressing her maternal solicitude in the kindest manner, Amelia produced the fatal paper. "There," says she, "is a letter in the name of your excellent friend, Mr. Nelson;

it is a forgery of Mrs. Wormwood's, and I have been such an idiot as to believe it real." The affectionate Mrs. Melford, who, in her first alarm, had apprehended a much heavier calamity, was herself greatly comforted in discovering the truth, and said many kind things to console her young friend. "Do not fancy," replied Ame|lia, "that I am foolishly in love with Mr. Nelson, though I think him the most pleasing as well as the most excel|lent of men; and though I confess to you, that I should certainly think it a blessed lot to find a refuge from the misery of my present dependance, in the arms of so gen|erous and so benevolent a protector." "Those arms are now open to receive you," said a voice that was heard be|fore the speaker appeared. Amelia started at the sound, and her surprise was not a little increased in seeing Mr. Nelson himself, who, entering the room from an adjoin|ing apartment, embraced the lovely orphan in a trans|port of tenderness and delight. Amelia, alive to all the feelings of genuine modesty, was for some minutes more painfully distressed by this surprise, than she had been by her past mortification: she was ready to sink into the earth, at the idea of having betrayed her secret to a man, from whom she would have laboured most to conceal it. In the first tumult of this delicate confusion, she sinks into a chair, hides her face in her hankerchief. Nelson, with a mixture of respect and love, being afraid of increasing her distress, seizes one of her hands, and continues to kiss it without uttering a word. The good Mrs. Melford, al|most as much astonished, but less painfully confused than Amelia, beholds this unexpected scene, with that kind of joy, which is much more disposed to weep than to speak: and, while this little party is thus absorbed in silence, let me hasten to relate the incidents which produced their situation.

Mr. Nelson had observed the sarcastic manner of Mrs. Wormwood towards Amelia; and, as soon as he had end|ed his uncomfortable visit, he hastened to the worthy Mrs. Melford, to give her some little account of what had pass|ed, and to concert with her some happier plan for the sup|port of this amiable, insulted orphan. "I am acquaint|ed, said he, with some brave and wealthy officers, who

have served with the father of Miss Nevil, and often speak of him with respect; I am sure I can raise among them a subscription for the maintenance of this tender, unfortu|nate girl: we will procure for her an annuity, that shall enable her to escape from such malignant patronage, to have a little home of her own, and to support a servant." Mrs. Melford was transported at this idea; and, recol|lecting all her own obligations to this benevolent man, wept, and extolled his generosity; and, suddenly seeing Amelia at some distance, through a bow window, which commanded the street in which she lived, "Thank Heav|en, she cried, here comes my poor child, to hear and bless you for the extent of your goodness." Nelson, who de|lighted most in doing good by stealth, immediately ex|torted from the good old lady a promise of secresy: it was the best part of his plan, that Amelia should never know the persons, to whom she was to owe her independ|ence. "I am still afraid of you, my worthy old friend, said Nelson; your countenance or manner will, I know betray me, if Miss Nevil sees me here to-night."—"Well, said the delighted old lady, I will humour your delicacy; Amelia will probably not stay with me ten minutes; you may amuse yourself, for that time, in my spacious gar|den: I will not say you are here; and, as soon as the good girl returns home, I will come and impart to you the particulars of her recent vexation."—"Admirably settled," cried Nelson; and he immediately retreated in|to a little back room, which led through a glass door in|to a long slip of ground, embellished with the sweetest and least expensive flowers, which afforded a favourite occupation and amusement to Mrs. Melford. Nelson, after taken a few turns in this diminutive garden, find|ing himself rather chilled by the air of the evening, re|treated again into the little room he had passed, intend|ing to wait there till Amelia departed; but the partition between the parlours being extremely slight, he overheard the tender confession of Amelia, and was hurried towards her by an irresistible impulse, in the manner already described.

Mrs. Melford was the first who recovered from the kind of trance into which our little party had been thrown by

their general surprise; and she enabled the tender pair, in the prospect of whose union her warm heart exulted, to regain that easy and joyous possession of their faculties, which they lost for some little time in their mutual em|barrassment. The applause of her friend, and the ado|ration of her lover, soon taught the diffident Amelia to think less severely of herself. The warm-hearted Mrs. Melford declared that these occurrences were the work of Heaven. "That (replied the affectionate Nelson) I am most willing to allow; but you must grant that Heaven has produced our present happiness, by the blind agency of a fiend; and, as our dear Amelia has too gentle a spirit to rejoice in beholding the malignity of a devil converted into the torment of its possessor, I must beg that she may not return, even for a single night, to the house of Mrs. Wormwood." Amelia pleaded her sense of past obligations, and wished to take a peaceful leave of her patroness; but she submitted to the ardent entreaties of Nelson, and remained for a few weeks under the roof of Mrs. Melford, when she was united at the altar to the man of her heart. Nelson had the double delight of rewarding the affection of an angel, and of punishing the malevolence of a fiend: he announced in person to Mrs. Wormwood his intended marriage with Amelia, on the very night when that treacherous old maid had amused herself with the hope of deriding her guest; whose return she was eagerly expecting, in the moment Nelson arrived to say, that Amelia would re|turn no more.

The surprise and mortification of Mrs. Wormwood arose almost to frenzy: she racked her malicious and in|ventive brain for expedients to defeat the match, and cir|culated a report for that purpose, which decency will not allow me to explain. Her artifice was detected and despised. Amelia was not only married, but the most admired, the most beloved, and the happiest of human beings; an event which preyed so incessantly on the spirit of Mrs. Wormwood, that she fell into a rapid decline, and ended, in a few months, her mischievous and unhap|py life; a memorable example, that the most artful ma|lignity may sometimes procure for the object of its envy, that very happiness which it labours to prevent!

HISTORY OF MELETINA.

MELETINA is the accomplished daughter of opulent parents. Her mother died when she was very young. Her father, a man of feeling and liberal mind, devoted himself entirely to the education of his two love|ly children, Meletina and her brother, who, being nearly of an age, and equal in all the best gifts of nature, grew up together in the tenderest affection. It happened that Meletina, now turned of twenty, was on a distant visit, at the house of a female relation, when she heard that her father, whom she loved most tenderly, was attacked by a very dangerous disorder. The poor girl hastened home in the most painful anxiety, which was converted into the bit|terest distress, by her finding, on her return, that her father was dead, and her brother confined by the malignant dis|temper, which he had caught in his incessant attendance on the parent they had lost. The utmost efforts were used to keep Meletina from the chamber of her brother; but no entreaties could prevail on her to desert the only surviving object of her ardent affection; and, despising the idea of her own danger, she attended the unhappy youth, who was now delirious, with such tender assiduity, that she would not permit him to receive either nourish|ment or medicine from any hand but her own. The pu|rity of her constitution, or the immediate care of Provi|dence, preserved the generous Meletina from infection, and Heaven granted to her earnest prayers the endanger|ed life of her brother; but his recovery seemed rather designed as a trial of her fortitude than as a reward of her tenderness: his bodily health was restored to him, but his mental faculties were destroyed. The unhappy Meletina, in the place of a lively young friend and a gen|erous protector, found only a poor babbling idiot, whose situation appeared to her the more deplorable, because, though he had utterly lost a solid and a brilliant under|standing, he seemed to retain all his benevolent affec|tions. By one peculiarity which attended him, she was

singularly affected; and perhaps it made her resolve on the extraordinary sacrifice which she has offered to his calamity. The peculiarity I speak of was this; he not only discovered grea•• satisfaction in the sight of his sister, though utterly unable to maintain a rational conversation with her, but if she ••eft him for any considerable time, he began to express, by many wild gestures, extreme agi|tation and anxiety, and could never be prevailed on to touch any food, except in the presence of Meletina. Many experiments were tried to quiet his apprehensions on this point, and to relieve his sister from so inconve|nient and so painful an attendance. These experiments did not succeed; but two medical friends of Meletina, who took a generous interest in her health and happiness, engaged to correct this peculiarity in her poor senseless brother, and convinced her that for his sake, as well as for her own, she ought to acquiesce in some painful expe|dients for this purpose. Her understanding was indeed convinced by their humane and judicious arguments, but her heart soon revolted against them; and, after two or three severe but unsuccessful attempts to correct the obstinate habit of the affectionate idiot, she determined to irritate him no further, but to make an entire sacrifice of her own convenience and pleasure to the tranquillity of this unfortunate being. She felt a tender and melancholy delight in promoting his peace and comfort; but the time now arrived in which the force and purity of her sisterly attachment was exposed to a trial perhaps as severe as ever woman sustained. A year and some months had now elapsed since the decease of her father, when a young soldier, of family and fortune, who had made a deep impression on her youthful heart, returned to England from a distant campaign. He was just re|covered from a wound, which had detained him abroad, and returned home in the ardent hope of being com|pletely rewarded for all his toils and sufferings, by the possession of his lovely Meletina. She received him with all the frankness and warmth of a sincere and vir|tuous affection: but, after they had given to each other a long and circumstantial account of their past distresses, she answered his eager proposal of immediate marriage

by declaring, that she thought it her duty to renou•• her fair prospect of connubial happiness, and to devote herself entirely to that unfortunate brother, who existed only by her incessant attention: She enumerated the many reasons that inclined her to such a painful sacrifice, with all the simple and pathetic eloquence of angelic vir|tue. Her lover, who possessed that melting tenderness of heart which often accompanies heroic courage, listen•• to all her arguments with a silent though passionate admiration; and, instead of attempting to detach 〈◊〉〈◊〉 thoughts from the deplorable condition of her brother, he offered to relinquish his own active pursuits, to engage with her in any plan of sequestered life, and to take an equal part in the superintendance of that hapless being who had so just a title to their compassion and their ca••. This generous offer overwhelmed the tender Meletina▪ For some time she could answer it only by weeping; 〈◊〉〈◊〉 they were tears of mingled agony and delight. 〈◊〉〈◊〉 last she replied, "My excellent friend, I shall now, and at all times, have the frankness to avow, that you are extremely dear to me, and that I feel, as I ought to do the uncommon proof which you are now giving me of the purest affection; but I must not suffer the kindness and generosity of your heart to injure your happiness and glory. I must not be your wife. The peculiarity of my situation calls for so painful a sacrifice; but great sacrifices have great rewards. I feel that I shall be sup|ported by the noble pride, not only of discharging my duty, but of preserving your tender esteem, which I should certainly deserve to forfeit, as well as my own, if I did not resolutely decline your too generous proposal." The affectionate young soldier endeavoured to shake her reso|lution, by every argument that the truth and ardour of his passion could possibly suggest. Meletina was inflexi|ble; and the utmost that her lover could obtain, was a promise, that if, by attention, and time, she succeeded in her hope of restoring the intellects of her brother, she would complete the scene of general happiness, which that joyful event would occasion, by the immediate acceptance of that hand which she now rejected only from the just scruples of genuine affection. Having thus settled their

very delicate contest, they parted. The soldier rejoined his regiment; but, in spite of military dissipation, continued for a long time to write very tender letters to the gener|ous Meletina. At last, however, whether his passion was diminished by its despair of being gratified, or whether the purity of a chaste attachment is incompatible with a martial life, while he was engaged in dangerous and dis|tant service, he was deeply involved in a very perplexing illicit intrigue, which would probably have given him many years of disquietude, had not the chance of war put an early period to his life. A musket-ball passed through his body; but he lived long enough to write an affectionate parting letter to Meletina, in which he con|fessed his frailties, extolled her angelic purity of heart, and entreated her to do what he solemnly assured her he did himself—consider both the time and the manner of his death, not as a misfortune, but a blessing. Meletina lamented him when dead, as she had loved him living, with the most faithful tenderness: she mourned for him as for a husband; and though many years have elapsed since his decease, a grey silk is to this day her constant apparel. Nor is there any ostentation in this peculiarity of her dress; for her attendance on her brother is still so uniform, that she never appears in public, and indeed is never absent from her own house more than two or three hours at a time. From habit, and the affectionate cast of her temper, she takes a pleasure in the petty childish plays by which her hapless companion is amused; and so far from sinking herself into a state of indolence or apathy, she possesses great delicacy of manners, and all the strength and lustre of a refined understanding. She is now turned of fifty; and though her countenance when she is silent, has an air of mild and touching mel|ancholy, her conversation is animated and cheerful. As her brother pleases himself by the habit of rising and go|ing to rest with the lark, she has the long winter evenings entirely to herself; and at this season she has a great share of social enjoyment, by receiving the visits of her selected friends. To these she is remarkably open and unreserved, and has a peculiar pleasure in talking over the extraordinary occurrences of her early life. This cir|cle

indeed is small, though it is justly esteemed an hon|our to share the friendship of Meletina, and those who possess it have the happiness of knowing perhaps the most singular and most interesting of ancient virgins.

DESCRIPTION OF CASOS AND ITS INHABIT|ANTS.

CASOS is one of the cyclades. It received its name from Caso, father of Cleomachus. This little island sent a colony to Mount Casius, dependent on Syri••▪ It is eighty stadia [three leagues] in circumference; on it is a town of the same name, and round it several smaller islands.

The isle of Casos has suffered the common fate of the Archipelago. It is now subject to the Turks, but they dare not inhabit it, because it has no fort. They would be afraid of being made prisoners by the privateers of Malta, as has happened to them more than once at An|tiparos, and other places destitute of fortresses. This fear is a most fortunate circumstance for the inhabitants, who owe to that alone, the tranquillity, happiness, and liberty they enjoy.

The day after we cast anchor, I was impatient to go on shore. The boat accordingly was launched, and we row•• towards the rocks which surrounded the island, but were at a loss where to land. Every part of the shore was defended by dangerous shoals, over which the foaming billows broke with great noise and violence. On whichever side we cast our eyes, Casos appea••ed inaccessible. At length one of the inhabitants, perceiv|ing our embarrassment, came down from the village, and pointed out to us, by waving his handkerchief, the place to which we should direct our course. We reached the place, after coasting about a league along the island. The ground here becomes lower, and forms a valley, at the extremity of which a small bason has been dug for the reception of boats. The entrance is only twelve

feet wide, and very difficult of access, as it must be pass|ed through exactly in the middle. If the boat should touch the sides, which are sharp rocks, it would be in great danger of being dashed to pieces. Add to this that, when we arrived before the entrance, a violent swell was ebbing out of it. The Casiot called one of his coun|trymen, and placing themselves on each side, they made a sign to us to pull strong. As soon as our boat had en|tered the dangerous pass, they guided it with long poles, to prevent it from striking against the rocks, and thus conducted it into port. Through this passage alone is it possible to get on shore in the island. The inhabitants might widen it if they chose; but they prefer leaving it thus dangerous, since, while it remains so, they are un|der little apprehension from their enemies.

The Casiot who had shewn us the harbour politely in|vited us to go up to the village, and we followed him with pleasure. I was dressed in the French style, with a sword, hat, and every other appurtenance of the dress of my nation. The news of the arrival of strangers soon spread, and the women and children came out of their houses, and waited for us at the top of the hill. They shew|ed a great deal of curiosity, and examined us attentively. When we passed them, they all modestly cast down their eyes. Among the crowd there were some very hand|some. Several of them saluted us, wishing us a good day, saying, "You are welcome!" and we answered them with the usual eastern expression—"May the day be happy for you and for your guests!"

The guide who conducted us was one of the principal inhabitants of the island. He pressed me to step into his house, and introduced me into a hall, which, though not magnificently furnished, was sufficiently provided with every thing conducive to cleanliness and convenience. Around it was a sofa. He seated me on a raised bench, and placed himself below, while breakfast was preparing. Soon after, his wife and daughter appeared, with new-laid eggs, figs, and grapes. The girl blushed at sight of a stranger, whose dress must, no doubt, appear to her very extraordinary. Whilst we were breakfasting with a good appetite, and my host was pouring me out some

excellent wine in a large glass, most of the women of the village came to pay him a visit. They saluted us, and seated themselves without ceremony around the apart|ment. They had been brought by curiosity, and soon began to whisper one another, and make their remarks on the French dress. Europeans rarely land in this ••+itary island; and the inhabitants, accustomed to see noth+ing but bald heads, wrapped round with shawls, long robes fastened with sashes, and venerable beards, could not but view with astonishment a foreigner with lo•••• plaited hair, without mustachios, and wearing a cocked hat, and short coat that came no lower than his knee••. They appeared greatly struck with the contrast; and •• half smile, which was sometimes visible on their count••|nances, was not improbably a sign they were employ•••• in making satirical observations on the peculiarities of my habit, while I, on my side, was no less amused with them. My attention was especially engaged by two young fe|males, who would have been acknowledged to be hand+some, even in Paris.

The least of the two had eyes full of fire, and fin•• black eyebrows, equally arched. Her complexion was rather brown, but her features extremely animated. Her cheeks, delicately rounded, were every instant adorned with fresh roses. Her delicate little mouth seemed form|ed to say charming things. When she smiled, teeth white as snow agreeably contrasted the vermillion of her lips; and a most enchanting vivacity animated her whole countenance, which seemed to sparkle with wit and rep|artee. Her ebon locks, fastened (according to the man|ner of the country) to the crown of her head, fell negli|gently on a neck which seemed of polished ivory. A bodice without sleeves, opening a little towards the top▪ afforded a glimpse of the exact proportion of her beauti|ful shape. A robe of the whitest and finest cotton, edg|ed with a purple border four fingers wide, and elegantly embroidered, descended to her feet, and her waist was loosely girded by a sash which floated around her.

The second disputed with her the palm of beauty. Her shape was more elegant, and her carriage more no|ble. Her eyes shone with a soft languor, and seemed

formed to inspire love and delight, while her long eye|lashes modestly lowered, concealed their splendor, as if she were afraid of betraying the secrets of her soul. Her complexion was fairer; and her cheeks, less coloured, displayed the lily slightly tinctured with the rose. Her features, though scarcely so expressive as those of her companion, had more regularity, and were models of symmetry and just proportion. At the first glance she but just appeared what may be called handsome; but on more mature consideration, the perfection of the whole of her beauties enforced the highest admiration. The charms of the former inspired a sudden joy, and it was impossible to look on her without pleasure: those of the latter made less impression at the first view; but, on ex|amination, an irresistible attraction forced every heart of sensibility to pay her the sincerest homage.

All the women, who honoured us with their presence, were dressed in the same manner. They all wore the jacket, the sash, and the long robe of cotton. The only difference consisted in the embroidery, which varied ac|cording to their different tastes, and in the manner of wearing their hair, which some of them suffered to flow upon their shoulders in one or more tresses, while others fastened it to the crown of the head, letting it fall down again upon the neck. The two I have just mentioned, were not the only ones who were handsome, but their beauty appeared to me the most attractive.

You may possibly imagine, madam, that, after the sad scenes to which I had been for some time accustomed, my imagination was inflamed at the sight of these lovely fe|males, and that I have taken a pleasure in embellishing them. That may indeed be the case; but if it be, the illusion was of some duration. I passed eight days in the island, and would not wish to alter a single feature in the portraits I have drawn. I have described what I saw, and what I felt. I own to you, however, that my surprise was equal to my pleasure. I expected to find, on this rock, only miserable slaves, groaning under the oppressions of the Turks; instead of which, I met with a cheerful and happy people, who were fortunate enough to be able to preserve their liberty amid the despotism and tyranny with which they are surrounded.

Desirous of obtaining some knowledge of the island, •• set out from the village, and directed my course towa•••• the highest mountain, which I reached in an hour's wa••••▪ From hence we may discover Carpathus, which appear•• to be at no great distance, and extends from east to w••••••▪ In front of the village, three little islands situated to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 east, west, and north, form the extensive road in whi•••• our vessel lay at anchor. They are uncultivated, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 produce nothing but brambles. Below the hill, fro•• which I made my observations, stands a small chap•••• surrounded by fig-trees. Here begin a chain of hill•• that, bending into a semicircle, leave in the middle •• plain of a league in circumference, which has been clea••+ed out by the inhabitants, with infinite labour. Th•••• have torn up large pieces of rock, and removed heaps 〈◊〉〈◊〉 stones, with which they have formed the walls of the i••+closure. All this space is divided into compartment•• and shared among the Casiots. They sow barley and wheat here at the commencement of the rainy season•• which lasts from October to February. The rain is 〈◊〉〈◊〉 continual in these months, but none falls in any other▪ the remainder of the year the air is pure and serene, and both days and nights continually fine and clear. The heats are moderated by the sea-breezes, and beneath so beautiful a sky the inhabitants enjoy a delightful tem+perature, and are almost strangers to every kind of dis+ease. The sides of the hills are covered with vineyards, the grapes of which produce a very agreeable wine. •• could not help admiring the industry, with which th•••••• islanders have been able to cultivate rocks, hardly cove••+ed with a few inches of earth; and rejoiced in the reflec|tion that they were recompensed for their labours, and that the island sufficed for their subsistence.

When I had satisfied my curiosity, I returned to the house of my host, where they were waiting dinner for me. A hen, with rice, new-laid eggs, excellent pigeons, some cheese, and a glass of good wine, made me amends for the miserable repasts I had made on board. The men dined together, seated in a circle on the carpet, and the women in a separate apartment. This is the custom, and, though not in the French taste, I was obliged to co••|form

to it. Towards the end of the meal, the cup was circulated from hand to hand. The company drank to me, wishing me a prosperous voyage, and I returned the compliment, by drinking health and happiness to the people of Casos. The guests were beginning to grow m••••y, when the sound of musical instruments made us rise from table.

About twenty young girls, dressed all in white, with flowing robes and plaited locks, entered the apartment, and with them a young man who played on the lyre, which he accompanied with his voice. Several of them were handsome, all healthy and lively, and there were among them some, who even rivalled the two belies I have already described. I must own, madam, that this s••one appeared to me enchanting. The uniform dress of these nymphs, the modesty which heightened their charms, their becoming bashfulness, their joyous but de|c••••t merriment, all contributed to make me almost imag|ine myself suddenly transported to the island of Calypso. They bgan to range themselves in a ring, and invited me to dance. I did not wait for many entreaties. The circle we formed is singular, from the manner in which it is in|terwoven: the dancer does not give his hand to the two persons next him, but to those next them, so that you have your hands crossed before your neighbours, who are thus locked, as it were, in the links of a double chain. This interweaving is not without pleasure. In the middle of the circle stood the musician, who played and sang at the same time, while all the dancers kept exact time in advanc|ing, retreating or turning round him. For myself, I fol|lowed where my partners led me, my mind being less occupied with the dance, than with the charming females who composed it.

The next day I took a view of the village: it consists of about a hundred houses, each of them inhabited by a single family: they are all of stone, built very strong; and contain, in general, two or three lower parlours, with a couple of rooms above. Each house has its oven and cistern, cut out of the rock. The latter are filled during the rainy season, and the water is preserved in them pure and limpid. Besides this, a hundred paces

below the village is •• fine spring, which flows the whole year.

I entered several houses, where I found the wom•••• employed in spinning and embroidering, and some 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••king the fine line•••• wh••••h they wear. Their fran•••• are small, but well ••ived, and they work with a gr•••••• deal of skill. I every where met with industry, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and neatness. I afterwards paid visits to several of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 girls I danced with the day before, and was received ••••+ry favourably. I entered into conversation with the•••• and inquired why so many pretty women were to be s•••••• in the island, and so few men; for I had only met wi•••• five or six. They answered that, during the spring, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 summer, and part of autumn, the men were out at 〈◊〉〈◊〉 "They trade," said they, "to different islands of the Archipelago, and return from time to time, to bring their families the provisions they may stand in need 〈◊〉〈◊〉 but only pass the winter with them. They sow the la•••• in November, get in the harvest in March, and immedi|ately afterwards return to sea. The produce of the isl|and not being sufficient for the maintenance of its inhab|itants, they are forced to seek supplies from other coun|tries, with the assistance of which, if we are not rich, we live at least in a comfortable mediocrity. The boys ac|company their fathers, and become sailors: while they are absent, we spin cotton, as you see, and weave a pa••t of it for their cloathing and our own."

In these visits, I could not but admire the regularity and wisdom of this little republic, the peace and harmo|ny that reigned among its members, and, above all, that cheerfulness and content, which was so visible in their countenances. "Happy people!" said I to myself, "ambition and intrigue trouble not your tranquillity; the thirst of gold hath not corrupted your manners; the quarrels, dissensions and crimes with which it hath cover|ed the earth are to you unknown. Here no citizen, proud of his titles or his wealth, tramples under fo•••• his humble countrymen; no cringing valet flatters the vices of his master; man is equal to man, nor does the Casiot blush to debase himself before the Casiot. Re|spect and mutual esteem unite you. Your enjoyments

consist in the pure pleasures which nature offers to all her children, and your happiness is founded on the durable basis of mediocrity and equality!"

During my stay at Casos, a bark arrived, laden with rice, melon••, po••••••ranatos, and various fruits. Imme|diately almos•• ••ll 〈◊〉〈◊〉 women haste••••d down the hill with the greatest ••••p••••••ence; some to m••et a father, others •• husband, a brother, or a friend. I never witnessed strong|er expressions of joy and tenderness; they embraced them with transport, pressed them to their bosoms, and thank|ed Heaven for once more restoring them to their anxious wishes. Every token of the most heartfelt joy, every ex|pression of the tenderest love, was lavished on both sides. The scene was indeed most affecting. These, said I to myself, are the ancient Greeks; such was their lively im|agination, ever ready to take fi••e, and such the exquisite sensibility, which distinguished them from all the nations of the earth. Thi•• ••ock has preserved them from the Turkish yoke, and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 have retained their ancient char|acter.

The afternoon of this memorable day was dedicated to pleasure. The Casiot Captain gave a little ball, and I accepted of his invitation. The hall was filled with a number of lively girls, with their tresses perfumed, and dressed in their handsomest boddices, their best embroi|dered sashes, and their whitest gowns. Various rounds, such as I have before described, were performed. Two lyres, and singers placed on a raised seat, animated the motions of the dancers, and pleasure sparkled in every eye. The young m••n, who, had just arrived, took their places at the side of their wives or mistresses, clasped them round the waist in dancing, and felt the palpitation of their hearts, while joy beamed in their faces. The young Greek females, with downcast eyes, endeavoured to con|ceal the pleasure they felt; but their blushes sufficiently shewed who were the objects of their affection. How great the pleasure of this simple recreation! Each mo|tion gave a new sensation of delight. Our artificial dan|ces may be infinitely more graceful, elegant, or majestic; but how cold are they when compared to this joyous round; in those, vanity alone is gratified; in these, heart

speaks to heart, by a look, a smile, and, above every thing by the touch. All-wise nature has implanted the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of happiness within ourselves. The rich man fla•• himself he shall obtain it amid the brilliant compani•••• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 assembles; and, by displaying pomp and magnific••••••••▪ endeavours to purchase it with gold. Alas! know•••••• not that this inconstant divinity flies the importunity of ostentation, disdains a bribe, and contemns the pride 〈◊〉〈◊〉 vanity of wealth!

The westerly winds have detained us eight days in the road of Casos, and I thank Heaven for their continuan••••. I have visited countries, on which liberal nature has lavi••••|ed all her treasures. I have seen others where tyrants h•• compelled her to refrain her bounties, and every where have found nations unhappy, not by their own fault, not by the sterility of the soil, but by the vices of the gov|ernment, to which they are subject. In the midst of slaves, crouching beneath the Ottoman yoke, I have found a rock, only three leagues in circumference, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 which the Turk dares not set his foot, and inhabited by a free and happy people. There each father of a family is a sovereign within his own house; he decides every dif|ference, and his decrees are laws, which cannot but 〈◊〉〈◊〉 equitable, since they are only dictated by paternal tender|ness. When any disputes arise, the priest and the old men assemble and decide them; but disputes cannot 〈◊〉〈◊〉 frequent among citizens who are all equal, and ali•• unacquainted with poverty or riches. All the members of this little society are employed; and I have seen the handsomest of their women go down into the valley 〈◊〉〈◊〉 wash their linen at the fountain, as in the days of Hom••••▪ They cheer their labours with a song; nor do they imagine themselves disgraced by their humble employ|ment. It is only in countries where the rich can pur|chase service from the hands of the poor, that they blush to make use of their own.

Travellers, who have made observations on the cha••|acter of the Greeks under the Ottoman yoke, justly reproach them with hypocrisy, perfidy, and meanness. These vices are not inherent in their nature, but are the consequence of the servitude in which they live. The

inhabitants of Casos are also Greeks; but, enlightened and warmed by a ray of liberty, they possess industry, sensi|bility, and integrity. Send them a cadi, a pacha, or a mounteveli, they will become as perfidious and corrupt as the rest of their nation. From this observation we may be convinced of the first and most sacred of politi|cal truths; that, in general, man is virtuous in propor|tion as he preserves his liberty and natural rights; and that as he is deprived of these, he becomes vicious and degenerate.

DESCRIPTION OF THE PROSPECT FROM THE TOP OF MOUNT ETNA.

IN about an hour's climbing, we arrived at a place where there was no snow; and where a warm and comfortable vapour issued from the mountain, which in|duced us to make another halt. From this spot it was ••••ly about three hundred yards to the highest summit of the mountain, where we arrived in full time to see the most wonderful and most sublime sight in nature.

But here description must ever fall short; for no imag|ination has dared to form an idea of so glorious and so magnificent a scene. Neither is there on the surface of this globe, any one point that unites so many awful and sublime objects. The immense elevation from the sur|face of the earth, drawn as it were to a single point, without any neighbouring mountain for the senses and imagination to rest upon, and recover from their aston|ishment in their way down to the world: this point or pinnacle, raised on the brink of a bottomless gulf, as old as the world, often discharging rivers of fire, and throwing out burning rocks, with a noise that shakes the whole island. Add to this, the unbounded extent of the prospect, comprehending the greatest diversity and the most beautiful scenery in nature; with the rising sun, advancing in the east, to illuminate the wondrous scene.

The whole atmosphere, by degrees, kindled up, a•••• shewed dimly and faintly the boundless prospect around▪ Both sea and land looked dark and confused, as if o•••• emerging from their original chaos; and light and dark+ness seemed still undivided, till the morning by degrees advancing, completed the separation. The stars are ••••+tinguished and the shades disappear. The forests, whi•••• but now seemed black and bottomless gulfs, from which no ray was reflected, to shew their form or colours, ap+pear a new creation rising to the sight, catching life a•••• beauty from every increasing beam. The scene still en|larges, and the horizon seems to widen and expand itself on all sides; till the sun, like the great Creator, appears in the east, and with his plastic ray completes the mighty scene. All appears enchantment; and it is with diffi|culty we can believe we are still on earth. The senses, unaccustomed to the sublimity of such a scene, are be|wildered and confounded; and it is not till after some time, that they are capable of separating and judging of the objects that compose it. The body of the sun is s••, rising from the ocean, immense tracts both of sea and land intervening; the islands of Lipari, Panari, Alicudi, Strombolo, and Volcano, with their smoaking summit••, appear under your feet; and you look down on the whole of Sicily as on a map; and can trace every river through all its windings, from its source to its mouth. The view is absolutely boundless on every side; nor is there any one object, within the circle of vision, to interrupt it; so that the sight is every where lost in immensity: and I am persuaded it is only from the imperfection of our or|gans, that the coasts of Africa, and even of Greece, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 not discovered, as they are certainly above the horizon. But the most beautiful part of the scene is certainly the mountain itself; the island of Sicily, and the numerous islands lying around it. All these, by a kind of magic in vision, that I am at a loss to account for, seem as if they were brought close around the skirts of Etna; the distances appearing reduced to nothing. Perhaps this singular effect is produced by the rays of light passing from a denser medium into a ra••er; which (from a well-known law in optics) to an observer in the rare medium,

appears to lift up the objects that are at the bottom of the dense one, as a piece of money placed in a bason appears lifted up as soon as the bason is filled with water.

It has been observed, and from experience I can say with truth, that on the tops of the highest mountains, where the air is so pure and refined, and where there is not that immense weight of gross vapours pressing upon the body, the mind acts with greater freedom, and all the functions of both soul and body are performed in a superior manner. It would appear that in proportion as we are raised above the habitations of men, all low and ••ulgar sentiments are left behind; and that the soul, in approaching the etherial regions, shakes off its earthly affections, and already acquires something of their celes|tial purity. Here, where you stand under a serene sky, and behold, with equal serenity, the tempest and storm forming below your feet, the lightning darting from cloud to cloud, and the thunder rolling around the moun|tain, and threatening with destruction the poor wretches below; the mind considers the little storms of the human passions as equally below her notice.

THE FAMILY PICTURE.

IT was quite dusk when I got ashore, and the evening being delightfully serene, I was glad, after so long a confinement, to stretch my legs, and deter|mined to walk home to my lodgings, at the west end of the town.

Having occasion to recur to my snuff-box, I found that its contents were exhausted, by being liberally offered to some of my companions in the hoy; so it occurred to me to call at my old snuff shop in Covent Garden, and get it replenished; conceiving I might at the same time pick up a little intelligence of what was stirring in town.

The shop was lighted up as usual, and two candles standing on the counter; but the door being bolted, I knocked twice before I gained admission; when the

master, coming from above stairs, complimented me 〈◊〉〈◊〉 my return home, and on the good looks I had brought back with me.

I thanked him for his civility; and my nose having become very impatient, I whipped my snuff-box from my pocket, and borrowed a hasty pinch from the jar ••e had taken down.

I thought, as he was filling my box, that his featu•••• had more than their usual glow of good-nature; and, •• the same time hearing a female voice above stairs, acc••••+panied by a guitar—I fear, said I, that I have called y•••• down from some convivial meeting: I hate to fu•• any one's pleasure, even for a moment; so there is •• money, and now run up again to your friends.

You by no means suspend my pleasure, replied •• tobacconist; nay you will increase it, by allowing me ••o tell you what has occasioned it. It is, in truth, a 〈◊〉〈◊〉 that might interest your feelings.

Two young men, who have, for a great length of t••, lived with me under this roof, have endured the severe mortification of seeing a worthy father, whose ta•• and ingenuity might have entitled him to a better 〈◊〉〈◊〉, by a series of misfortunes, thrown into confinement; 〈◊〉〈◊〉 by the rigour of an unrelenting creditor, detained there for the greater part of twenty years! Though t•• situation in life denied them the power of rescuing him from his adversity, yet they have comforted him con|stantly by their daily visits, and supported both him and his second wife by the labour of their hands; ever pour|ing into his bosom the balm of filial affection. An act of grace hath at last set the distressed parent at liberty; and they have, this evening, been to fetch him home from the forlorn scene of captivity, which hath worn down his grey hairs! We have made a little supper on the occasion, and had not long finished it, when you knocked at the door. One of his daughters, whose voice you now hear, is come to welcome his return; and, as all the family have a musical turn, she has taken up a guitar to accompany herself. Nothing can, at this moment, ex|ceed the transport of the father, after experiencing for

so many years the severity of ill-fortune, to find himself at last, housed in security under his children's roof.

You paint the story, returned I as one who strongly participates in the general joy. You might well call it a scene to interest the feelings: on my soul, it hath played the dence with mine, insomuch that I would almost give one eye to peep through a key-hole with the other, and obtain a glimpse of these happy people, without intruding on their delicious moments.

Why that, Sir, continued the landlord, I could gratify you in, as there can be no breach either of hospitality or honour, in exhibiting the merits of one's friends, when their actions may not only bear the view, but claim the applause of the world. The little room where they are, has a glass folding-door, with a curtain drawn only across the lower half of it; if you will give yourself the trouble to step up with me on the second stairs, you may, unper|ceived, look over it and indulge your curiosity.

—I would not have missed the sight, for all I shall ever be worth on this side the grave! It shewed me so lovely a Family Picture, as bid defiance to all the efforts of art. Even the pencil of a Raphael, a Titian, or a fluido, would have failed in the attempt; for it was drawn and coloured by a greater hand!—by thy inim|••ble hand, O Nature! who shalt ever, to the last page I write, remain the object of my adoration!

I wished a thousand times, my dear Jenny, that thy benevolent heart could have enjoyed it with me; but I will give you some idea how the canvass was disposed, and your sensibility will paint the rest.

Imagine the whole family grouped round the table on which they had supped: in full view before me conceive the portrait of the father, whose features wore the traces of age and infirmity, possibly somewhat strengthened by the sorrows of life, but whose countenance was, at the same time, brightened by so placid an eye, as indicated a mind superior to them all! On either side of him sat his good sons; and next to them, his wife, the faithful part|ner of his afflictions. Opposite to her, appeared the va|cant chair from whence I had so abruptly summoned my conductor, who now stood by me; while the daughter,

whose voice I had heard from below, and the friendly mistress of the house, who had prepared them this little entertainment, filled up the remainder of this happy circle.

The daughter was still singing to her guitar; they were soothing, plaintive notes; but my mind was 〈◊〉〈◊〉 occupied to attend to sounds: it was watching the char+acters which composed this singular picture, and marking attentively the expressions of cordiality and love, which during the song, were shot from eye to eye. Often did the good old man cast looks of transport on each of b•• family, one after the other; then fix his attention on h•••• child, whose voice was welcoming his return; while at in+tervals, his hands and eyes were uplifted in silent grati+tude, to that Providence, who had, after trials so sev•• at last brought him home in peace.

As soon as the song was ended, he beckoned his daughter to approach him; when, taking her by the arm, he gently pulled her down to his cheek, and hi•• his face in her neck. The mistress of the house 〈◊〉〈◊〉 pushed nearer to him a glass of wine, which had 〈◊〉〈◊〉 poured ••••t, and had long stood before him unregarded, on the table; he placidly drank it off; and surveyi•••• all around him, with a look of measureless contentment, stretched out his hands to his two sons, who were beside him, which were instantly pressed in theirs with the ut|most fervour; while, in their features, were pictured all those delicate emotions of the heart, which nature 〈◊〉〈◊〉 alone entrusted to the human countenance to expr••s•••• and which the efforts of language are far too feeble to convey.

Believe me, my dear Jenny, there was not a dry 〈◊〉〈◊〉 in all the room; nay, and I might add, on the stains neither, for I more than once observed my honest toba••+conist pass his hand before his face. There are tears of pleasure as well as tears of distress! the latter are excited by our own sufferings, the former are the involuntary tribute which sensibility pays to virtue!

I lament, said I, turning round to my companion, that this picture you have shewn me, which glows with so many lovely tints that affection hath spread over it,

should be concealed in your little apartment; it ought to be exhibited to the public; the view of it might serve to confirm the good, and shame the unfeeling!—Nor could I quit the scene I had been contemplating, with|out breathing this benediction over it:—

Heaven prosper you, children of virtue! nay, and it will prosper you, for you have given the world a noble example of filial piety! and, if lost in its dissipations, it should overlook the unurged claims you have on it, yet have you treasured up, in your own bosoms, those envia|ble feelings of conscious rectitude, which it never can take from you; and which, without hearts like your's, it hath not in its power to bestow.

I pity, from my soul, the gloomy temperament of the satyrist•• whose delight is to view only the unfavourable side of ••e. The imperfections of humanity may never leave his spleen destitute of a subject; yet I am inclined to believe, for the honour of Providence and Nature, that there ever has been a proportionate degree of benev|olence in the world. Those virtues that most adorn and endear society, a••e confined to a limited circle. Could we steal in on the privacies of domestic life, I am confi|dent we should see many more actions and characters to admire and respect, than we are in general inclined to suppose.

When I arrived at my lodgings, I had nothing to do, but to swallow a mouthful of refreshment, inquire of my trusty valet the trivial occurrences of the road, and retire to my chamber.

I do not recollect, in all my life, to have ever passed a more delicious night; for I slept till late the next morn|ing, without the smallest interruption, and arose in the finest spirits imaginable: nor will I ever be persuaded, to this moment, that it was half so much occasioned by the exercise and fatigue of the preceding day, as it was by my having gone to bed, in perfect good humour with the world.

THE INDEPENDENT PENSIONER.

A TRAVELLER should think nothing be+low his notice. Every scene of life is a picture, where•••• some part or other is worth his attention. The pe•• of the great Creator hath spread before us an eternal va|riety in his compositions; nor charmed us more with the sublimity of design, and the splendid colouring of so•••• pieces, than by the modest tints and unaffected truth 〈◊〉〈◊〉 which he often wins our attention to less distinguished subjects.—

The ladies, the other day after dinner at Clermont•••• proposed that we should drink tea at Draper's: Ame•••• having in her walks found, among the women who ••••+habit that foundation, a person whom she remembered for a long course of years, as servant to an old lady of her acquaintance.

My reader should be informed that Draper's is a ch••••|ity, instituted the beginning of this century by a Quake••, as a kind of asylum for eight women, who have each •• distinct house and garden; but they are ranged together so as to form one large building, in the centre of which is a meeting-house for people of the founder's profession; and though originally the charity was intended for such, yet now those who are of a different persuasion may be admitted members. It is half a mile distant from Mar|gate, and as most of the women employ themselves in knitting garters, laces, pincushions, &c. th•••• have every day visitors and customers, in the ladies 〈◊〉〈◊〉 that place.

I will shew you, says Amelia, as we went along, a very happy old woman: her father was a considerable trade••|man at Canterbury, and educated her well; but meeting with many losses, and dying insolvent, she was taken ••s an upper servant and companion by the old lady I men|tioned, who knew well her family, and who, though ex|tremely rich herself, and bountiful in promises, at her death rewarded a faithful service of near thirty years with a paltry annuity of ten pounds. Having by her

care laid up about two hundred guineas, the added produce of this sum might have made her easy temper perfectly contented; but trusting it with a nephew (to whom at her decease she meant to leave it) in order to put it out on good security, he embezzled the whole, and left her without the hope of retrieving a shilling of it. By the assistance of a friend at Canterbury, she got pla|ced in this charity on the first vacancy; and seems, in her little retirement, to have forgotten the disappoint|ments of life.—

Amelia had drawn the outlines of an interesting por|trait, and the sight of the original proved it a just one: for it presented the figure of a little elderly woman, with an eye full of vivacity, and such a calmness in all her features, as bespoke the tranquillity of the mind within. The simple nea••ness of her person was not more remark|able than that of her little habitation. Every thing was set in order; every thing rubbed to a polish. In one end of the window lay her Bible; in the other a basket of silks and worsteds, and the implements for her work. A j••mine tree, nicely trimmed, and full of bloom, cover|ed the outside of her dwelling; and before it lay her little garden, where not a weed was to be seen, sprinkled with common herbs and vegetables, with here and there a currant-bush, and a few white lilies interspersed among them.—

The pride of man, that is still pursuing happiness amid immense plantations and extensive territories, must, after all its toils, be mortified to find it on such a patch of ground as this!—

Amelia, who had sent up her tea chest, made her old acquaintance sit down with us, and busied herself, as well as Marianne, in looking over some pincushions, and other trifles, which they had employed her to knit, for presents to their friends in town. I promised you, says Amelia, that I would one day or other bring up these gentlemen to see you; and I believe it gives them more real pleasure than going to the ball-room at Margate. Oh, madam! replied the old woman, what is there to see in such a cottage as this?—

What a palace will hardly ever shew us, returned Ame|lia—a contented heart!—

That indeed, madam, is a blessing that Heaven 〈◊〉〈◊〉 bestowed on me through life; though I fear someti•••••• that the conduct of my unfortunate kinsman disturbed ••e more than it ought; for it grieved me, that what I had been years saving for the maintenance of my age, should be squandered away in an instant by profligacy. But i•• pleased God it should be so; and it pleased him also▪ my misfortunes to raise me a friend, who, unsolici•••••• obtained for me the independency I enjoy in this place where I live, madam, without a single care. If I 〈◊〉〈◊〉 but little, I want but little: my garden, my work, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 my book, fill up the greater part of the day; and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 most friendly intercourse subsists among us all, I can 〈◊〉〈◊〉 out, or converse with women of my own age and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 suits, who are drawing, like myself, toward the end of their journey, and more interested to look forward •••• another world, than to cast our attention backward •••• this.—

Gracious Providence! thought I; how erringly d•••••• man judge of thy dispensations! not considering th•••• •••• is from the temper of the heart, not from the exteri•• ••••+rade of fortune, the decision must be made. If the ri••••••+•••• and honours of the world are a blessing to some, th•••• prove a burden to more; and though thrown into the scale of many, thy impartial hand holdeth the b••l•• and giveth in counterpoise the patient mind, that possible outweighs the whole!—

When I contemplated this happy being at Draper•• and understood that the independency she boasted of, from that place, was only her little dwelling, six pounds, and half a chaldron of coals a year, and a stuff go••n and petticoat every two years—when I saw such a full stre•••• of content flow from so shallow a source, my bosom a••+proached me with a thousand recollected weaknesses, and I felt myself ashamed to have been so often put out of humour by the trivial occurrences of life.

THE BENEVOLENT PRINCESS.

THERE are few characters preserved in an|clea•• history more distinguished and illustrious than that of Moses. But it derives a great part of its lustre from events and actions, which are too far removed from the usual occurrences of life, and too much elevated above the common standard, to be capable of an easy applica|tion to the purposes of moral instruction. In the life of Moses, the philosopher will meet with many curious sub|jects of speculation, the statesman with many interesting particulars relative to policy and government, and the di|vine with many important incidents respecting the histo|ry of religion, which the moralist, who considers characters solely with the view of deducing from them useful les|sons for the conduct of life, will be obliged to pass by without notice. In this limited view of the actions and character of this great man, we shall however find them worthy of our serious attention, and capable of suggest|ing many important reflections.

The extraordinary circumstances, which attended the birth and early education of Moses, are too interesting and instructive to be overlooked.

At that time, the Israelites were groaning under the yoke of Egyptian bondage. The present king, who knew not Joseph, jealous of their increasing numbers and strength, and fearful lest they should, in some future time, enter into an alliance with the enemies of Egypt, determined to harass and afflict, and as much as pos|sible to crush them. "He made their lives bitter with hard bondage in all manner of service, and set over them tast-masters to afflict them with their burdens." This rigorous treatment, however, did not produce the effect which the king designed. Instead of being weakened and diminished by the hardships which they suffered, "the more he afflicted them the more they multiplied." Observing this, he now resolved to add cruelty to op|pression; and, effectually to remove every ground of fear

from this quarter, he formed and executed a plan for the total extirpation of their race. He issued an edi•••••• "that every male child born of the Israelites should be cast into the river."

Ye who know the tender sensations and warm attach|ments of parental affection, imagine, for ye alone can imagine—the consternation and horror with which this barbarous edict must have been received. Imagine the glow of honest indignation which would be kindled in every father's breast; conceive what agonizing pan•••• would tear the mother's heart, while the sentence of death was pronounced upon the dear helpless infant yet unborn. Surely the most refined philosophy will pardon the equivocation, by which the Hebrew midwives eva|ded the king's order: surely the most zealous advocate for implicit obedience to regal authority will not c••n|sure those parents, who, as far as they were able, diso|beyed a command which violated the first law of natu•••• counteracted the most powerful instinct of humanity, and opposed the sovereign authority of Heaven.

The mother of Moses, choosing to obey nature and God rather than man, hid her son three months. And when she found it impossible to conceal him longer, as the last expedient for his safety, she put him into an art of bullrushes properly secured against the water, and laid him among the rushes by the river side, near the place where the king's daughter and her attendants usu|ally came to bathe. Then leaving the child, doubtless with distressing anxiety, but not without hope that some fortunate incident might occur, she stationed her daugh|ter not far from the place to observe the issue.

Soon after, the young princess, Pharaoh's daughter, came with her attendants to the river side. She imme|diately cast her eye upon the ark lying among the rush|es, and, curious to know the contents, sent one of her maidens to fetch it. The mother, to preserve the child as long as she could, had covered it up with care in its rushy cradle, which, without some friendly hand to save it, must shortly have been in its grave. The princess removed the covering and found—a child. "And be|hold the babe wept." The cries of infants find easy ac|cess

to the female heart. Though the helpless innocent knew not its danger, nor was able to beg for protection; its piteous tears spoke to the feelings of the young prin|cess with an eloquence, which no prejudice of education, no pride of rank, no motives of interest or prudence, could withstand.

She soon discovered that it belonged to one of the Hebrews. It was a child of such mean and ignoble birth, as might seem beneath the notice of a royal princess, it sprung from a race of strangers, who had no natural claim to protection and favour in Egypt. It came un|der the sentence of her father's edict against the male children of the Israelites. To attempt its rescue might therefore be construed into an act of disobedience to him, and rebellion against the government, and might expose her to private resentment and public censure. Any of these circumstances may be supposed to have arisen in her mind, upon the discovery of the child; and to a prejudiced and bigotted understanding, a cowardly and timorous spirit, or a selfish and unfeeling heart, might have furnished an apology for leaving the helpless infant to perish. But, either she was so wholly lost in the emotions of pity, which the incident excited as to be inat|tentive to every other consideration, or (which is more probable) the principles of generosity and compassion had such a commanding power within her, as to overbal|ance every inferior motive. "She had compassion on the child."

His sister, who stood near, observing the favourable notice which the princess took of her infant brother, ven|tured to speak a word in his behalf, and offered to go and call one of the Hebrew women to nurse the child for her. The princess listened to the proposal, which accorded with her benevolent intentions, and sent her to seek a nurse. The messenger, who was at no loss to whom to apply, ran and called the child's mother. With what pleasure the mother received and obeyed the sum|mons, which banished all her fears and placed herself and her son under the protection of the king's daughter, may be better conceived than expressed. Doubtless with a joyful heart and eager steps she came to the place;

but probably suppressed the emotions which agitat•••• her mind, that she might conceal from the princess 〈◊〉〈◊〉 circumstance of her being the mother of the child. The princess, with all the dignity and grace which became her rank, and with all the condescension and sweetne•••• which female tenderness could inspire, took the child •••• her arms, and delivered it to the mother, saying, "T•• this child and nurse it for me, and I will give th•• wages."

Greatness never appears so truly respectable, as wh•••• employed in acts of mercy. The daughter of Pharaoh king of Egypt, never shone with half such attractive charms, when decked with every ornament which the wealth and taste of Egypt could supply, and surrounded with all the splendors of her father's court, as at the mo|ment when she uttered these words.

The mother carried home her lovely charge in triumph, and faithfully executed the pleasing task assigned her. Nor did the princess afterwards repent of her kindness, or desert the child whose life she had saved. When he grew up, she adopted him as her son, introduced him to the court of Egypt, and obtained for him the favour of the king. It was through her bounty that he was nursed in his infancy, and instructed in his childhood and youth, and that he afterwards became "learned in all the wisdom of the Egyptians, and mighty in words and deeds."

THE AFFECTIONATE DAUGHTER.

MR. George Campbell was the youngest son of a wealthy baronet, who having several livings in his gift, besides good interest at court, brought him up to the church, with the sanguine expectation of one day seeing him a bishop.

Unfortunately for George, before he had attained his twenty-third year, he became attached to a young lady, who had every requisite to render the married state hap|py,

but money; and money being the old gentleman's darling idol, he consequently thought she possessed no requisite worthy the wife of his son: but George was too far engaged to retreat with honour; he therefore told his father, he was resolved upon the union, and in a few days presented his beloved Louisa to entreat his blessing,

When Sir James found they were really married, he thought it was in vain to fly in a passion; he received them cordially, and gave them an universal invitation to his house, but in his heart he never forgave them. The livings were disposed of to other people, and at his death he left the whole of his estate to his eldest son.

Mr. Campbell had only a curacy of about eighty pounds a year, and as regular as the year came round, his wife presented him with a child. Poverty took up her habitation among them, and he bitterly regretted having, by an act of disobedience, not only brought on himself his father's displeasure, but involved an amiable woman, whom he loved, in a scene of penury and dis|tress. These reflections soured his disposition; he be|came peevish and morose; nay sometimes went so far, as to reproach his wife as the cause of his abject situation.

Mrs. Campbell took great care to instil into the minds of her children, the respect and affection due from them to their father. "My dear children," she would often say, "be assured a breach of filial duty is ever attended with regret, and in general with misfortune."

Louisa was the eldest of five children; she was mild, meek, and affectionate. She attentively listened to the precepts of her mother, and laid them up in her heart, as an inestimable treasure. Mr. Campbell's temper grew so extremely bad, that not only his wife, but his children came in for a share of his ill humour. Louisa, in par|ticular, was sure to be wrong, in whatever she said or did, and it was seldom she was favoured with a kind or affec|tionate word; yet her manners were so amiable and her form so lovely, that though she laboured under the dis|advantages of a narrow education and extreme poverty, her company was courted by some of the genteelest fam|ilies in the village; but in compliance with her father's ill humour, she was seldom allowed to stir from home.

When Louisa had reached her seventeenth year, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Mary Campbell, a distant relation of her father's, ca•••• on a visit to a family who resided in the same village▪ Louisa's good qualities were resounded to Lady Mary from every mouth, and all unanimously agreed it was a pity so lovely a girl should be buried in obscurity, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 lost for want of a proper education.

Lady Mary was naturally of a humane disposition; 〈◊〉〈◊〉 expressed a desire to see Miss Campbell; and when intro|duced to her, finding her even superior to what she had been taught to expect, made her an offer of going wh•••• her to London.

This was a proposal too much to Louisa's advantage to be refused; the invitation was accepted, and the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 prolonged for three years, during which time Louisa 〈◊〉〈◊〉 an opportunity of improving herself in the ornamental a•• well as useful branches of education.

Mrs. Campbell, who had for many years laboured un|der an evident decline, was now summoned home by the Power, who had been pleased, in this life, to try 〈◊〉〈◊〉 with long and heavy afflictions. Lady Mary carried Louisa to receive the dying blessing, and pay the l•••••• duties to her amiable mother. That finished, she pro|posed her return to London. The lovely girl, penetra|ted, with gratitude for the many favours she had receiv|ed, and tenderly attached to her genero•••••• benefact••••••, with difficulty restrained her tears, whil•• ••••e thus ad|dressed her:—

"Think me not ungrateful, dear Madam, if I beg •••• remain with my father: my brothers and sisters are en|gaged in learning occupations, which will enable them •••• pass through life with industry and without reproach.

"I cannot leave my father in this solitude, after so re|cent an affliction: he has for many years been used to the unremitting attention and tenderness of my excellent mother; I must not suffer him too severely to feel her loss, but endeavour, as far as is in my power, by affec|tion and assiduity, to supply her place."

"And can you, dear Louisa," said her ladyship, "s•• easily forego the ease and plenty you have enjoyed with me, to live a life of penury and labour, and that for a

man, who, though he is your father, I must say does not deserve such attention: Did he not always treat you with unmerited-harshness?"

"Hold, my dear Madam," said Louisa, "if, as you think, my father has not behaved to me with the kind|ness of a parent, it by no means releases me from my du|ty to him; had he a thousand errors, he is still my father; i•• such, I am called upon by nature and religion to do every thing in my power to render his life comfortable: if my endeavours to please can awaken his affection, I shall think myself amply repaid; if not, the consciousness of having performed my duty, will give me a satisfaction which no future event can ever rob me of."

It was in vain Lady Mary urged her to return: the lovely, elegant, accomplished Louisa, preferred a low roofed mansion, scanty meals, and attendance on a sick peevish father, to the lofty apartments, plenteous table, and variety of amusements she might have enjoyed with Lady Mary. She attended him to the last, and by her tender solicitude and affection smoothed the down-hill of his life, and cheered and comforted him in the most painful illness by her unaffected piety. He was moved by her filial duty; all the father rushed upon his soul; he blessed her with his parting breath, and expired in her a••ms!

You may, perhaps, inquire, what benefit Louisa reap|ed from this rigid performance of her duty? The ques|tion is easily answered. She gained a contented happy mind, serenity dwelt in her heart, and cheerfulness beam|e•• from her eyes.

She had a genteel competency left her at Lady Mary's death; married a deserving man, and shone as conspicu|ously in the characters of a wife and mother, as she had done as a daughter: she lived beloved by all, and died universally regretted.

SPLENDIDA; OR, CHARITY AND VANITY.

SPLENDIDA, in one of her morning ••i••|ings, was solicited for charity by a poor woman with a•• infant in her arms. "It is not for myself, Madam," said the wretched creature, "it is for my husband, who li•• under that hedge tormented with a fever, and dying f•••• want of relief." Splendida directed her eyes towar•••• the spot, and saw a sickly object stretched upon the ground, clad in the ta••••ered regimental of a foot soldier her heart was touched, and she drew out her purse, which was full of guineas. The blood rushed into the begga•••• meagre visage at the sight: Splendida turned over the gold; her hand delayed for a moment, and the impulse was lost; unhappily for the suppliant, Splendida 〈◊〉〈◊〉 alone and without a witness: she put her hand 〈◊〉〈◊〉 more into her pocket, and taking out a solitary shillin•••• dropt it into the shrivelled palm, that was stretched 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to receive it, and drove on. Splendida returned home dressed herself, and went to a certain great lady's ass••••+bly; a subscription was put about for the benefit of a cel|ebrated actress; the lady condescended to receive sub|scriptions in person, and delivered a ticket to each co••+tributor: Splendida drew forth the same purse, and wrapping twenty guineas in a paper, put them into the hand of the noble beggar: The room rang with applau••+es of her charity.—"I give it," says she, "to her virtues, rather than to her talents; I bestow it on the wife and mother, not upon the actress." Splendida on her ••••|turn home took out her accompt-book, and set do•••• twenty-one pounds one shilling to the article of charity. The shilling indeed Heaven audited to the score of alms; the pounds were posted to the account of vani••y.

COQUETRY SOMETIMES JUSTIFIABLE.

ADELISA, possest of beauty, fortune, rank, and every elegant accomplishment, that genius and edu|cation could bestow, was withal so unsupportably capri|cious, that she seemed born to be the torment of every heart, which suffered itself to be attracted by her charms. Though her coquetry was notorious to a proverb, such ••••re her allurements, that very few, upon whom she thought fit to practise them, had ever found resolution to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 their power. Of all the victims of her vanity, L••|ander seemed to be that, over whom she threw her chain•• with the greatest air of triumph; he was indeed a con|quest to boast of; for he had long and obstinately defend|•••• his heart, and for a time made as many reprisals upon the tender passions of her sex as she raised contributions upon his. Her better star at length prevailed a•• she b••|••old Leander at her feet; and though her victory was accomplished at the e••pense of more tender glances than she had ever bestowed upon the whole se•• collectively, yet it was a victory, which only piqued Adelis•• to render his slavery the more intolerable for the trouble he had cost her to reduce him to it. After she had trifled with him and tortured him, in every way that her ingenious malice could devise, and made such public display of her tyran|ny as subjected him to the ridicule and contempt of all the men, who had envied his success, and every woman who r••••nted his neglect, Adelisa avowedly dismissed him, as an object, which could no longer furnish sport to her cr••|••lty; and turned to other pursuits with a kind of indiffer|ence as to the choice of them, which seemed to ha•••• no other guide but mere caprice.

Leander was not wanting to himself in the efforts he now made to free himself from her chains, but it was in vain; the hand of beauty had wrapped them too closely about his heart, and love had rive••ted them too securely for rea|son, pride, or even the strongest struggles of resentment, to throw them off: he continued to love, to hate, to ex|ecrate

and adore her. His first resolution was to ex•• himself from her sight; this was a measure of abso•• necessity, for he was not yet recovered enough to ab•• the chance of meeting her, and he had neither 〈◊〉〈◊〉 nor inclination to start a fresh attachment, by way of ••••+periment upon her jealousy. Fortune, however, befrien••+ed him in the very moment of despair; for no soo•• was he out of her sight, than the coquettish Adelisa 〈◊〉〈◊〉 something wanting, which had been so familiar to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 that Leander, though despised when possest, when 〈◊〉〈◊〉 was regretted. In vain she culled her numerous ad••••••+ers, for some one to replace him. Continually pe•• and discontented, Adelisa became so intolerable to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 lovers, that there seemed to be a spirit conjuring •• among them, which threatened her with a general de••••+tion. What was to be done? Her danger was alar••+ing; it was imminent: she determined to recall ••••+ander: she informed herself of his haunts, and th•••••• herself in the way of a rencontre; but he avoided 〈◊〉〈◊〉 chance brought them to an interview, and she began •• rallying him for his apostacy: there was an anxiety ••••+der all this affected pleasantry, that she could not th••••+oughly conceal, and he did not fail to discover. He in+stantly determined upon the very wisest measure, which deliberation could have formed; he combated her with her own weapons; he put himself apparently so much at his ease, and counterfeited his part so well, as effe••+tually to deceive her: she had now a new task upon h•••• hands, and the hardest as well as the most hazardous she had ever undertaken: she attempted to throw him 〈◊〉〈◊〉 his guard, by a pretended pity for his past suffering••▪ and a promise of kinder usage for the future; he deni•••• that he had suffered any thing, and assured her that 〈◊〉〈◊〉 never failed to be amused with her humours, which w•••• perfectly agreeable to him at all times. "Then is ••••+plain," replied she, "that you never thought of me as a wife; for such humours must be insupportable to a hus|band." "Pardon me," cried Leander, "if ever I should be betrayed into the idle act of marriage, I must be in one of those very humours myself! Defend me from that dull uniformity of domestic life! What can be so insipid••

as the ta••••e strain of nuptial harmony everlastingly re|p••••••d! Whatever other varieties I may then de•••• a•• my|self of, let me at least find a variety of whim in the w••man. I am to be fettered to." "Upon my word," 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Adelisa, "you would almost persuade ••e t••at we were destined for each other." This she accom|panied with one of those looks, in which she was most expert, and which was calculated at once to inspire and in betray sensibility. Leander, not yet so certain of his observations as to confide in them, seemed to receive this overture as a raillery, and affecting to laugh, replied, "I do not think it is in the power of destiny herself to determine either of us; for if you was for one moment 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the humour to promise yourself to me, I am certain in the next you would retract it; and if I was fool enough to believe you, I should well deserve to be pun|ished for my credulity: Hymen will never yoke us to each other, nor to any body else; but if you are in the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to make a very harmless experiment of the little 〈◊〉〈◊〉 I put in all such promises, here is my hand; it is fit the proposal should spring from my quarter and not your's; close with it as soon as you please, and laugh at me as much as you please, if I ••••••t one murmur wh•••• you break the bargain." "Well th••n," said Adelisa, "to punish you for the sauciness of your provoking chal|lenge, and to convince you that I do not credit you for this pretended indifference to my treatment of you, here is my hand, and with it my promise; and now I give you warning, that if ever I do keep it, it will be only from the conviction that I shall torment you more by fulfilling it than by flying from it." "Fairly declared," cried Leander, "and since my word is passed, I'll stand to it; but take notice, if I was not perfectly secure of being jilted, I should think myself in a fair way to be the most egregious dupe in nature."

In this strain of mutual raillery they proceeded to f••••|tle the most serious business of their lives; and whilst neither would venture upon a conf••ssion of their passion, each seemed to rely upon th•• other for a discovery of it. They now broke up their conference in the gayest spirits imaginable, and Leander upon parting offered to make a

bett of half his fortune with Adelisa, that she did no•• stand to her engagement; at the same time naming a certain day as the period of its taking place. "And what shall I gain," said she, "in that case by half you fortune, when I shall have a joint share in possession of the whole?" "Talk not of fortune," cried Leander, gi••|ing loose to the rapture which he could no longer re|strain, "my heart, my happiness, my life itself is your's." So saying, he hastily embraced her and departed.

No sooner was he out of her sight, than he began to expostulate with himself upon his indiscretion. In the ecstacy of one unguarded moment he had blasted all his schemes; and, by exposing his weakness, armed her with fresh engines to torment him. In these reflections 〈◊〉〈◊〉 passed the remainder of the night; in vain he strove to find some justification for his folly: he could not fort•• his mind to believe that the tender looks she had bestow|ed upon him were any other than an experiment upon his heart, to throw him from his guard, and re-establish her tyranny. With these impressions he presented him|self at her door next morning, and was immediately ad|mitted. Adelisa was alone, and Leander immediately began by saying to her, "I am now come to receive at your hands the punishment, which the man who cannot keep his own secret richly deserves. I surrender myself to you, and I expect you will exert your utmost ingenuity in tormenting me; only remember that you cannot give a stab to my heart without wounding your own image, which envelopes every part, and is too deeply impre•••• for even your cruelty totally to extirpate." At the con|clusion of this speech, Adelisa's countenance became serious; she fixt her eyes upon the floor, and after a pause, without taking any notice of Leander, and as if she had been talking to herself in soliloquy, repeated in a murmuring tone, "Well, well, 'tis all over; but 〈◊〉〈◊〉 matter." "For the love of Heaven," cried Leander in alarm, "what is all over?" "All that is most delight|ful to women," she replied; "all the luxury, which the vanity of my sex enjoys in tormenting your's: O Lean|der! what charming projects of revenge had I contriv|ed to punish your pretended indifference; and depend up|on

it I would have executed them to the utmost rigour of the law of retaliation, had you not in one moment dis|armed me of my malice by a fair confession of your love. Believe me, Leander, I never was a coquette but in self-defence; sincerity is my natural character; but how should a woman of any attractions be safe in such a char|acter, when the whole circle of fashion abounds with ar|tificial coxcombs, pretenders to sentiment, and professors of seduction? Between you and me, Leander, this has been more a contest of cunning than an affair of honour, and if you will call your own conduct into fair review, trust me, you will find little reason to complain of mine. Naturally disposed to favour your attentions more than any other man's, it particularly behoved me to guard myself against propensities at once so pleasing and so sus|picious. Let this suffice in justification of what is past; it now remains that I should explain to you the system I have laid down for the time to come: if ever I assume the character of a wife, I devote myself to all its duties; I bid farewel at once to all the vanities, the petulancies, the coquetries of what is falsely called a life of pleasure; the whole system must undergo a revolution, and be ad|ministered upon other principles and to other purposes: I know the world too well to commit myself to it, when I have more than my own conscience to account to, when I have not only truths to study; suspicions, jealousies, appearances to provide against; when I am no longer singly responsible on the score of error, but of example also: it is not therefore in the public display of an af|fluent fortune, in dress, equipage, entertainments, nor even in the fame of splendid charities my pleasures will be found; they will centre in domestic occupations; in cultivating nature and the sons of nature, in benefiting the tenants and labourers of the soil that supplies us with the means of being useful; in living happily with my neighbours, in availing myself of those numberless op|portunities, which a residence in the country affords of relieving the untold distresses of those, who suffer in secret, and are too humble, or perhaps too proud to ask."—

Here the enraptured Leander could no longer keep silence; but, breaking forth into transports of love and

admiration, gave a turn to the conversation, which is 〈◊〉〈◊〉 otherwise interesting to relate, than as it proved the pre+lude to an union which speedily took place, and h•••• made Leander and Adelisa the fondest and worthie•••• couple in England.

THE DANGER OF DISSIMULATION.

CHARLOTTE and Maria were educated together at an eminent boarding-school near London; there was little difference in their age, and their personal accomplishments were equal: but though their families were of the same rank, yet, as Charlotte was an only child, she was considerably superior in fortune.

Soon after they were taken home, Charlotte was ad|dressed by Captain Freeman, who, besides his commission in the guards, had a small paternal estate: but as her friends hoped for a more advantageous match, the Cap|tain was desired to forbear his visits, and the lady to think of him no more. After some fruitless struggles, they ac|quiesced; but the discontent of both was so apparent, that it was thought expedient to remove Miss into the country. She was sent to her aunt, the Lady Meadows, who, with her daughter, lived retired at the family seat, more than one hundred miles distant from the metropo|lis. After she had repined in this dreary solitude from April to August, she was surprised with a visit from her father, who brought with him Sir James Forrest, a young gentleman who had just succeeded to a baronet's title, and a very large estate in the same county. Sir James had good nature and good sense, an agreeable person and an easy address. Miss was insensibly pleased with his company; her vanity, if not her love, had a new object; a desire to be delivered from a state of dependence and obscurity, had almost absorbed all the rest; and it is no wonder that this desire was gratified, when scarce any other was felt; or that in compliance with the united solicitations of her friends, and her lover, she suffered her|self

within a few weeks to become a lady and a wife. They continued in the country till the beginning of Oc|tober, and then came up to London, having prevailed upon her aunt to accompany them, that Miss Meadows, with whom the bride had contracted an intimate friend|ship, might be gratified with the diversions of the town during the winter.

Captain Freeman, when he heard that Miss Charlotte was married, immediately made proposals of marriage to Maria, with whom he became acquainted during his visits to her friend, and soon after married her.

The friendship of the two young ladies seemed to be rather increased than diminished by their marriage; they were always of the same party, both in the private and public diversions of the season, and visited each other without the formalities of messages and dress.

But neither Sir James nor Mrs. Freeman could reflect without uneasiness upon the frequent interviews which this familiarity and confidence produced between a lover and his mistress, whom force only had divided; and though of these interviews they were themselves witnesses, yet Sir James insensibly became jealous of his lady, and Mrs. Freeman of her husband.

It happened, in the May following, that Sir James went about ten miles out of town, to be present at the election of a member of parliament for the county, and was not expected to return till the next day. In the evening, his lady took a chair and visited Mrs. Freeman: the rest of the company went away early; the Captain was upon guard; Sir James was out of town, and the two la|dies after supper sat down to piquet, and continued the game without once reflecting upon the hour till three in the morning. Lady Forrest would then have gone home; but Mrs. Freeman, perhaps chiefly to conceal a contrary desire, importuned her to stay till the Captain came in, and at length with some reluctance she consented.

About five, the Captain came home, and Lady Forrest immediately sent out for a chair: a chair, as it happen|ed, could not be procured; but a hackney-coach being brought in its stead, the Captain insisted upon waiting on her ladyship home. This she refused with some emotion;

it is probable that she still regarded the Captain with less indifference than she wished, and was therefore more sen|sible of the impropriety of his offer: but her reasons for rejecting it, however forcible, being such as she could not allege, he persisted, and her resolution was overborne. By this importunate complaisance he had not only thrown Lady Forrest into confusion, but displeased his wife: she could not, however, without unpoliteness, oppose it; and, lest her uneasiness should be discovered, she affected a neg|ligence which in some degree revenged it: she desired that when he came back he would not disturb her, for that she should go directly to bed; and added, with a kind of drowsy insensibility, "I am more than half asleep already."

Lady Forrest and the Captain were to go from the Haymarket to Grosvenor Square. It was about half an hour after five when they got into the coach; the morn|ing was remarkably fine, the la••e contest had shaken off all disposition to sleep, and Lady Forrest could not help saying, that she had much rather take a walk in the Park than go home to bed. The Captain zealously expressed the same sentiment, and proposed that the coach should s••t them down at St. James's Gate. The lady, however, had nearly the same objections against being seen in the Mall without any other company than the Captain, that she had against its being known that they were alone togeth|er in a hackney-coach: she, therefore, to extricate her|self from this second difficulty, proposed that they should call at her father's in Bondstreet, and take her cousin Meadows, whom she knew to be an early rifer, with them. This project was immediately put in execution; but La|dy Forrest found her cousin indisposed with a cold. When she had communicated the design of this early visit, Miss Meadows entreated her to give up her walk in the Park, to stay till the family rose, and go home after breakfast. "No," replied Lady Forrest, "I am determined upon a walk; but as I must first get rid of Captain Freeman, I will send down word that I will take your advice." A servant was accordingly dispatched to acquaint the Cap|tain, who was waiting below, that Miss Meadows was in|disposed, and had engaged Lady Forrest to breakfast.

The Captain discharged the coach; but being piqued a•• the behaviour of his wife, and feeling that flow of spir|its which usually returns with the morning, even to those who have not slept in the night, he had no desire to go home, and therefore resolved to enjoy the fine morning in the Park alone.

Lady Forrest, not doubting but that the Captain would immediately return home, congratulated herself upon her deliverance; but, at the same time, to indulge her desire of a walk, followed him into the Park.

The Captain had reached the top of the Mall, and turning back met her, before she had advanced two hun|dred paces beyond the Palace. The moment she per|ceived him, the remembrance of her message, the motives that produced it, the detection of its falsehood, and discov|ery of its design, her disappointment and consciousness of that very situation which she had so much reason to avoid, all concurred to cover her with confusion, which it was impossible to hide: pride and good-breeding were, however, still predominant over truth and prudence; she was still zealous to remove from the Captain's mind any suspicion of a design to shun him, and therefore with an effort perhaps equal to that of a hero, who smiles upon the rack, she affected an air of gaiety, said she was glad to see him, and as an excuse for her message and her con|duct, prattled something about the sickleness of woman's mind, and concluded with observing, that she changed her's too often ever to be mad. By this conduct a retreat was rendered impossible, and they walked together till between eight and nine: but the clouds having insensi|bly gathered, and a sudden shower falling just as they had reached Spring-Gardens, they went out instead of going back; and the Captain having put the lady into a chair, took his leave.

It happened that Sir James, contrary to his first pur|pose, had returned from his journey at night. He learnt from the servants, that his lady was gone to Captain Free|man's, and was secretly displeased that she had made this visit when he was absent; an incident, which, however trifling in itself, was, by the magic of jealousy, swelled into importance: yet, upon recollection he reproved

himself for this displeasure, since the presence of the Cap|tain's lady would sufficiently secure the honour of ••e own. While he was struggling with these suspicions, they increased both in number and strength in propor|tion as the night wore away. At one, he went to bed; but he passed the night in agonies of terror and resent|ment, doubting whether the absence of his lady was the effect of accident or design, listening to every noise, and bewildering himself in a multitude of extravagant suppo|sitions. He rose again at break of day; and after sever|al hours of suspense and irresolution, whether to wait the issue, or go out for intelligence, the restlessness of curiosi|ty prevailed, and about eight he set out for Captain Free|man's; but left word with his servants, that he was gone to a neighbouring coffee-house.

Mrs. Freeman, whose affected indifference and dissim|ulation of a design to go immediately to bed, contribut|ed to prevent the Captain's return, had during his ab|sence suffered inexpressible disquiet: she had, indeed, nei|ther intention to go to bed, nor inclination to sleep; she walked backward and forward in her chamber, distracted with jealousy and suspense, till she was informed that Sir James was below, and desired to see her. When she came down, he discovered that she had been in tears: his fear was now more alarmed than his jealousy, and he concluded that some fatal accident had befallen his wife; but he soon learnt that she and the Captain had gone from thence at five in the morning, and that he was not yet returned, Mrs. Freeman, by Sir James's inquiry, knew that his lady had not been at home: her suspicions were, therefore, confirmed; and in her jealousy, which to prevent a duel she laboured to conceal, Sir James found new cause for his own. He determined, however, to wait with as much decency as possible, till the Captain came in; and perhaps two persons were never more embarrassed by the presence of each other. While break|fast was getting ready, Dr. Tattle came to pay Mrs. Freeman a morning visit; and, to the unspeakable grief both of the lady and her guest, was immediately admit|ted. Dr. Tattle is one of those male gossips who, in the common opinion, are the most diverting company in the

world. The Doctor saw that Mrs. Freeman was low spir|ited, and made several efforts to divert her, but without success: at length he declared, with an air of ironical im|portance, that he could tell her such news as would make her look grave for something: "The Captain," says he, "has just huddled a lady into a chair, at the door of a bagnio, near Spring-Gardens." He soon perceived that this speech was received with emotions very different from those he intended to produce; and therefore added, "that she need not however be jealous; for notwith|standing the manner in which he had related the incident, the lady was certainly a woman of character, as he in|stantly discovered by her mein and appearance." This particular confirmed the suspicion it was intended to re|move; and the Doctor, finding that he was not as good company as usual, took his leave, but was met at the door by the Captain, who brought him back. His presence, however insignificant, imposed some restraint upon the rest of the company; and Sir James, with as good an appear|ance of jocularity as he could assume, asked the Captain "What he had done with his wife." The Captain, with some irresolution, replied, that "he had left her early in the morning at her father's; and that having made a point of waiting on her home, she sent down word that her cousin Meadows was indisposed, and had engaged her to breakfast." The Captain who knew nothing of the anecdote, that had been communicated by the Doctor, judged by appearances that it was prudent thus indirect|ly to lie, by concealing the truth both from Sir James and his wife: he supposed, indeed, that Sir James would im|mediately inquire after his wife at her father's, and learn that she did not stay there to breakfast; but as it would not follow that they had been together, he left her to ac|count for her absence as she thought fit, taking for grant|ed that what he had concealed she would also conceal, for the same reasons; or, if she did not, as he had affirm|ed nothing contrary to truth, he might pretend to have concealed it in jest. Sir James, as soon as he had receiv|ed this intelligence, took his leave with some appearance of satisfaction, and was followed by the Doctor.

As soon as Mrs. Freeman and the Captain were alone, she questioned him, with great earnestness, about the ••|dy, whom he had been seen to put into a chair. When he heard that this incident had been related in the pres+ence of Sir James, he was greatly alarmed lest Lady For|rest should increase his suspicions, by attempting to con|ceal that, which, by a series of inquiry to which he was now stimulated, he would probably discover: he con|demned this conduct in himself, and, as the most effect•••• means at once to quiet the mind of his wife and obtain her assistance, he told her all that had happened, and his apprehension of the consequences: he also urged her to go directly to Miss Meadows, by whom his account would be confirmed, of whom she might learn farther in|telligence of Sir James; and to find some way to ac|quaint Lady Forrest with her danger, and admonish her to conceal nothing.

Mrs. Freeman was convinced of the Captain's sinceri|ty, not only by the advice he urged her to give Lady Forrest, but by the consistency of the story and the man|ner in which he was affected. Her jealousy was chang|ed into pity for her friend, and apprehension for her hus|band. She hasted to Miss Meadows, and learnt that Sir James had inquired of the servant for his lady, and was told that she had been there early with Captain Freeman, but went away soon after him: she related to Miss Mead|ows all that had happened, and thinking it at least possi|ble that Sir James might not go directly home, she wrote the following letter to his lady.

"MY DEAR LADY FORREST,

"I AM in the utmost distress for you. Sir James has suspicions, which truth only can remove, and of which my indiscretion is the cause. If I had not concealed my desire of the Captain's return, your design to disengage yourself from him, which I learn from Miss Meadows, would have been effected. Sir James breakfasted with me in the Haymarket; and has since called at your fa|ther's, from whence I write: he knows that your stay here was short, and has reason to believe the Captain put you into a chair, some hours afterwards, at Spring-Gar|dens. I hope, therefore, my dear lady, that this will

reach your hands time enough to prevent your conceal|ing any thing. It would have been better if Sir James had known nothing, for then you would not have been suspected; but now he must know all, or you cannot be justified. Forgive the freedom with which I write; and believe me, most affectionately,

Yours, MARIA FREEMAN.

"P. S. I have ordered the bearer to say he came from Mrs. Fashion, the milliner."

This letter was given to a chairman, and he was or|dered to say he brought it from the milliner's; because, if it should he known to come from Mrs. Freeman, and should fall by accident into Sir James's hands, his curi|osity might prompt him to read it, and his jealousy to question the lady, without communicating the contents.

Sir James being convinced that his lady and the Cap|tain had passed the morning at a bagnio, by the answer which he received at her father's, went directly home. His lady was just arrived before him, and had not recov|ered from the confusion and dread, which seized her, when she heard that Sir James came to town the night before, and at the same instant anticipated the consequen|ces of her own indiscretion.

She was told he was then at the coffee-house, and in a few minutes was thrown into an universal tremor, upon hearing him knock at the door. He perceived her dis|tress, not with compassion but rage, because he believed it to proceed from the consciousness of guilt. He turn|ed pale, and his lips quivered; but he so far restrained his passion, as to ask her, without invective, "Where and how she had passed the night." She replied, "at Captain Freeman's; that the Captain was upon guard; that she sat up with his lady till he came in, and that he then in|sisting to see her home, she would suffer ••he coach to go no further than her father's, where he left her early in the morning." She had not fortitude to relate the se|quel, but stopped with some appearance of irresolution and terror. Sir James then asked, "If she came directly from her father's home?" This question, and the man|ner in which it was asked, increased her confusion. To

appear to have stopped short in her narrative, she thought would be an implication of guilt, as it would betray a desire of concealment: but the past could not be recall|ed, and she was impelled by equivocation to falsehood, from which, however, she would have been kept back by fear, if Sir James had not deceived her into a belief that he had been no further than the neighbourhood. After these tumultuous reflections, which passed in a moment, she ventured to affirm, that "she staid with Miss Mead|ows till eight, and then came home:" but she uttered this falsehood with such marks of guilt and shame, which she had, indeed, no otherwise than by this falsehood incur|red or deserved, that Sir James no more doubted her in|fidelity than her existence. As her story was the same with that of the Captain's, and as one had concealed the truth and the other denied it, he concluded that there was a confederacy between them; and, determining first to bring the Captain to account, he turned from her ab|ruptly, and immediately left the house.

At the door he met the chairman, who had been dis|patched by Mrs. Freeman to his lady; and fiercely in|terrogating him what was his business, the man produc|ed the letter, and saying, as he had been ordered, that he brought it from Mrs. Fashion. Sir James snatched it from him, and, muttering some expressions of contempt and resentment, thrust it into his pocket.

It happened that Sir James did not find the Captain at home; he therefore left a billet, in which he request|ed to see him at a neighbouring tavern, and added, that he had put on his sword.

In the mean time, his lady, dreading a discovery of the falsehood which she had asserted, dispatched a billet to Captain Freeman; in which she conjured him as a man of honour, for particular reasons not to own to Sir James, or any other person, that he had seen her after he had left her at her father's: she also wrote to her cousin Meadows, entreating, that if she was questioned by Sir James, he might be told that she staid with her till eight o'clock, an hour at which only herself and the servants were up.

The billet to Miss Meadows came soon after the chair|man had returned with an account of what had happen|ed to the letter; and Mrs. Freeman was just gone in great haste to relate the accident to the Captain, as it was of importance that he should know it before his next interview with Sir James: but the Captain had been at home before her, and received both Sir James's billet and that of his lady. He went immediately to the tav|ern, and inquiring for Sir James Forrest, was shewn into a back room, one pair of stairs. Sir James received his salutation without reply, and instantly bolted the door. His jealousy was complicated with that indignation and contempt, which a sense of injury from a person of infe|rior rank never fails to produce: he, therefore, demand|ed of the Captain, in a haughty tone, "whether he had not that morning been in company with his wife, after he had left her at her father's?" The Captain, who was incensed at Sir James's manner, and deemed himself en|gaged in honour to keep the lady's secret, answered, that "after what he had said in the morning, no man had a right to suppose he had seen the lady afterwards; that to insinuate the contrary was obliquely to charge him with a falsehood; that he was bound to answer no such questions, till they were properly explained; and that as a gentle|man he was prepared to vindicate his honour." Sir James justly deemed this reply an equivocation and an insult; and being no longer able to restrain his rage, he cursed the Captain as a liar and a scoundrel, and at the same time striking him a violent blow with his fist, drew his sword and put himself in a posture of defence. What|ever design the Captain might have had to bring his friend to temper, and reconcile him to his wife, when he first entered the room, he was now equally enraged, and, indeed, had suffered equal indignity; he, therefore, drew at the same instant, and, after a few desperate passes on both sides, he received a wound in his breast, and, reel|ing backward a few paces, fell down.

The noise had brought many people to the door of the room, and it was forced open just as the Captain had re|ceived his wound: Sir James was secured, and a messen|ger was dispatched for a surgeon. In the mean time, the

Captain perceived himself to be dying: and wha••••ver might before have been his opinion of right and wrong▪ and honour and shame, he now thought all dissimulat•• criminal, and that his murderer had a right to that tru•••• which he thought it meritorious to deny him when ••e was his friend: he, therefore, earnestly desired to speak a few words to him in private. This request was im••+diately granted; the persons who had rushed in withdrew contenting themselves to keep guard at the door; a•• the Captain beckoning Sir James to kneel down by hi••▪ then told him, that "however his lady might have b•• surprized or betrayed by pride or fear into dissimulation or falsehood, she was innocent of the crime which he sup|posed her solicitous to conceal." He then briefly relat|ed all the events as they had happened; and at last, grasp|ing his hand, urged him to escape from the window that he might be a friend to his widow and to his child, if its birth should not be prevented by the death of its father. Sir James yielded to the force of this motive▪ and escaped as the Captain had directed. In his way to Dover, he read the letter which he had taken from the chairman, and by the next post inclosed it in the following to his lady:

"MY DEAR CHARLOTTE,

"I AM the most wretched of all men! But I do not up|braid you as the cause. Would to God that I were not more guilty than you! We are the martyrs of dissimula|tion. By dissimulation dear Captain Freeman was in|duced to waste those hours with you, which he would otherwise have enjoyed with the poor unhappy dissem|bler, his wife. Trusting in the success of dissimulation, you was tempted to venture into the Park, where you met him whom you wished to shun. By detecting dis|simulation in the Captain, my suspicions were increased; and by dissimulation and falsehood you confirmed them. But your dissimulation and falsehood were the effects of mine; your's were ineffectual, mine succeeded: for I left word that I was gone no further than the coffee-house, that you might not suspect I had learned too much to be deceived. By the success of a lie put into the mouth of a chairman, I was prevented from reading

a letter, which at last would have undeceived me; and by persisting in dissimulation, the Captain has made his friend a fugitive and his wife a widow. Thus does in|sincerity terminate in misery and confusion, whether, in its immediate purpose, it succeeds or is disappointed. O my dear Charlotte! if ever we meet again,—to meet again in peace is impossible—but if ever we meet again, let us resolve to be sincere: to be sincere is to be wise, innocent, and safe. We venture to commit faults, which shame or fear would prevent, if we did not hope to conceal them by a lie. But in the labyrinth of false|hood, men meet those evils, which they seek to avoid; and as in the straight path of truth alone they can see be|fore them, in the straight path of truth alone they can pur|sue felicity with success. Adieu! I am—dreadful!— I can subscribe nothing, that does not reproach and tor|ment me!—Adieu!"

Within a few weeks after the receipt of this letter, the unhappy lady heard that her husband was cast away in his passage to France.

URGANDA AND FATIMA. AN EASTERN TALE.

IN one of the most beautiful vallies that lie upon the borders of the East, lived Zegdad, an inoffen|sive shepherd. He had but one child, and having been early deprived of his wife, he lavished his whole stock of tenderness on Fatima.

Though fortune had not been lavish of her gifts to the father of Fatima, yet he wanted not the necessaries or the comforts of life; his cottage was clean, and furnish|ed with every thing useful; his fields supplied him with food, his flock with raiment.

Fatima was coarse in her person, but she was cheer|ful and good-natured; she rose each morn with the feathered songsters, and cheerfully performed the duties of her station; her whole study was to please her father,

and a smile from Zegdad was, at any time, ample ••••|ompense for the severest fatigue, and like a cordial serv|ed to revive her drooping spirits. She would assist, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 asked, in the most laborious employments, and when 〈◊〉〈◊〉 labour of the day was past, she would lightly trip over the green turf, with her young companions, while her father played on the flagelet. The mind of Fati•••• was calm as the delights of paradise.

One day her father sent her to the Grand Vizier's▪ with fruit for his favourite; she was conducted by an eunuch into the garden, where the beautiful Semira was reposing on a bed of roses, clad in all the pomp of east|ern magnificence, while two slaves were fanning her 〈◊〉〈◊〉 rest.

Fatima had never before seen aught but simplicity: she was filled with wonder and astonishment at the sur|prizing beauty and grandeur of Semira; and as she ga••|ed, envy and discontent crept into her hitherto guileless heart.

She returned home with a mind totally altered from what it was. Her rural pastimes no more delighted her; labour was now a trouble; she had been a witness to the ease and indolence of Semira. I•• at any time she caught a glimpse of her person in the stream, she turned from it with disgust. Her days were joyless, and her nights spent in bewailing her unhappy lot.

One evening, deaf to the solicitations of her young companions, she retired to a thick grove, and inattentive to the sound of the flagelet, thus gave vent to her sorrow:

"Oh, wretched Fatima! unhappy maid! Why was I born to so hard a fate? to eat the bread of labour, to sleep upon a rushy couch, while Semira is surrounded with splendor, is served by kneeling slaves, and sleep•• on a bed of down! Why has nature denied me those ravishing beauties, it has so bountifully lavished on her? her eyes are bright as the stars, her lips like half-blown roses, her hand and arm like polished ivory. Oh! why was not I lovely as Semira, and favourite to the Grand Vizier? In this low abject state my being is intolerable; I will no longer endure it, but in yon limpid stream lose the remembrance of myself and Semira."

At this moment the Fairy Urganda stood before her.

"Thy complaints are just, oh, Fatima! (said she) and if thou wilt relinquish thy home, and forsake thy father, thou shalt enjoy the utmost extent of thy wishes."

Fatima eagerly complied with the offered terms, and the Fairy immediately sprinkled her with water, at the same time pronouncing some mystic words, when she was transformed into a virgin of transcendant beauty, and found herself in the garden of a palace belonging to the Grand Vizier.

The lovely Semira had the day before offended her lord, and was no longer a favourite. Fatima attracted the notice of the Vizier; he ordered her to be led into splendid apartments, clothed with costly robes, adorned with jewels, and appointed slaves to wait on her and comply with all her wishes; and Fatima supplied the place of the degraded Semira.

She now thought herself the happiest among the hap|py; but the Vizier was passionate, capricious, jealous, and extremely cruel; and it was not long before the dis|appointed Fatima discovered that to be favourite to the Grand Vizier was to live only in splendid slavery.

"But (said she often to herself) though the Grand Vizier's favourite is miserable, how superlatively happy must be the favourite Sultana of my lord the Emperor! Oh! could I but attain that envied station, how soon should the imperious Vizier suffer for his barbarity to me."

Again did the bosom of Fatima suffer all the miseries of discontent; the vaulted roofs, spacious gardens, and rich presents of the Vizier, no longer charmed her; she sighed for the ensigns of royalty, and her pillow was nightly bedewed with her tears.

One evening she retired to an arbour, at the extremity of the garden, and throwing herself on the banks where she had first seen Semira, thus poured forth her com|plaints:

"How wretched is the fate of Fatima! condemned to drag a hated being with a man, who studies only his own gratification, and expects me to be the slave of his caprice and passion. Oh! could I but get from this de|tested

place, I would fly to my lord the Emperor, and bow myself low in the dust before him. My charms might captivate his royal heart, and I might reign Em|press of the East."

As she spoke these words, a sudden light entered the arbour, and the Fairy Urganda again stood before her.

"Beautiful Fatima, (said she) forbear your com|plaints, the prophet permits you to enjoy your wish; then rise and follow me."

The Fairy led her to the Emperor's palace, and plac|ed her among a number of beautiful slaves, from among which the Emperor was next morning to choose a fa|vourite. In the morning the Emperor passed through the apartment, and his choice fell on Fatima. She was clothed in the ensigns of royalty, led in state to the mosque, and in a few hours heard herself proclaimed Empress of the East.

But Fatima had to the idea of royalty annexed the ideas of youth and beauty; how surprised was she then to find the Emperor old, ugly, and deformed in his per|son, morose in his disposition, and jealous in the ex|treme. She shrunk from his embraces with horror, and contracted so settled an aversion to him, that not all the splendor which awaited her could in the smallest degree compensate for the many tedious hours she was obliged to devote to him.

Among the slaves that attended on Fatima, was the artful Zynina, who had long, with envious eyes, beheld the love of the Emperor bestowed on others, and only watched an opportunity to ingratiate herself in his favour, by rendering him some piece of service. To this end she cultivated the friendship of the new Queen, and by de|grees drew from her the reason of her tears and dejection.

This intelligence was instantly conveyed to the Em|peror, with the addition of Fatima's heart being dedi|cated to another. Osmin, willing to be convinced of the truth of Zynina's declaration, desired to be concealed in an apartment adjoining the Queen's, where he might easily overhear any thing that passed between her and the deceitful slave, who immediately returned to her mistress, and artfully renewed the conversation.

Fatima, glad to unburthen her almost bursting heart, confessed her settled aversion to her lord, and that death itself would be preferable to her present situation. "Then death be thy portion!" cried the enraged Em|peror, furiously rushing into the apartment, and lifting his glittering scimetar.

Fatima fell upon her knees, and, in an agony of terror exclaimed, "Oh that I was an humble cottager, and had never known the pangs that wait on greatness."

At that moment she found herself clad in her former homely apparel, standing at the door of her father's cottage, when the Fairy appeared and thus addressed her:

"Fatima, I have shewn you the vanity of human wishes; learn from hence to be content with the allot|ments of Providence. Whatever be your situation in life, submit to it without repining; and know that our holy prophet, who ordereth all things in this terrestrial world, knoweth what is best for mortals. Fulfil, there|fore, the respective duties of thy station, to the utmost of thy power: envy not the superior lot of another, but humbly take the blessings within thy reach, enjoy them, and be happy."

ADDRESS TO THE SUN.

"—O THOU, that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers! whence are thy beams, O Sun! thy everlasting light! Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty, and the stars hide themselves in the sky: the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave, but thou thyself movest alone: who can be a companio•• of thy course? The oaks of the mountain fall; the mo••••|tains themselves decay with years; the ocean shri••••s, and grows again; the moon herself ••s lost in heaven; but thou art forever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy course. When the world is dark with tempest; when thunder rolls, and lightning flies, thou looke•• in

thy beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian thou lookest in vain, for he beholds thy beams no more; whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the well. But thou art, perhaps, like me, for a season, and thy years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice of the morning. Exult then, O Sun, in the strength of thy youth! age is dark and un|lovely; it is like the glimmering light of the moon, when it shines through broken clouds. The blast of the north is on the plain, and the traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey."

FILIAL AFEFCTION AND DUTY EXEMPLI|FIED.

MR. Hargrave is one of my earliest friends. Being many years younger than he, I have ever been accustomed to regard him both as my guar|dian and my friend: and the reverence, with which I looked on him in one character, never took from the ten|der and affectionate warmth I felt for him in the other. After having been, for some time, a good deal in the world, he retired to the country, where he lived with elegance and ease. His wife, a very amiable woman, died soon after her marriage, leaving one only child, a girl, to the care of whose education Mr. Hargrave, af|ter her mother's death, devoted his whole attention. Na|ture had done much for her; and the instruction she re|ceived from an accomplished father, gave her every grace, which can adorn the female character.

Emily Hargrave was now in her twentieth year. Her father was advanced in life, and he began to feel the weaknesses of age coming fast upon him. Independent of the gratification which he used to receive from the observation of his daughter's virtues and accomplish|ments, he had come to feel a pleasure somewhat more selfish from the advantage, which those virtues were of

to himself. Her care and dutiful attention were become almost necessary to him; and the principal pleasure he received was from her company and conversation. Em|ily was sensible of this; and, though she was at pains to conceal her solicitude, it was plain that her whole care centered in him.

It was impossible that a girl so amiable as Emily Har|grave could fail to attract attention. Several young men of character and fortune became her professed ad|mirers. But, though she had a sweetness, which gave her a benevolent affability to all, she was of a mind too delicate to be easily satisfied in the choice of a husband. In her present circumstances, she had another objection to every change of situation. She felt too much anxie|ty about her father, to think of any thing which could call off her attention from him, and make it proper to place any of it elsewhere. With the greatest delicacy, therefore, and with that propriety with which her con|duct was always attended, she checked every advance that was made her; while, at the same time, she was at the utmost pains to conceal from her father the volunta|ry sacrifice, which she was resolved to make on his ac|count.

About a month ago, I paid a visit to Mr. Hargrave's family. The imbecilities of age, which were beginning to approach the last time I had seen him, had now made great advances. Formerly Mr. Hargrave used to be the delight of every company, and he never spoke without being instructing or entertaining. Now he spoke little; when he did, it was with feebleness both of voice and manner. Feeling his memory declining, sensible that he was not so acute as he once was, and unable to keep up his attention to a continued discourse, though his under|standing was still perfectly good, he was afraid to venture his opinion, or to take any decided measure. He was too conscious of his own infirmities; and that conscious|ness led him to think that his failure was greater than it really was. In this situation, his whole dependance was upon Emily, and she was his only support. Never, indeed, did I see any thing more lovely, more en|gaging.

To all her other charms, the anxious solicitude she felt for her father had stamped upon her countenance

"That expression sweet of melancholy Which captivates the soul."

There is something in the female character, which re|quires support. That gentleness, that delicate softness approaching to timidity, which forms its most amiable feature, makes it stand in need of assistance. That sup|port and assistance Emily had received in the completest manner from her father. What an alteration now! Instead of receiving support herself, she was obliged to give it; she was under the necessity of assisting, of coun|selling, and of strengthening the timid resolutions of him, who had been, in her earlier years, her instructor and her guide, and to whom, next to Heaven, she had ever look|ed up. Emily felt all this; but feeling took not from her the power of acting.

Mr. Hargrave is abundantly sensible of his daughter's goodness. Her consciousness of this, and of how much importance her attentions are to her father, gives her the best consolation.

While I was at his house, he hardly ever spoke of himself. Once, indeed, I remember he said to me, "I am become a strange being; even the goodness of that girl distresses me; it is too much for me to bear: it is," added he, in a very faint and broken voice, "like to overwhelm me."

I have often observed, that there is a perseverance in virtue, and a real magnanimity in the other sex, which is scarcely to be equalled in our's. In the virtue of men, there are generally some considerations not altogether pure, attending it, which though they may not detract from, must certainly diminish our wonder at their con|duct. The heroic actions of men are commonly per|formed upon the great theatre, and the performers have the applauses of an attending and admiring world to animate and support them. When Regulus suffered all the tortures which cruelty could invent, rather than give up his honour or his country, he was supported by the conscious admiration of those countrymen, whom he had

left, and of those enemies in whose hands he was. Wh•• Cato stabbed himself, rather than give up the cause 〈◊〉〈◊〉 liberty, he felt a pride which told him, "Cato's would 〈◊〉〈◊〉 no less honoured than Caesar's sword;" and when the "self devoted Decii died," independent of their love for Rome, they had every motive of applause to animate their con|duct; but when Emily Hargrave sacrifices every thing to filial goodness and filial affection, she can have no con|comitant motive, she can have no external circumstance to animate her. Her silent and secret virtue is the pure and unmingled effect of tenderness, of affection, and of duty.

AN AFFECTING SCENE.

THE consideration of death has been al|ways made use of, by the moralist and the divine, as a powerful incentive to virtue and to piety. From the uncertainty of life, they have endeavoured to sink the estimation of its pleasures, and, if they could not strip the seductions of vice of their present enjoyments, at least to load them with the fear of their end.

But, though neither the situation of the world, nor the formation of our minds, allow the thoughts of futurity or death a constant or prevailing effect upon our lives, they may surely sometimes, not unseasonably, press upon our imagination: even exclusive of their moral or reli|gious use, there is a sympathetic enjoyment, which often makes it not only better, but more delightful to go to the house of mourning, than to the house of feasting.

Perhaps I felt it so, when, but a few days since, I at|tended the funeral of a young lady, who was torn, in the bloom of youth and beauty, from the arms of a fath|er, who doated on her, of a family by whom she was a|dored: I think I would not have exchanged my feelings, at that time, for all the mirth which gaiety could inspire, or all the pleasure which luxury could bestow.

Maria was in her twentieth year. To the beauty of her form, and excellence of her natural disposition, a

parent equally indulgent and attentive had done the fa••••|est justice. To accomplish her person, and to cultivate her mind, every endeavour had been used; and they had been attended with that success, which they com|monly meet with, when not prevented by mistaken fond|ness or untimely vanity. Few young ladies have at|tracted more admiration; none ever felt it less. With all the charms of beauty, and the polish of education, the plainest were not less affected, nor the most ignorant less assuming. She died when every tongue was eloquent of her virtues, and every hope was ripening to reward them.

It is by such private domestic distresses, that the softer emotions of the heart are most strongly excited. The fall of more important personages is commonly distant from our observation; but even where it happens under our immediate notice, there is a mixture of other feel|ings, by which our compassion is weakened. The emi|nently great, or extensively useful, leave behind them a train of interrupted views, and disappointed expectations, by which the distress is complicated, beyond the simpli|city of pity. But the death of one who, like Maria, was to shed the influence of her virtues over the age of her father and the childhood of her sisters, presents to us a little view of family affliction, which every eye can per|ceive, and every heart can feel. On scenes of public sorrow and national regret, we gaze as upon those galle|ry pictures, which strike us with wonder and admiration; domestic calamity is like the miniature of a friend, which we wear in our bosoms, and keep for secret looks and solitary enjoyment.

The last time I saw Maria was in the midst of a crowded assembly of the fashionable and the gay, where she fixed all eyes by the gracefulness of her motions, and the native dignity of her mien; yet so tempered was that superiority, which they conferred, with gentleness and modesty, that not a murmur was heard, either from the rivalship of beauty, or the envy of homeliness. From that scene the transition was so violent to the hearse and the pall, the grave and the sod, that once or twice my imagination turned rebel to my senses: I beheld the ob|jects

around me as the painting of a d••eam, and thought of Maria as still living.

I was soon, however, recalled to the sad reality. The figure of her father bending over the grave of his darling child; the silent suffering composure, in which his coun|tenance was fixed; the tears of his attendants, whose grief was light and capable of tears; these gave me back the truth, and reminded me that I should see her no more. There was a f••ow of sorrow with which I suffer|ed myself to be borne along, with a melancholy sort of in|dulgence; but when her father dropped the cord, with which he had helped to lay his Maria in the earth, its found on the coffin chilled my heart, and horror for a moment took place of pity!

It was but for a moment. He looked eagerly into the grave; made one involuntary motion to stop the assist|ants, who were throwing the earth into it; then sudden|ly recollecting himself, clasped his hands together, threw up his eyes to Heaven; and then first I saw a few tears drop from them. I gave language to all this. It spoke a lesson of faith, and piety, and resignation. I went away sorrowful, but my sorrow was neither ungentle nor unmanly. I cast on this world a glance rather of pity than of enmity; on the next, a look of humbleness and hope!

VISIT TO BEDLAM. DISTRESSES OF A DAUGHTER.

—SEPARATE from the rest stood one, whose appearance had something of superior dignity. Her face, though pale and wasted, was less squalid than those of the others, and showed a dejection of that decent kind, which moves our pity, unmixed with horror: upon her, therefore, the eyes of all were immediately turned. The keeper, who accompanied them, observed it: "This," said he, "is a young lady, who was born to ride in a coach and six. She was beloved, if the story I

have heard is true, by a young gentleman, her equal in birth, though by no means her match in fortune: but love, they say, is blind, and so she fancied him as much as he did her. Her father, it seems, would not hear of the marriage, and threatened to turn her out of doors, if ever she saw him again. Upon this, the young gentleman took a voyage to the West-Indies, in hopes of bettering his fortune, and obtaining his mistress; but he was scarce landed, when he was seized with one of the fevers, which are common in those islands, and died in a few days, lamented by every one that knew him. This news soon reached his mistress, who was at the same time pressed by her father to marry a rich miserly f••••+low, who was old enough to be her grandfather. The death of her lover had no effect on her inhuman parent: he was only the more earnest for the marriage with the man he had provided for her; and what between 〈◊〉〈◊〉 despair at the death of one, and her aversion to the other, the poor young lady was reduced to the condition you see her in. But God would not suffer such cruelty: her father's affairs soon after went to wreck, and he died almost a beggar."

Though this story was told in very plain language, it had particularly attracted Harley's notice; he had given it the tribute of some tears. The unfortunate young lady had till now seemed entranced in thought, with her eyes fixed on a little garnet ring she wore on her finger: she turned them now upon Harley. "My Billy is no more!" said she, "do you weep for my Bil|ly? Blessings on your tears! I could weep too, but my brain is dry; and it burns, it burns, it burns!" She drew nearer to Harley. "Be comforted, young lady," said he, "your Billy is in heaven." "Is he, indeed? and shall we meet again? and shall that frightful man (pointing to the keeper) not be there? Alas! I am grown naughty of late; I have almost forgotten to think of heaven: yet, I pray sometimes; when I can, I pray; and sometimes I sing; when I am saddest, I sing;—you shall hear me—hush!

"Light be the earth on Billy's breast, And green the sod that wraps his grave!"

There was a plaintive wildness in the air, not to be withstood; and, except the keeper's, there was not an vnmoistened eye around her.

"Do you weep again?" said she; "I would not have you weep; you are like my Billy: you are, believe me; just so he looked when he gave me this ring; poor Bil|ly! it was the last time ever we met!—"

"'Twas when the seas were roaring—I love you for resembling my Billy; but I shall never love any man like him." She stretched out her hand to Harley; he press|ed it between both his, and bathed it with tears. "Nay, that is Billy's ring; you cannot have it, indeed; but here is another, look here, which I plaited to-day of some gold thread from this bit of stuff; will you keep it for my sake? I am a strange girl; but my heart is harmless: my poor heart; it will burst some day; feel how it beats!" She pressed his hand to her bosom, then hold|ing her head in the attitude of listening—"Hark! one, two, three! be quiet, thou little trembler; my Billy is cold! but I had forgotten the ring." She put it on his finger. "Farewel! I must leave you now." She would have withdrawn her hand; Harley held it to his lips. "I dare not stay longer; my head throbs sadly: fare|wel!" She walked with a hurried step to a little apart|ment at some distance. Harley stood fixed in astonish|ment and pity; his friend gave money to the keeper. Harley looked on his ring. He put a couple of guineas into the man's hand: "Be kind to that unfortunate." He burst into tears, and left them.

ISAAC AND REBEKAH.

THE sweetest simplicity that can be conceiv|ed in composition, distinguishes, in general, the tender nar|ratives of the Bible, from the love-tales of modern writers; nor does any author approach, in any degree, near them in this respect, except some parts in the works of the im|mortal Shakespear; and one would think, in some places

where he treated of the tender attachment of the sexes, that he had an eye to the unaffected beauties of the Scripture. The history of Rebekah and Rachel are both related in a language, and in a manner beyond descrip+tion, fine and natural: every syllable has its charm, and the whole is a feast for the fancy and the heart. Let us select a few passages from each story; and first from that of Rebekah.

"And it came to pass, before he had done speaking, that behold Rebekah came out with her pitcher upon her shoulder; and the damsel was very fair to look upon▪ and a virgin; and she went down to the well and fille•• her pitcher, and came up; and the servant of Abraham ran to meet her, and said, Let me, I pray thee, drink a little water of thy pitcher."

Could any incident he possibly introduced with more simplicity? or could any be more favourable to begin the conversation? As if the servant, on seeing her ap|proach, had said to himself—Before I enter upon a more important subject, before I touch upon the point in which my master and his son are so tenderly interested, I will begin to try her disposition by slighter circumstances; and being a traveller and a stranger, I will examine her hospitality. Let me, I pray thee, fair damsel, refresh my|self amidst the fatigue of a long journey, by a cool draught of the water which thou hast just drawn from the well. What can be more courteous than her answer? "Drink, my lord!" There is an elegance in the brevity of this reply. An ordinary writer would have made her stand curtesying and complimenting for many an idle minute, with the pitcher in her hand, and at last made many excuses that she had no cup ready to present it more politely. Such is the abominable parade of litera|ry refinement! But with equal frankness and prettiness Rebekah only said, "Drink, my lord." And then, in|stead of entering into prolix civilities, she hasted, i. e. she set down her pitcher as expeditiously as possible, and gave him drink: and when he had done, (but not till then) she said, "Now will I draw water for thy camels also, till they have done drinking."

The urbanity of a court could not have exceeded this; nor could any character more sweetly explain itself. Having had sufficient evidence of her kind temper and gentle heart, the servant now vent••••ed to inquire after her family—And whose fair daughter art thou, obliging damsel? tell me, I pray thee, for thy goodness has made me not a little solicitous about thee: is there room in thy father's house for us to lodge? Her answer to this does her fresh honour; for, persisting in her amiable hu|mour, she told him she was the daughter of Bethuel, the son of Milcah, and that she had both straw and proven|der enough, and room to lodge in. And the damsel ran show the spirit of the character is preserved!) to tell those of her mother's house the request of the traveller, speaking no doubt, as favourably of him as she could. Her intelligence soon brought forth her brother, who had been informed by his sister that he was the servant of the celebrated Abraham: and the brother, whose name was Laban, invited him in, with the most friendly cordiality; and pressed him much to eat such delicacies as were most speedily provided. But the servant, will|ing to take advantage of so fair an opportunity, and im|prove the moment of benevolence, declared his resolu|tion to refuse food till he had told his errand. This mes|sage is delivered with the utmost perspicuity, honesty, and exactness. After he had finished, he requested an im|mediate answer. "And now," said he, "I beseech thee, deal kindly and truly with my master." Then the broth|ers of the damsel answer in a remarkable but very affec|tionate manner.—The thing proceedeth from the Lord, we cannot answer thee bad or good; i. e. it appears to be a pre-determined matter of the Deity: to refuse thee, therefore, might seem presumptuous; and yet as broth|ers, having no authority over the affections of the maid, whose happiness is dear to us, how shall we speak abso|lutely in thy master's favour? Perhaps, however, Abra|ham could not possibly have dispatched a more trusty messenger; for, having received this ambiguous reply, by which nothing was determined, he tries, in the next place, a stroke of policy worthy to ••e recorded. As soon as he had bowed himself in ••eful acknowledg|ment

to Heaven, for so much good fortune, he very j••|diciously turns his efforts towards obtaining the consent of the virgin: and he first begins his attack upon 〈◊〉〈◊〉 vanity, from which, with all her courtesy, one cannot suppose her to have been totally exempt: he brought forth jewels of silver, and jewels of gold, and raiment, and gave them to Rebekah. The man discovered no small knowledge of human nature (ever operating, in many cases alike) in this conduct; and still more, when desirous to get all the family on his side, he gave precious things to the brothers and mother. Surely an amour by proxy was never better or more skilfully carried on, from the beginning to the end.

When he had made the presents, he did not improper|ly press for a direct reward, nor indeed so much as mention the matter farther at that time; but leaving the damsel to meditate upon her ornaments, he ate and drank and passed the night socially, and suspended the delicate subject. Here was a sagacity displayed, to the despair of our dealers in romance, who preposterously jumble to|gether inconsistences, and deviate eternally from prudence and nature. In the morning, however, he desired his an|swer. Whatever were the sentiments of the fair virgin, the brother and mother relented; and, desiring her com|pany a few days longer, they promised she should go. In this request there is a surprising sweetness: how the rela|tion speaks in it! At any rate, she must abide with us a little while, at the least ten days: we cannot part with|out some endearing preparations; it would break our hearts. I pray thee, therefore, allow thus much to our kindred feelings; and if thou findest the maid nothing reluctant, why, after that she shall go back with thee, to thy master and his son. But, possibly, the servant did not wish to trust the thing so many days undecided; and he might understand enough of human sickleness to ap|prehend strange changes of mind in the course of that time. However this be, he strongly urged an instant re|ply. The whole matter was drawing to a crisis. They called the damsel, and put to her the decisive question; and the result was, her consent to the suit: in conse|quence of which, she set off with the man, attended by a

favourite servant, (her nurse) for the house of Abraham. In the mean time, Isaac was not indifferent to the event of the transaction; for he went out in the field at even|tide, to meditate, as we are told; but, more probably, to meet his destined bride; and when he saw the camels were coming, he was, no doubt, much affected with the approaching interview.

There is great delicacy preserved in the character of Rebekah, in the description of this interview. As soon as she saw her future lord, she lighted off her camel; and when the servant informed her it was Isaac, with a mod|esty truly feminine, and beyond the mere force of custom, she covered herself with a veil. When the servant com|municated to Isaac the whole of the circumstances, he was charmed with her conduct; and the last verse of this interesting history represents the lover tenderly leading her into the tent of his mother; soon after which, he courted her heart, and she became his wife, and was be|loved. What a noble poem, or rather, what a poetical fact, is here exhibited in a single leaf! Tenderness, sweet|ness, and the most delicate assemblage of images are ju|diciously blended, without the least appearance of affec|tation, or the smallest want of advantageous language.

STORY OF NAOMI AND RUTH.

PASSAGE.

And Ruth said, Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee; for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God, my God.

THERE never was any thing more happily conceived, or more sweetly told than the book of Ruth. It seems chiefly designed to exhibit to us a lively and high-coloured picture of the force of female friendship on the one hand, and the weakness of resolution, when op|posed by custom on the other. The general circum|stances

of the story being uncommonly fine, will spe•••• best for themselves, and afford proper comments in the progress of reciting them.

When the famine raged with much severity in her na|tive land, Naomi and her husband Elimelech, and their two sons, went to sojourn in the country of Moab; but Elimelech died, and Naomi, the widow, was left with her children. Soon after this, those children "took them wives of the women of Moab; the name of the one was Orpah, and the other Ruth." It came to pass that the young men, their husbands, died also, both of them; and now the poor widow was bereaved of her sons and her husband. Unable, therefore, to bear any longer a place in which every scene presented some image of lost endear|ment, or revived some distracting idea of conjugal or maternal tenderness, she resolved to seek solace from her sorrow, by change of residence. So she arose with her daughters-in-law, Orpah and Ruth, that she might re|turn from the country of Moab. It presently occurred to the poor woman, as she was journeying on her way, that if she was unhappy, it was no testimony of her affec|tion to involve her sons' wives in equal calamities; and judging the reception she would be likely to meet in the land of Judah, entering it desolate, unfriended, and una|dorned, she paused a moment, and thus pathetically ad|dressed the young widows: "Go, my children, each of you return to your mother's house; the Lord deal kind|ly with you, as you have dealt with the dead, and with me. The Lord grant that ye may find rest, each of you, in the house of your dear deceased husband." Having uttered this short prayer for their happiness, she kissed them, and prepared to depart alone. How tr•••• to na|ture was their reply! They did not pour forth unmeaning compliments of condolence: they did not interchange any idle civilities of sorrow, for their anguish was too sin|cere for ceremony; neither did they enter into the parade of promising future interviews; for they spoke not at all.

The extreme of grief has, at the first surprise, little to do with language: at the most, it bursts into short excla|mations, as if it would shew the impossibility of proceed|ing: for our alleviation, therefore, in these cases, that

Power, who to every wound hath provided something ••••erewith to heal it, gave the comfort of tears, so that the fullness of the sad heart is, in part, discharged by that kindly effusion which Providence has intended as a foun|tain to relieve the excesses of nature; either in the surplus of misery or transport. "They lifted up their voice and wept."—A folio could not so well display their condition. After some time passed in this significant silence, they said unto her, "Surely we will return with thee unto thy people." Here, again, genuine grief discovers itself: one tender sentence, and one only, expresses their designs and wishes to attend her. In such cases, conciseness is nature, and circumlocution mere art and affectation. Perceiving the design of the daughters, the widow-wom|an Naomi again began to dissuade them, and to press their speedy return. She painted the various disasters they would be liable to, in her company; told them she had no more sons to give them for husbands; nor even a ••ut, however uncheary and forlorn, to accommodate them with in her own country: and, furthermore, that she had not wherewithal to repose her own head upon, if, af|ter the fatigues of travel, she should haply arrive safe. And now she once more pressed the women in a farewel embrace, whilst she closed her argument with another blessing, more melting even than the first.—"Nay, my daughters, weep not, I entreat you. It grieveth me more for your sakes than my own, that the hand of the Lord hath gone out against me." This was the touch|stone: she had now fairly discovered all the horrors of her situation, and shewed herself a woman without accom|modation; a traveller, without hope of rest at the end of her journey; and a widow, without one to take her by the hand, and say unto her, Welcome unfortunate! wel|come again to thine own country. The picture was too deeply shaded for Orpah. The dread of poverty, and all its sable catalogue of terrors, struck her at once: she shed the tribute of a few more tears, sacrificed a few more sighs, and went her way. Not so the affectionate Ruth. How excellently marked, and that, by a single word, is the conduct of each. "Orpah kissed her moth|er-in-law; but Ruth clave unto her." The sentence,

though thus compressed, is emphatically copious in p•••••• of meaning: but, indeed, the multum in parvo, should be one characteristic of the sacred writings. "Orpah kissed her mother-in-law," i. e. she gave her a farewel embrace, wept a woman's sorrow, and left her mother 〈◊〉〈◊〉 wander over the world. "But Ruth clave unto her." i. e. clung around her neck, kissed her with ardour, as if she designed to leave the seal of her very soul impressed on her lips forever. In vain did the noble minded Nao|mi exhibit to her the various miseries which were at hand, and against which there was no comfortable provision. In vain did she point to the example, the politic, the pru|dent example of Orpah, her sister. In scorn of such con|duct, and to close at once all future dissuasions, she th•••• declared, to the eternal honour of her sex, the glowing resolutions of her soul.—"Entreat me not to leave thee, for whither thou goest I will go, and where thou lodge••. I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God, my God: where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried." The whole beauty and force of this passage is not seen at once: it is a very fine climax, and there i•• amazing elegance in the gradations. The full sense implied, seems to branch out in this manner. She be|gins with desiring Naomi to urge the subject of separa|tion no longer, since she has completely made up her mind upon it. This is the first and slightest part. In the next place, she unfolds her first design to follow her fortunes in whatever part of the habitable globe she thinks proper to pursue them: but not thinking this suf|ficiently expressive of her affection, she resolves to take up her abode in the same house with her; to lodge under the same roof, however poor, and to share the same bed, however inelegant. After this, she resolves to know no other people, than such as are equally the common friends of both; to enter into no attachments, but those which are united by the same tender ties to her dear Na|omi; and to form no connexions whatever, that can, in the least, derogate from the love she bore her. But she is not contented with having delivered these assurances, for she goes on, that her very religion shall be the relig|ion of her friend; that one faith and one hope shall an|imate

their devotion, and the God of one shall be the God of the other. Even this does not satisfy her: for she next determines not only to go with her the pilgrim|age of life, but attend her beyond the gate of death; to die with her Naomi, should it be Naomi's lot to fall first; and to be buried at last in the same grave: and this she confirmed by an immediate oath of the utmost import|ance and sanctity amongst the daughters of Judah: "The Lord God do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me."

"When Naomi saw that she was stedfastly minded to go, she left off persuading her; so they went until they came to Bethlehem; and when they arrived, it came to pass, that all the city were moved about them, and they said, Is this Naomi?" Here are fresh morals and fresh elegancies opened upon us: the disconsolate Naomi had no sooner set her foot upon her own land, than all those little passions, which lie lurking in the bosoms of the il|liberal and the inhospitable, were instantly awakened. Curiosity surveyed the tatters which she had not the soul to repair. Ill-nature was, we may be sure, officious enough to throw in her bitter sarcasm. Pride was ready with her insulting offer of pity. Avarice lamented his incapacity to answer the good wishes of his heart; and in short, every arrogant, every paltry propensity was in arms against our defenceless travellers. But as Naomi originally lived in some degree of comfort and credit in her own country, and was now reduced; she, of course, more particularly was the mark of their obloquy and conversation.

She soon found, that to rely upon the kindness of old friends, was but a preca••ious mercy. Ill used by the world therefore, she began to lose the hope of such re|sources. The benevolence of distant relations, in whose memory she might be able to revive the images of ten|derness, was likewise a fond idea, that was born and bu|ried almost in the same instant. Nothing of comfort seemed to remain in reserve, till the excellent Ruth, the faithful partner of her sufferings, suggested an expedient. And she said unto her friend—I perceive, oh my dear Naomi, that our conveniences must depend upon our|selves,

and that 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••••st owe our daily bread to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 daily labour: as it is now the beginning of the harve•••••• behold the opportunity of exerting ourselves is at 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Thou, indeed, art too much afflicted to toil: but for my part, much and tenderly as I sympathize with thee, I am in the prime of my youth, and able to gather some|thing from the field: "Let me now therefore go and glean ears of corn after him, in whose fight I may f•• grace."

"Now it was so that Naomi had a kinsman of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 husband's, a mighty man of wealth, of the family of Elimelech, and his name was Boaz:" and it happened as Ruth was gleaning after the reapers, she was sit••••••••+on a part of the field belonging to Boaz. This circum|stance occasioned a turn of fortune perfectly dramatic. For, Boaz, coming to take a view of his reapers, per|ceiving the stranger, said unto the servant, who was set over the reapers, "Whose damsel is this?" The servant's answer is penned with the most natural simplicity.—"It i•• the Moabitish damsel, that came back with Naomi, out of the country of Moab: and she said, I pray you let me glean, and gather after the reapers, among the sheaves; so she came and hath continued amongst 〈◊〉〈◊〉 even from the morning till now, that she tarried a little in the house." Something there was, either in this ac|count, or in the appearance of the object, which w•••• much upon the favour of the landlord: for it is surely a softer voice even than the voice of hospitality, that speaks in the sequel. "Hearest thou not my daughter •• go not I charge you to glean in any other field, neither go from hence, but abide here fast by my maidens." I have given particular injunctions to "the young men, that they shall not touch thee. And when thou art athirst, go to the vessels and drink of that which the young men have drawn." Here began the first fruits of her fidelity; and the partiality of Boaz made a very rapid progress, for in his second address he was more be|nevolent than in the first; he invited her to consider herself as one of his own people, to "eat of the bread, to dip her welcome morsel in the vinegar" at meal-times, and to sit cheerfully beside the reapers. Nay, more,

with his own hand—(surely the heart extended it)—"he reached her parched corn, and she did eat, and was suf|••••ed, and left." Now it was that Boaz began to discov|er more evidently, that the spring of this generous cur|rent lay very near the heart. When she was risen up to glean, after her repast, he commanded the young men to shew her all possible marks of courtesy and distinction. His strict orders were, not to suffer her to gather the scanty pittance, ear by ear, after the cautious rake had gone over the ground, but to let her glean unquestioned, even amongst the sheaves. Nay, more, they were to let some handfulls fall on purpose for her, and leave them for her particular gleaning: and indeed, such was the successful consequences of these indulgencies, that after she had beat out what she had been permitted to glean in one single day, "it was about an ephah of barley." This the kind creature carried with all the expedition of affection to her friend: and when Naomi saw it—when the soul of the sorrowful widow sang for joy; then Ruth related to her the whole history of her good fortune, and concluding that the name of the hospitable owner of the had was Boaz. This intelligence revived her spirits like a cordial, and she exclaims with the most animated transport—"The man is near a kin to us," my beloved Ruth—"one of our next kinsmen." Often, and with equal success, she went, after this, into the field, and con|tinued there to earn a very comfortable living for her|self and her friend, even to the close of the harvest. In the mean time, the passion of Boaz had made a very great progress, and the result of it was, that he became the honourable lover of our fair gleaner, and renewed his acquaintance with his relation Naomi, to whom he made, we are told, various presents. Boaz and Ruth were soon united; and, as a convincing instance of the harmony in which the family lived together, we find, highly to the gratification of every benevolent heart, that when Ruth presented to Boaz a child—her first-born—Naomi, after all the peri••s of her past life, re-enjoyed the sweets of priva|cy and peace: "for she took the babe, and laid it in her bosom, and became nurse unto it." And I must not for|get to add, that this very child, whose name was Obed,

was the grandfather of the famous David, to whose p••••••, the Psalms are attributed; which, both as pieces of scripture and of writing, are totally ••••rivalled, in point of energy and sublimity, by any composition that hath yet been, or that probably ever will be, produced in h•••• man language.

THE DOVE.

PASSAGE.

He sent forth a dove from him, to see if the waters were ••••••|ed from off the face of the ground.

But the dove found no rest for the sole of her foot, and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 returned unto him into the ark: and the waters were on the face of the whole earth. Then he put forth his hand a•••• took her, and pulled her in unto him into the ark.

And he stayed yet other seven days, and again he sent forth 〈◊〉〈◊〉 dove out of the ark.

And the dove came in unto him in the evening, and lo, in 〈◊〉〈◊〉 mouth was an olive leaf pluckt off: so Noah knew th•• the waters were abated.

And he stayed yet other seven days, and sent forth the dove, which returned not again to him any more.

THERE is a peculiar beauty, not only in the sentiment and language of these verses, but in the thing itself.

The transactions and friendly intercourse of Noah and his Dove have a tenderness and ceremony in them, truly delightful. The eye melts at the simplicity, and the heart warms at the sentiment. Poetry, in her happiest flight, could imagine nothing more interesting to the fancy.

Hail, gentlest of birds! Hail, messenger of security▪ Through thy means was the dry ground discovered; and the gratitude of man shall not easily forget the fidelity of the Dove!

He sent forth the Dove to see if the waters were abat|ed. What an important errand for so small an express! Yet the industrious little wing flew over the watry universe, and employed every feather in the service of man: after a vain excursion, she returned; for the waters were still without a shore. Methinks I see the patriarch stand upon the deck, to wait the return of the messenger; and as soon as she rests her fatigued foot upon the ark, he tenderly puts forth his hand and pulls her to him: th••s rewarded for her labours, after seven days' repose, her assistance being again summoned, she trusts to her pinion; and lo, in the evening she came. By mention of the evening, it should appear that she was dispatched in the morning, or at least very early in the day. What a task of toil must it then have been! how many billowy leagues must she have travelled, ere she found that of which she was in search! Linger upon the land I can never believe she did, however the verdure and vegetable novelty might charm her. No! it was not until the evening she succeeded in her endeavours, and then, upon the wings of kindness, she hasted to satisfy the impatience of her master. Upon her second return, behold, a leaf was in her mouth! What a sweet way is here of com|municating the happy tidings. But, indeed, every sylla|ble of this matter hath a grace and consequence peculiar to it: it was an olive leaf which she bore, the leaf of amity, the emblem of peace; as much as to say, Lo, master, the waters are abated, and I have plucked a leaf as a testimo|ny of my truth. The Power, who commandeth the waves to dry up and disappear, hath ordained me to bear to thee this olive-branch; haply it is the pledge of promise and conciliation betwixt him and thee, and thou shalt not only set thy foot safely upon land, but there prosper, and enjoy the pardon of thy God.

And after seven days more, he sent her forth again, and she returned no more. One is divided here betwixt smiles and tears: it is an exquisite passage. The land and earth had, by this time, resumed their accustomed beauties; the trees displayed a greener glory, the flowers sprung brighter from the wave, and the Dove, hav|ing performed her duty, enjoyed, as nature directed,

the beauties of renovated verdure: yet she returned 〈◊〉〈◊〉 more. Noah, though he knew the cause of her delay, had lost his favourite bird. Alas! it was a draw-back upon the felicity of the new appearing world. Fie upon the heart that has not a feeling upon such occasions. The softness of the dove, however, is still had, among the children of men, in grateful remembrance. She is equally celebrated in profane and sacred history, and every epithet of endearment is allotted to her. She is considered as favourable to love, and propitious to every tender undertaking; nor can we, at any time, express a courteous character, without giving to it, among other qualities, the gentleness and truth of a Dove.

THE DEAN OF BADAJOZ; OR, INGRATITUDE DETECTED AND PUNISHED.—A TALE.

THE Dean of the cathedral of Badajoz was more learned than all the Doctors of Salamanca, Coim|bra, and Aleala, united. He understood all languages, living and dead, and was perfect master of every science, divine and human; except that, unfortunately, he had no knowledge of magic, and was inconsolable when he reflected on his ignorance in that divine art. He was told that a very able Magician resided in the suburbs of Toledo, named Don Torribio. Immediately he sad|dled his mule, departed for Toledo, and alighted at the door of no very superb dwelling, the habitation of that great man.

"Most reverend Magician," said he, addressing him|self to the sage, "I am the Dean of Badajoz. The learn|ed men of Spain all allow me their superior; but I am come to request from you a far greater honour, that of becoming your pupil. Deign to initiate me in the mys|teries of your art, and doubt not but you shall receive a grateful acknowledgment, suitable to the benefit con|ferred, and your own extraordinary merit."

Don Torribio was not very polite, though he valued himself on being intimately acquainted with the best company in the infernal regions. He told the Dean he was welcome to seek elsewhere for a master in magic; for that, for his part, he was weary of an occupation, which produced nothing but compliments and promises; and that he would not dishonour the occult sciences, by prostituting them to the ungrateful.

"To the ungrateful!" cried the Dean: "has then the great Don Torribio met with persons who have proved ungrateful! and can he so far mistake me as to rank me with such monsters?" He then repeated all the maxims and apophthegms, which he had read, on the subject of gratitude, and every refined sentiment his memory could furnish.

In short, he talked so well that the Conjurer, after having considered a moment, confessed he could refuse nothing to a man of such abilities and so ready at per|tinent quotations. "Jacintha," said he, calling to his old woman, "lay down two partridges to the fire; I hope my friend the Dean will do me the honour to sup with me to night." At the same time he takes him by the hand, and leads him into his cabinet; there he touches his forehead, muttering three mysterious words, which I must request the reader not to forget, Ortobolan, Pis|tafrier, Onagrious; then, without further preparation, he began to explain, with all possible perspicuity, the in|troductory elements of his profound science.

His new disciple listened with an attention, which scarcely permitted him to breathe; when, on a sudden, Jacintha enters, followed by a little man, in monstrous boots, and covered with mud up to the neck, who desi|red to speak with the Dean on very important business.

This was the postillion of his uncle, the bishop of Ba|dajoz, who had been sent express after him, and had galloped quite to Toledo, before he could overtake him; he came to bring him information that, some hours af|ter his departure, his Grace had been attacked by so vio|lent an apoplexy that the most terrible consequences were to be apprehended. The Dean heartily cursed (in|wardly that is, and so as to occasion no scandal) at once

the disorder, the patient, and the courier, who had cer|tainly all three chosen the most impertinent time possi|ble. He dismissed the postillion, telling him to make haste back to Badajoz, whither he would presently fo••|low him: after which he returned to his lesson, as if there were no such things as either uncles or apoplexies.

A few days after he again received news from Bada|joz, but such as was well worth hearing. The principal Chanter and two old Canons came to inform the Dean that his uncle, the right reverend Bishop, had been tak|en to heaven to receive the reward of his piety; and, that the Chapter, canonically assembled, had chosen him to fill the vacant bishopric; and humbly requested he would console, by his presence, the afflicted church of Badajoz, now become his spiritual bride.

Don Torribio, who was present at this harangue of the deputies, endeavoured to derive advantage from what he had learned; and, taking aside the new Bishop, after having paid him a well turned compliment on his pro|motion, proceeded to inform him that he had a son, nam|ed Benjamin, possessed of much ingenuity and good in|clination; but in whom he had never perceived either taste or talents for the occult sciences; he had therefore, he said, advised him to turn his thoughts towards the church, and had now, he thanked Heaven, the satisfac|tion to hear him commended as one of the most deserv|ing divines among all the clergy of Toledo: he, there|fore, took the liberty, to request his Grace to bestow on Don Benjamin the deanery of Badajoz, which he could not retain together with his bishopric.

I am very unfortunate, replied the Prelate, apparently somewhat embarrassed; you will, I hope, do me the jus|tice to believe that nothing could give me so great a pleasure as to oblige you in every request. But, the truth is, I have a cousin, to whom I am heir, an old ec|clesiastic, who is good for nothing but to be a Dean; and if I do not bestow on him this preferment, I must em|broil myself with my family, which would be far from agreeable. But, continued he, in an affectionate man|ner, will you not accompany me to Badajoz? Can you be so cruel as to forsake me just at the moment when it

is in my power to be of service to you? Be persuaded, my honoured master: we will go together; think of nothing but the improvement of your pupil, and leave me to provide for Don Benjamin, nor doubt, but sooner 〈◊〉〈◊〉 later, I will do more for him than you expect. A ••••ltry deanery, in the remotest part of Estramadura, is not a benefice suitable to the son of such a man as yourself.

The canon law would, no doubt, have construed this offer of the Prelate's into simony. The proposal, how|ever, was accepted; nor was any scruple made by either of these two very intelligent persons. Don Torribio fol|lowed his illustrious pupil to Badajoz, where he had an elegant apartment assigned him in the episcopal palace, and was treated with the utmost respect, by all the diocese, as the favourite of his Grace, and a kind of Grand Vicar.

Under the tuition of so able a master, the Bishop of Badajoz made a rapid progress in the occult sciences. At first he gave himself up to them, with an ardour which might appear excessive; but this intemperance: grew by degrees more moderate, and he pursued them with so much prudence that his magical studies never interfered with the duties of his diocese. He was well convinced of the truth of a maxim, very important to be remembered by ecclesiastics, whether addicted to sor|cery, or only philosophers, and admirers of literature, that it is not sufficient to assist at learned nocturnal meet|ings, or adorn the mind with the embellishments of hu|man science; but that it is also the duty of divines to point out to others the way to heaven, and plant, in the minds of their hearers, wholesome doctrine and Christian morality.

Regulating his conduct by these commendable prin|ciples, the learned Prelate was celebrated throughout Christendom for his merit and piety, and promoted, when he least expected such an honour, to the arch|bishopric of Compostella.

The people and clergy of Badajoz lamented, as may be supposed, an event by which they were deprived of so worthy a Pastor; and the Canons of the cathedral, to tes|tify

their respect, unanimously conferred on him the right of naming his successor.

Don Torribio did not neglect so alluring an opport••••+ty to provide for his son. He requested the bishopric 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the new Archbishop, and was refused with all imaginable politeness. He had, he said, the greatest veneration 〈◊〉〈◊〉 his old master, and was both sorry and ashamed it was not in his power to grant a thing, which appeared so very a trifle; but, in fact, Don Ferdinand de Lara, Con|stable of Castile, had asked this same bishopric for his natural son; and, though he had never seen that noble|man, he had, he said, some secret, important, and what was more, very ancient obligations to him. It was, therefore, an indispensable duty to prefer an old bene|factor to a new one: but that he ought not to be dis|couraged at this proof of his justice, as he might learn, by that, what he had to expect when his turn arrived; which it certainly would the very first opportunity.

This anecdote, concerning the ancient obligations of the Archbishop, the Magician had the goodness to be|lieve; and rejoiced, as much as he was able, that his interests were sacrificed to those of Don Ferdinand.

Nothing, therefore, was thought of but preparations for their departure to Compostella, where they were now to reside. Though these were scarc••ly worth the troub|le, considering the short time they were destined to re|main there; for, at the end of a few months, one of the Pope's Chamberlains arrived, who brought the Arch|bishop a Cardinal's cap, with an epistle, conceived in the most respectful terms, in which his Holiness invited him to assist, by his counsel, in the government of the Chris|tian world; permitting him, at the same time, to dispose of his mitre in favour of whom he pleased.

Don Torribio was not at Compostella when the cou|rier of the holy father arrived. He had been to see his son, who still continued a Priest in a small parish at Toledo; but he presently returned, and was not put to the trouble of asking for the vacant archhishopric. The Prelate ran to meet him with open arms.

My dear master, said he, I have two pieces of good news to relate at once. Your disciple is created a Car|dinal,

and your son shall—shortly be advanced to the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 dignity. I had intended, in the mean time, to have bestowed on him the archbishopric of Compostella; but, unfortunately for him, or rather for me, my mother, whom we left at Badajoz, has, during your absence, written to me a cruel letter, by which all my measures have been disconcerted. She will not be pacified, unless I appoint for my successor the Archdeacon of my former church, Don Pablos de Salazar, her intimate friend and Confessor; she tells me it will occasion her death, if she should not be able to obtain preferment for her dear fa|ther in God; and I have no doubt but what she says is true. Imagine yourself in my place, my dear master: shall I be the death of my mother?

Don Torribio was not a person who would incite or urge his friend to be guilty of parricide; nor did he in|dulge himself in the least resentment against the mother of the Prelate.

To say the truth, however, this mother he talked of was a good kind of woman, nearly superannuated, who lived quietly with her cat and maid-servant, and scarcely knew the name of her Confessor. Was it likely, then, that she had procured Don Pablos his archbishopric? Was it not far more probable that he was indebted for it to a Gallician lady, his cousin, a young widow, at once devout and handsome, in whose company his Grace the Archbishop had frequently been edified, during his resi|dence at Compostella? Be it as it may, Don Torribio followed his Eminence to Rome. Scarcely had he ar|rived in that city before the Pope died. It is easy to im|agine the consequence of this event. The Conclave met. All the voices of the sacred college were unanimous in favour of the Spanish Cardinal. Behold him, there|fore, Pope!

Immediately after the ceremony of his exaltation, Don Torribio, admitted to a secret audience, wept with joy, while he kissed the feet of his dear pupil, wh••m he saw fill, with so much dignity, the pontifical throne. He modestly represented his long and faithful services. He reminded his Holiness of his promises: those inviolable promises he had renewed before he entered the Conclave.

He hinted at the hat which he had quitted▪ on receiv•••• the tiara; but, instead of demanding that hat for 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Benjamin, he finished, with the most exemplary modera|tion, by renouncing every ambitio••s hope. He and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 son, he said, would both esteem themselves too happy, if his Holiness would bestow on them, together with his benediction, the smallest temporal benefit. Such as an annuity for life, sufficient for the few wants of an eccla|siastic and a philosopher.

During this ha••angue, the sovereign Pontiff considered within himself how to dispose of his preceptor. He ••••|flected that he was no longer very necessary; that he al|ready knew more of magic than was sufficient for a Pope; that it must be highly improper for him to appe•••• at the nocturnal assemblies of sorcerers, and assist at their indecent ceremonies. After weighing every circum|stance, his Holiness concluded that Don Torribio was not only a useless but a troublesome dependant; and, this point decided, he was no longer in doubt what an|swer to return: accordingly he replied in the following words; "We have learned, with concern, that, under the pretext of cultivating the occult sciences, you main|tain a horrible intercourse with the spirit of darkness and deceit; wherefore we exhort you, as a father, to ex|piate your crime by a repentance proportionable to its enormity. Moreover, we enjoin you to depart from the territories of the church, within three days, under pain of being delivered over to the secular arm, and its mer|ciless flames."

Don Torribio, without being disconcerted, immedi|ately repeated aloud the three mysterious words which the reader was desired to remember; and, going to the window, cried out, with all his force, "Jacintha, you need spit but one partridge; for my friend, the Dean, will not sup here to-night." This was a thunderbolt to the im|aginary Pope: he immediately recovered from a kind of trance•• into which he had been thrown by the three magic w••rds, when they were first pronounced, and per|ceived that, inste••d of being in the Vatican, he was still at Toledo, in the closet of Don Torribio, and saw, by the clock, it was not yet a complete hour since he first en|tered

that fatal cabinet, where he had been entertained w•••••• such pleasant dreams. In that short time he had imagined himself a Magician, a Bishop, an Archbishop, a Cardinal, a Pope; and, at last, found he was only a ••••pe and a knave. All was illusion, except the proof•• ••e had given of his deceitfulness and evil heart. He in|••••••tly departed, without speaking a word; and, finding his mule where he had left her, he returned to Badajoz, without having made the smallest progress in the sub|••••me science, in which he had proposed to become an ••dept.

CAUTIONARY HINTS TO LEARNED LADIES.

TO be affected in any way, is, at all times, in all places, and in all degrees to be disagreeable. But affectation of learning and authorship, in a woman of very little merit, draws upon itself the contempt and hatred of both sexes. They who excel most in either sex, are found by experience to be most candid and modest, to assume least, and to join in conversation with others without displaying the sense of their superiority. Indeed it often happens, that there is an amiable humility in true genius and learning, which compels the possessor of them to think diffidently of his own character, amid the united praises of all around. Let her, then, who pos|sesses the bright jewels of genius and learning, take care to set them in a plain manner, and their lustre will dis|play additional brilliancy.

In the embel••••••••ment of the person, a sufficient degree of care is usually taken, that nothing unbecoming shall have a place in it. A regard is commonly paid to age, rank, and every circumstance which can point out the line of propriety. Yet there is certainly a kind of sex|ual difference in the minds of the sexes, which admits and requires a different species of intellectual accom|plishment. Economy is said indeed to be the peculiar province of women; yet surely, as rational beings, their

reason may properly receive the highest kind of culti••••|tion. Nor should their attainments occasion contempt or neglect, unless they are sullied by obtruding a••|gance, by a masculine boldness, a critical severity, and an ill-timed and injudicious ostentation.

THE VALUE OF RECIPROCAL ATTENTIONS.

HOWEVER just the complaints of the mis|ery of life, yet great occasions for the display of benefi|cence and liberality do not often occur. But there is a•• hourly necessity for the little kind offices of mutual civ••••|ity. At the same time that they give pleasure to others, they add to our own happiness and improvement. Ha|bitual acts of kindness have a powerful effect in softening the heart. An intercourse with polished and human•• company tends to improve the disposition, because it re|quires a conformity of manners. And it is certain, that a sense of decorum, and of a proper external behaviour, will restrain those, whose natural temper would otherwise break out in acrimonious and petulant conversation. Even the affectation of philanthropy will in time contrib|ute to realize it. The pleasure resulting from an act of kindness naturally excites a wish to repeat it; and indeed the general esteem which the character of benevolence procures, is sufficient to induce those to wish for it, who act only from the mean motives of self-interest.

As we are placed in a world where natural evil abounds, we ought to render it supportable to each other, as far as human endeavours can avail. All that can add a sweet ingredient to the bitter cup must be infused. Amid the multitude of thorns, every flower that will grow must be cultivated with care. But neither pomp nor power are of themselves able to alleviate the load of life. The heart requires to be soothed by sympathy. A thousand little attentions from all around us are necessary to ren|der our days agreeable. The appearance of neglect in any of those with whom we are connected, chills our

bosom with chagrin, or kindles the fire of resentment. Nothing, therefore, seems so likely to ensure happiness, as our mutual endeavours to promote it. Our single endeavours, originating and terminating in ourselves, are usually unsuccessful. Providence has taken care to se|cure that intercourse which is necessary to the existence of society, by rendering i•• the greatest sweetener of hu|man life.

By reciprocal attentions we are enabled to become beneficent without expense. A smile, an affable address, a look of approbation, are often capable of giving a greater pleasure than pecuniary benefits can bestow. The mere participation of the studies and amusements of others, at the same time that it gratifies ourselves, is often an act of real humanity; because others would not enjoy them without companions. A friendly visit in a solitary hour is often a greater act of kindness than a valuable present.

GOODNESS OF HEART.

WHOEVER has made accurate observa|tions on men and manners, will easily perceive, that the praise of goodness of heart is usually accompanied with an oblique insinuation of intellectual imbecility. I be|••••eve him to be a well-meaning man, says the malignant panegy••ist, and if there is any fault in him, it will be found rather in his head than in his heart. Nothing could be better contrived by a crafty and envious world, to render this amiable quality contemptible, than to rep|resent it as the effect or as the companion of folly.

It is, indeed, true, that innocence and integrity are usually accompanied with simplicity; not, however, with that sort of simplicity which is sometimes synonimous with folly; but with an amiable openness of manners, which had rather lose its objects than obtain them by deceit; which leads the tongue boldly to speak what the heart honestly conceives. If we weigh the satisfaction of an open and upright conduct, of a clear conscience, and

of that liberty which we enjoy by thinking, speaking, and acting, without mean and servile restraints, it will, I ••••+lieve, be found, that this simplicity is true wisdom, and that the cunning of the worldly wise is real and ••gr••|gious imprudence.

Goodness of heart, whether it be a natural or acquired goodness, is indeed, in every respect, the highest excel+lence. It is the only quality which can rescue hum•••• nature from the disgrace and misery of its wretched weaknesses, and its powerful tendencies to evil. It rai•• the poor worm, that otherwise crawls on a dung-hill, and stings and bites his wretched companions, to an exalted place in the scale of being, and causes him to assimulate with the divine nature.

Whatever the short-sighted votaries of avarice and ambition may assert, there is no doubt, but that r•••••• goodness of heart is the noblest ornament of human na|ture, and the least fallible source of permanent satisfaction. In truth, learning and abilities, without goodness of heart, constitute that kind of wisdom, which is foolishness in the sight of reason and God. Without goodness of heart, man, however accomplished, is so far from being little lower than the angels, that he is scarcely above the ac|cursed spirits, and by no means equal to many of the brutes, who often exhibit most amiable instances of a good heart in the virtues of gratitude, sincere affection, and fidelity.

THE IMPORTANCE OF GOVERNING THE TEM|PER.

NOTWITHSTANDING the many com|plaints of the calamities of human life, it is certain, that more constant uneasiness arises from ill temper than from ill fortune. In vain has Providence bestowed every ex|ternal blessing, if care has not been taken by ourselves to smooth the asperities of the temper. Bad temper embi••|ters

every sweet, and converts a paradise into a place of ••ment.

Th•• government of the temper then, on which the hap|piness of the human race so greatly depends, can never ••e too frequently or too forcibly recommended. Culture of the understanding is one of the best methods of subdu|ing the heart to softness, and redeeming it from that sav|age state, in which it too often comes from the hands of ••ature. The more our reason is strengthened, the better ••he is enabled to keep her seat on the throne, and to gov|ern those passions which were appointed to be her subjects; but which too often rebel, and succeed in their unnatural revolt. But besides the effect of mental culture, in call|ing forth and increasing the powers of the reasoning fac|ulty, it seems to possess an influence in humanizing the feelings, and meliorating the native disposition. Music, painting, and poetry, teach the mind to select the agree|able parts of those objects which surround us; and by habituating it to a pure and permanent delight, gradual|ly superinduces an habitual good humour.

So much of the happiness of private life, and the vir|tues of mothers and daughters in particular, depends on the government of the temper, that the temper ought to be a principal object of regard in a well-conducted edu|cation. The suffering of children to tyrannize without control, over servants and inferiors, is, I am convinced, the ruin of many an amiable disposition. The virtues of humanity, benevolence and humility cannot be too early enforced; at the same time care should be taken that an infant of two or three years old, should never be beaten or spoken to harshly for any offence ••t can possibly commit. In short, let every method be used which reason, religion, prudence and experience can suggest, to accomplish the purpose of sweetening the temper, and banishing the fu|ries from society. May the endeavours be successful; and may we only read, that there have indeed been such animals as shrews and viragos, but that the breed is ex|tinct in America, like the breed of mammoths!

I have been much pleased with the lovely picture of Serena, in Mr. Hayley's instructive poem, the Triumphs of Temper; and I cannot conclude, without earnestly

entreating the ladies to view it as a looking-glass, b•• which they may learn to dress their minds, in a manner which can never be out of fashion; but which will en|able them to secure as well as extend their conquests, and to charm, even when the lilies and roses are all withered.

SENSIBILITY.

SENSIBILITY, with all its inconveniences, is to be cherished by those who understand and wish to maintain the dignity of their nature. To feel for oth|ers, disposes us to exercise the amiable virtue of charity, which our religion indispensably requires. It consti|tutes that enlarged benevolence, which philosophy inc••l|cates, and which is indeed comprehended in Christian charity. It is the privilege and the ornament of man; and the pain which it causes is abundantly recompensed by that sweet sensation which ever accompanies the ex|ercise of beneficence.

To feel our own misery in a lively manner is not to be deprecated. Affliction softens and improves the heart. Tears, to speak in the style of figure, fertilize the soil in which the virtues grow. And it is the remark of one who understood human nature, that the faculties of the mind, as well as the feelings of the heart, are meliorated by adversity.

But in order to promote these ends, our sufferings must not be permitted to overwhelm us. We must oppose them with the arms of reason and religion▪ and to ex|press the idea in the language of the philosopher, as well as the poet, of nature; every one, while he is compelled to feel his misfortunes like a man, should resolve also to bear them like a man.

THE WANT OF PERSONAL BEAUTY A FRE|QUENT CAUSE OF VIRTUE AND HAPPINESS.

IT has been justly said, that no one ever des|pised beauty who possessed it. It is indeed a noble privilege to be able to give pleasure wherever one goes, merely by one's presence, and without the trouble of ex|ertion. The respect which is paid to beauty, and the recommendation it gives to all our good qualities, are circumstances sufficiently advantageous to render the person, who has been blest with it, sincerely grateful.

But the majority of mankind, if they are not deform|ed, are yet not beautiful. And this is a wife and be|nevolent dispensation of Providence; for, notwithstand|ing the just pretensions of beauty, I am convinced that ••he want of it is often attended with great benefit to society. Man is naturally desirous of rendering himself, in some respect, valuable and amiable; and, if he has nothing external to recommend him, will endeavour to compensate his defect by the acquisition of internal ex|cellence. But that the virtues of the heart, and the abilities of the understanding, contribute much more to public benefit than any personal grace or accomplish|ment, is a truth which needs no confirmation.

It is indeed a well known fact, that many of the best poets, philosophers, writers, and artists, have been of the number of those who were, in some measure, prevented in their youth from indulging idleness and profligacy, either by some constitutional infirmity, or by the want of those personal graces, which are the greatest allurements to a life of dissipation. Among a thousand instances, in confirmation of this truth, I will select that of Pope; to the deformity and imbecility of whose body we may at|tribute his early and constant application to poetry. Where there are powerful solicitations to the pleasures of sense, very little attention will be paid to the pure de|lights of contemplation and benevolence.

But it is more particularly my design to point o•••• some advantages attending the want of beauty in women▪ a want which will always be considered by them as a misfortune. But all misfortunes admit of consolation; and many of them, under a judicious conduct, may be metamorphosed into blessings. While, however, I con|sider the advantages attending the want of personal charms, I must not be understood to undervalue beauty. If we admire the lifeless works of art, much more should we be delighted with the assemblage of living features, in which are united symmetry and expression. It is Na|ture's command that we should be charmed with her productions, both animate and inanimate; and our hearts are most willingly obedient, when she bids us admire beauty in our own species. Taste, fancy and affection, are then all at once most powerfully assaulted, and it would be as unnatural, as it is vain, to resist, by refusing our admiration.

But after our admiration is over, we shall find, when we exercise our reflec••••on and judgment, what experience has indeed proved, that plain women are often entitled to the most esteem. It may appear paradoxical, but I will assert it to be true, that women who have no great pre|tensions to beauty, are usually found, as the companions of life, the most agreeable. They are, indeed, for the most part, I do not say always, the best daughters, the best wives, the best mothers; most important relations, and most honourable to those who support them with propriety. They who aim not at such characters, but live only to display a pretty face, can scarcely rank high|er than a painted doll, or a blockhead, placed with a cap on it, in a millener's window.

There is something of an irritability in the constitution of women, whose minds are uncultivated, which, when increased by opposition, and confirmed by habit, usually produces a termagant, a shrew, or a virago; characters which, from the torment they occasion, may be said greatly to participate of an infernal nature. Nothing but reading, reflection, and indeed what is called a liber|al education, can, in general, smooth this natural asperity. A woman, who, by attending to her face, is led to neglect

the mind, and who, besides, has been flattered in her youth by the admirers of her beauty, seldom fails, in the more advanced periods of her life, to vent the virulence of her temper, now soured and blackened by neglect, on all who have the misfortune to approach her. Her hus|band (if she has, peradventure, entangled some miserable ••ight) undergoes such torments as might justly rescue him from purgatory, by the plea of having suffered it al|ready.

But folly and ignorance are almost as pregnant with domestic misery as a bad temper. And how shall she avoid folly and ignorance, with all their train of whims, sickleness, fears, false delicacies, vanity, pride, affectation, envy, peevishness, fretfulness, childishness, and weakness of ••••••es, who has spent all the days when she was young, and all the days she thought herself young, at her ••••••lette, and under the hands of the f••izeur? She found herself admited wherever she went, without saying or do|ing any thing admirable. She has therefore saved herself the trouble of forming a taste for reading, or a habit of thinking. But beauty is a rose, which soon withers. She loses the power of pleasing others; and, alas! possesses none to please herself, which can supply the place of flat|••ery and pretended adoration. As her life began and continued in folly, so it ends in misery. If she married, she was useless at least, if not a torment to her husband. If she continued unmarried, she possessed few qualities to render her acquaintance solicited, and none that could afford her a rational amusement in solitude.

It may indeed happen, that a beautiful woman may be educated with uncommon vigilance, that she may possess a remarkably good understanding, and as good a disposi|tion. In this case, her beauty will be doubly valuable, not only from its real excellence, when combined with a cultivated understanding, but from the difficulty of at|tending to the graces of the mind, amidst the cares of the person, and the flattery of foolish admirers. It is cer|tainly possible, that a beautiful woman may be as accom|plished as a plain woman; and I know that, in this age, there are many instances of it; but I am speaking of probabilities, and I think it much more probable, that

women who are not remarkably beautiful, will be, in ••+ral, better furnished with th••se two necessary ingr•• to domestic happiness, a corrected temper, and an un••+standing adorned by culture.

Let us suppose a case, for the sa••e of exemplifying 〈◊〉〈◊〉 subject; and let it be something like the following: 〈◊〉〈◊〉 young lady, whose person is plain, cannot help obser•••••••• how much she is neglected at public assemblies, and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 universal attention is paid to beauty. She will naturally feel a desire to partake of the respect. She revolves in her mind the most likely methods of accomplishing 〈◊〉〈◊〉 purpose. As to her features, it is vain to think of ••••|tering them. She must draw her resources from 〈◊〉〈◊〉 mind and her temper. She will study to collect ideas, in or|der to render her conversation agreeable. She will there|fore read, and observe, and reflect, and remember. H•••• eager desire to gain esteem will stimulate her indus•••••• and give steadiness to her application. With these 〈◊〉〈◊〉 cannot fail to succeed. Her mind will be stored 〈◊〉〈◊〉 knowledge, which will produce itself in conversation with all the graces of ease and elegance. The improv•••••••••• of her mind will have a natural effect in the improve+ment of her temper; for every part of polite learning tends to soften and humanize the disposition. But she will also pay particular attention to the regulation of h•••• temper; for she will justly argue, that envy and ill-nature will add distortion and ugliness to a set of features orig|inally not worse than plain or indifferent. She will st••dy to compensate her defects, not only by rendering her|self intelligent and good-tempered, but useful. She will therefore study the practical parts of domestic economy▪ those parts of humble but valuable knowledge, with which a proud lady, with a fine face, would scorn to meddle, lest she should be defiled. Thus sensible, good-tempered and useful, her company would be sought by men of sense and character; and, if any one of them should be dispos|ed to marry, I have little doubt but that she would be his choice, in preference to a mere beauty, who has scarce|ly one excellent or useful quality to render her a good wife, mother, and mistress of a family.

Juvenal, in his celebrated satire on the vanity of hu|man

wishes, laments that the accomplishment of our wish|•••• would often be the cause of our destruction; and that 〈◊〉〈◊〉 are our prayers, that if Heaven were always propi|••, it would often be unkind. Who wishes not beau|ty in his children? yet beauty has been the bane of myr|••••••, whom plainness, or even deformity might have sav|•••• from ruin, and rendered useful, happy, and respecta|••••••.

ON THE LITERARY EDUCATION OF WOMEN.

THERE are many prejudices entertained against the character of a learned lady; and, perhaps, if all ladies were profoundly learned, some inconveniences might arise from it: but, I must own, it does not appear to me, that a woman will be rendered less acceptable in the world, or worse qualified to perform any part of her duty in it, by having employed the time, from six to six|teen, in the cultivation of her mind. Time enough will remain, after a few hours every day spent in reading, for the improvement of the person, and the acquisition of the usual accomplishments. With respect to these accom|plishments, I will not presume to direct the method of pursuing them. I will not so far intrude on a province, which by no means belongs to me. The ladies them|selves, and their instructors, want no directions in matters of external ornament, the end of which is to please on in|tuition. However arrogant the men have been in their clai•••• of superiority, they have usually allowed the la|dies the possession of a delicate taste in the improvement and perception of all kinds of beauty.

The literary education of women ought indisputably to be varied according to their fortunes and their expec|tations. Much refinement, and a taste for books, will in|jure her, whose time, from prudential motives, must be entirely engrossed by economy. Few women are, indeed, exempted from all attention to domestic care; but, yet, the unmarried, and those who enjoy opulence, find many

intervals which they often devote to some species of ••••••••+ing. And there is no doubt, but that the reading would be selected with more judgment, and would afford mo••e pleasure and advantage, if the taste were formed by early culture.

It is well known, that internal beauty contributes much to perfect external grace. I believe it will also be favourable to virtue, and will operate greatly in restrain|ing from any conduct grossly indelicate, and obviously improper. Much of the profligacy of female manners has proceeded from a levity occasioned by a want of a proper education. She, who has no taste for well writte•• books, will often be at a loss how to spend her time; and the consequences of such a state are too frequent not to, be known, and too fatal not to be dreaded and avoided▪

PART II. Letters—elegant and entertaining.

LETTER I.—ALCANDER TO OPHELIA.

DEAR OPHELIA,

AMONG all the deities worshipped by man|••••••d, there is none who has a greater number of vota|••ies than Fortune. She is, however, the most capricious of the whole set. It is her favourite amusement to sport with her worshippers, and to cut the most antic capers imaginable with them. To-day she smiles; and while we bask in the delusive beams of her favour, we think her a very clever girl. To-morrow she frowns; and we immediately call her a dozen opprobrious names, for her inconstancy. Notwithstanding these daily proofs of her extreme levity, we still court her, as if our happiness was ••••tirely dependent on her gracious nod. If she reject our suit to-day, we prefer it again to-morrow; if she fly from us with a coquettish disdain, we still follow her with all the ardour of a love-sick youth; and cannot be per|suaded to give up the pursuit, even when we have quite lost sight of her. Sometimes, however, she will throw herself in our way, when we are not seeking for her, and be uncommonly liberal of her favours. In a word, she is a most arrant coquette, and I long ago determined to have little to do with her. Her proffered civilities I ac|cept with becoming marks of gratitude; but take care never to put it in her power to give me any considerable mortification, by disappointing my expectations.

But there is another lady, (I don't know whether 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the family of the goddesses, sylphs, or fairies) of wh•••• I have a much better opinion. 'Tis true she is not equally liberal of her favours to all her votaries, nor 〈◊〉〈◊〉 individuals of them at all times. But if she be treat•••• with proper attention, it is no fault of her's, if her vi••••+ants retire from her presence disgusted. She is by o••••••+pation a limner, and a very ingenious one too. Did I possess any talent at description, I would point out to you her habitation. But as I cannot do it justice, let i•• suffice to say, it is the most romantic and agreeable th•••• can well be conceived. It stands on a sublime eminence, is open on all sides, and commands a full and clear pro••|pect of all the works of nature and art. By her side are placed, in proper order, the implements of her profession, together with all the colours, with which the ini••••itable pencil of nature has tinctured her works. With these she paints not only every thing that exists, but by com+bining a number of distinct images, she presents her vi••••+ants with an endless variety of pleasing pictures. Th••••••, with a most obliging condescension, she adapts to the h••+mour of individuals, whom she always consults before 〈◊〉〈◊〉 draws even the outlines of the piece. Let it be ever ••o ugly and deformed, therefore, (and Hogarth himself w•••• not half so ingenious in striking out caricatures) no bla•••• can be thrown on the painter, her votary alone is in fault; for he chooses the ground, and directs what colours he will have employed.

If I am not mistaken, Ophelia, you are one of this l••|dy's favourites, and from my description, imperfect as it is, have anticipated her name; so that I hardly need 〈◊〉〈◊〉 you it is Fancy. Is she not an ingenious and amusing companion? For my part, I cannot boast of any intim••|cy with her; but sometimes, however, find her tolerably condescending, and favourable to my views. At my re|quest, she lately constructed a balloon, in which we took a flight together far enough above the highest of Charles or Montgolfier. In fact, we traversed the universe. An account of this tour you may some time or another peruse.

At present I shall give you the outlines of a pretty picture she drew for me last evening. In the first place,

〈◊〉〈◊〉 painted a number of sprightly, sensible, and amiable ••g ladies, in whose countenances innocence, health, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 happiness were at an amicable strife for precedence, which I thought neither of them would soon obtain. I 〈◊〉〈◊〉 much pleased with the several portraits, as they were severally presented to my view; but much more so when, by a kind of magic flourish of her pencil, fancy had grouped them together, in the fore part of an evening ••end a cheery fire. From the perfect harmony and good humour that reigned among them, and the tender ••••••ndship they discovered for each other, I took them to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 a number of intimates, collected from the vicinity to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the evening together, in the enjoyment of those en|••••nting pleasures, which arise, among persons formed for society, from an easy exercise of the social affections. The prospect, you may well suppose, delighted me; and made me ardently wish to be admitted to the friendly and agreeable circle, though I could not boast an ac|••••••tance with any one of them. But how agreeable 〈◊〉〈◊〉 my surprise, when fancy added to the company an old friend of my own sex, and my amiable Ophelia, ••rom this circumstance I suspected what I soon discover|ed to be fact, that this group of females, whose mutual friendship I had been admiring, were also sisters. Shame, shame on the world, said I to myself, that a family of sisters, living together in perfect harmony and love, should be a sight so rare as to excite surprise. If before, I felt interested in their happiness, and perceived a kind|ly affection for them arising in my breast, I now loved them most cordially. Turn hither your eyes, ye sisters, whom envy, jealousy, or any such rascally passion so oft|en embroils, and learn the beauty, the excellency, and felicity of loving each other as friends.

In the course of the evening, Fancy introduced two of three young gentlemen of the vicinity, who increased, while they enjoyed, the festivity of the company. She also sketched out the amusements that took place in the intervals of conversation. At one time, she represented you as listening with pleased attention, to a sprightly or sentimental song warbled out by one of the young ladies; and then instantly placed you all on the floor, tracing out

the intricacies of the mazy dance. The sportive 〈◊〉〈◊〉 even went so far as to paint the refreshments that 〈◊〉〈◊〉 liberally offered you; among which she did not forg•••• the server of "wine, which maketh glad the heart of man," though she hinted, as she introduced it, that, i•• this case, it was quite unnecessary for that purpose; be|cause the cheerfulness of the company could receive •••• additions from it.

I could not help observing that the painter took par|ticular care to keep an empty chair in the circle. It was a circumstance I could not well account for. I •••• last conjectured that it was designed as an emblem of hospitality; and fancy confirmed me in it. How happy should I be, thought I, could I but occupy it for the eve|ning! To have been a witness to, and partaker of the pleasures of a mixed company, where each one was more solicitous to communicate than to receive happiness, for one hour, would have been worth more than a common month. By this time, fancy had wrought up the col••••••+ing of the piece to such a height, that I was afraid ••••+ga••e upon it any longer, lest I should be involuntarily seized with the hateful passion, which, according to Mil|ton, made the old fellow with the bad character, avert hi•• eyes from Adam and Eve in paradise.

It was not till the close of the evening that fancy in|troduced into the company the respectable father of the family. He came not even then to spoil, but only to temper and enjoy their festivity. Recollecting the days of his youth, when the genial blood flowed warm in his veins, he knew how to indulge the innocent gaiety of his children and their companions; and therefore, "his easy presence check'd no decent joy." This was Fancy's la•••• labour; for when she had added this figure to the group, she threw aside her pencil—said, it is completed! and politely dismissed me from her presence.

And here, my dear friend, I shall take my leave of you; not, however, without an honest assurance that I am, most sincerely and faithfully, yours,

ALCANDER.

LETTER II.—THE RURAL TASTE OF A TRADESMAN'S WIFE EXPOSED.

SIR,

NEVER was any poor devil of a husband plagued in the manner I am with the singularities of a wife. You must know, Sir, though her father was a carcass-butcher in White-Chapel, though she was educat|ed at a boarding-school in Thames-street, and never travelled farther than Bethnal-Green, or Hoxton, or Hackney, or Newington-Butts; yet she affects such a taste and passion for the country, as would have ruined the patience of all the heathen philosophers put together: every room in my house, from the cellar to the gar|rets, bears testimony to her rural ideas in some way or other: the leads of my house, and the rails of my win|dows, are crowded with pots and pans, and vegetables and evergreens, like the shop of a botanist or seedsman. When I go into the kitchen, I find the light, which is none of the liveliest at the best, totally shut out by a range of physic phials, huddled together as close as they can s••ick, and filled with mint, to give the windows a rural appearance. Then, Sir, the dining-room windows, in summer time, are so crossed and crowded with pack-threads, fastened like bars from the top to the bottom of them, that if it were not for the French beans, which cluster round the strings, it would enliven my mind with the pleasing imagination of being cooped up in a spung|ing-house. Every chimney corner is then set out, as it is called, with bough-pots, and not a china jar in my house escapes an ornament from Covent-Garden market. I have been, you must know, severely lectured for this week past, for spoiling a charming bed of parsley, as my wife calls it, upon the leads, while I was giving a brick-layer orders to make some repairs to the chimney; and what is still more provoking, upon inquiring for my best wig-box, a few days ago, I was told, by the maid, that

the box was put to a much better use; for that her mis|tress had sown a sallad in it of mustard and crese, which would be fit to cut in a few days. Sir, this passion 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the vegetable world is so predominant in my wife's min••, that not a broken pot, is free from some cultivation or other. As I hope to be saved, she had some time since a geranium in full blossom, which, to save expense, was stuck fast in a c—e f—l pan; a myrtle in a butter firkin; an orange-tree in a washing-tub; a tulip in a salt-box, and a young gooseberry bush in a punch-bowl. Nay, to such a pitch of extravagance does this enthusi+astic helpmate of mine carry this gardening taste of her's, that the house was thrown into convulsions three days ago, upon a report that the cat had kittened upon the grass-plot, which grew upon the top shelf of the pantry. Then, Sir, to add to my vexation, I have had the happi|ness to be threatened with an indictment for being a nui|sance to my neighbours and the public, as hardly a week passes without some pan or pot tumbling upon the heads of the passengers, and doing some mischief or other. If I expostulate, I have no taste; if I threaten, I have no humanity; if I coax her, I have no influence; and if I give way to her, I can expect no comfort. My very bed-room, in summer, Sir, is so filled with flowers, that I am in nightly dread of being perfumed to death be|fore morning. Then I never must stir out without a nosegay in my button-hole, because it makes so rural and so countrified an appearance. In short, what with rural sights, and rural smells, and rural conversation, rural or|naments, and rural nonsense, of one kind or another, my patience is quite exhausted: therefore I take this public method of giving my wife warning, that unless there is a thorough reformation in her manners, I am determin|ed to assert some spirit, to turn the grass-plot out of the house at a minute's notice send the parsley bed into the dust tub, pack up her shrubbery in an hamper, and re|store my wig-box to its proper use.

I am, Sir, yours, &c. HOMO.

LETTER III.—JULIA MONTAGUE TO EM|ILY BEAUMONT.

MY DEAR EMILY,

HAVE you then forgotten your promise to come down to the country, and spend a few days with me in the beginning of spring? Perhaps the fine folks in town do not suppose that the spring is come yet. I can account for their mistake. Nothing but the sun can convince them of its approach; and they keep them|selves so mewed up in their apartments, that they think very little of consulting him. As for us, we enjoy his kindly beams already. The country, which was so dull for some months, has re-assumed all its charms. The trees, have shaken off winter's squalid dress, to put on, once more, the livery of spring. The birds, returning in crowds, form the most agreeable concerts; while they hide their nests under the thick foliage of the groves. What can you be doing in town? Were you to pass the whole day at your window, breathing the fresh air, would you suppose that you enjoyed the spring? Cast your eyes, round you, what do you see? A sky clouded with smoke; dirty streets; in short, the same objects that you have seen all winter. The house-tops, it is true are no longer covered with snow and icicles, but your dun tiles, even with this advantage, afford no very brilliant prospect. Do you see, as I do, the sun's rising beams deck the fresh leaf with purple and gold? do you see the dew-drops shine like pearls, before his warmth dries them up? do you see him, when he emerges from behind the hill, in|undate the vast horizon with a torrent of light? I suppose your town idlers, who have stuck so long to their fire-sides, begin to trust themselves at length to the park, though they still shudder with the cold, that they have felt; but look at them attentively, you will find that one winter has made them old. Here, on the con|trary, every thing seems to have grown young again.

The brooks have purged their muddy waters; the meadows are enamelled with new flowers; the p•••••• primrose adorns every bank; and even the prickly ha•••• thorn prepares to dress itself in the blossoms of May, in order to soften its rugged aspect. How pleasing, after the dull silence that reigned throughout all nature, to hear the bleating of the flocks, that are seen climbing up the green slopes; and the clamorous joy of the children and youth, who come out to enjoy their accustomed sports in the fields! Our house is built upon an e••i+nence, exposed to the earliest beams of the sun. I might, if I chose, receive his morning visits in my chamber▪ but I like better to rise with the dawn, and pay him my respects in person, upon the top of the hill; and thither I repair in the evening also, to take my leave of him.

These, my dear Emily, are some of the pleasures of the season; but I feel the want of a friend to enjoy them with me. Make haste, therefore, and come down. Do not suppose, that whatever time you spend here will be lost to your improvement: I learn here a th••sand things, of which I am ashamed that I have hitherto been so ignorant. Our little accomplishments too, I am very sure, will not contract rust in this air. The sweet song•• of the nightingale will remind us of cultivating our voices more attentively. The little lambs, that bound and frisk around their mothers, will give us an example of ease, grace, and agility; while the landscape, varying before us at every step, will invite us to exercise our p••••|cils, and vie with the colouring of nature: such rivals ••s these may, perhaps, humble our vanity, but they take ••o pride to themselves, from our inferiority; and therefore we can forgive their excelling us. Try to prevail upon your mamma to come down along with you: we expect you both, with the most earnest impatience. Adieu, my dear Emily. Believe me unalterable in the friendship, which I have vowed to maintain for you, while I re|main

JULIA MONTAGUE.

LETTER IV.—TO THE AUTHOR OF THE MIRROR.

SIR,

SOME time ago I troubled you with a letter, giving an account of a particular sort of grievance felt by the families of men of small fortunes, from their ac|quaintance with those of great ones. I am emboldened, by the favourable reception of my first letter, to write you a second upon the same subject.

You will remember, Sir, my account of a visit my daughters paid to a great lady in our neighbourhood, and of the effects which that visit had upon them. I was beginning to hope that time, and the sobriety of manners, which home exhibited, would restore them to their former situation, when, unfortunately, a circum|stance happened, still more fatal to me than their expe|dition to —. This, Sir, was the honour of a visit from the great lady in return.

I was just returned from the superintendance of my ploughs in a field I have lately inclosed, when I was met on the green, before my door, by a gentleman (for such I took him to be) mounted upon a very handsome geld|ing, who asked me by the appellation of honest friend, if this was not Mr. Homespun's; and in the same breath, whether the ladies were at home? I told him, my name was Homespun, the house was mine, and my wife and daughters were, I believed, within. Upon this, the young man, pulling off his hat, and begging my pardon for calling me honest, said he was dispatched by Lady —, with her compliments to Mrs. and Misses Homespun, and that if convenient, she intended herself the honour of dining with them, on her return from B— park (the seat of another great and rich lady in our neighbour|hood.)

I confess, Mr. Mirror, I was struck somewhat of an ••eap with the message; and it would not, in all proba|bility,

have received an immediate answer, had it not b•••••• overheard by my eldest daughter, who had come to the window on the appearance of a stranger. "Mr. Papillot," said she immediately, "I rejoice to see you; I hope your Lady and all the family are well." "Very much at your service Ma'am," replied he, with a low bow; "my Lady sent me before, with the offer of her best compliments, and that, if convenient,"—and so forth, repeating his words to me. "She does us infinite honour," said my young madam; "let her Ladyship know how happy her visit will make us; but in the mean time, Mr. Papillot, give your horse to one of the servants, and come in and have a glass of something after your ride." "I am afraid," answered he, (pulling out his right-hand watch) for, would you believe it, Sir? the fellow had one in each fob, "I shall hardly have time to meet my Lady at the place she appointed me." On a second invitation, however, he dismounted, and went into the house, leaving his horse to the care of the servants; but the servants, as my daughter very well knew, were all in the fields at work; so I, who have a liking for a good horse, and cannot bear to see him neglected, had the honour of putting Mr. Papillot's in the stable myself.

After about an hour's stay, (for the gentleman seemed to forget his hurry within doors) Mr. Papillot departed. My daughters, I mean the two polite ones, observed how handsome he was; and added another observation, that it was only to particular friends my Lady sent messages by him, who was her own body servant, and not accus|tomed to such offices. My wife seemed highly pleased with this last remark: I was about to be angry, but on such occasions it is not my way to say much; I general|ly shrug up my shoulders in silence; yet, Mr. Mirror, I would not have you think me hen-peck'd.

By this time, every domestic about my house, male and female, were called from their several employments to assist in the preparation for her Ladyship's reception. It would tire you to enumerate the various shifts that were made, by purchasing, borrowing, &c. to furnish out a dinner suitable to the occasion. My little grey poney, which I keep for sending to market, broke his wind in

the cause, and has never been good for any thing since. ••••r was there less ado in making ourselves and our at|tendants fit to appear before such company. The female p••••t of the family managed the matter pretty easily: ••ome••, I observe, have a natural talent that way. My wife took upon herself the charge of apparelling me for the occasion. A laced suit, which I had worn at my marriage, was got up for the purpose; but the breeches ••t a seam at the very first attempt of putting them 〈◊〉〈◊〉, and the sleeves of the coat were also impracticable; so she was forced to content herself with cloathing me in my Sunday's coat and breeches, with the laced waist-coat of the abovementioned suit, slit in the back, to set them off a little. My gardener, who has been accustom|ed, indeed, to serve in many capacities, had his head craped, curled, and powdered, for the part of butler; one of the best looking plough-boys had a yellow cape clapped to his Sunday's coat to make him pass for a servant in livery; and we borrowed my son-in-law the parson's man for a third hand.

All this was accomplished, though not without some tumult and disorder, before the arrival of the great La|dy. She gave us, indeed, more time for the purpose than we looked for, as it was near six o'clock before she arrived. But this was productive of a misfortune on the other hand: the dinner my poor wife had bustled, sweated, and scolded for, was so over-boiled, over-stewed, and over-roasted, that it needed the appetite of so late an hour to make it go well down, even with me, who am not very nice in these matters: luckily, her Ladyship, as I am told, never eats much, for fear of spoiling her shape, now that small waists have come into fashion again.

The dinner, however, though spoiled in the cooking, was not thrown away, as her Ladyship's train made shift to eat the greatest part of it. When I say her train, I do not mean her servants only, of which there were half a dozen in livery, besides the illustrious Mr. Papillot, and her Ladyship's maid, (gentlewoman, I should say) who had a table to themselves. Her parlour attendants were equally numerous, consisting of two

ladies and six gentlemen, who had accompanied 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Ladyship in this e••cursion, and did us the honour o•• coming to eat and drink with us, and bringing their ser|vants to do the same, though we had never seen or heard•• of them before.

During the progress of this entertainment, there were several little embarrassments, which might appear ridic|ulous in description, but were matters of serious distress to us; soup was spilled, dishes overturned, and glasses broken, by the awkwardness of our attendants; and things were not a bit mended by my wife's solicitude (who to do her justice had all her eyes about her) to cor|rect them.

From the time of her Ladyship's arrival, it was im|possible that dinner could be over before it was dark; this, with the consideration of the bad road she had to pass through in her way to the next house she meant to visit, produced an invitation, from my wife and daugh|ters, to pass the night with us; which, after a few word•• of apology for the trouble she gave us, and a few m•• of the honour we received, was agreed to. This gave rise to a new scene of preparation, rather more difficult than that before dinner. My wife and I were dislodged from our own apartment, to make room for our noble guest. Our four daughters were crammed in by us, and slept on the floor, that their rooms might be left for the two ladies and four of the gentlemen, who were entitled to the degree of respect; for the remaining two, we found beds at my son-in-law's. My two eldest daugh|ters had, indeed, little time to sleep, being closetted the greatest part of the night with their right honourable vis|itor. My offices were turned topsy-turvey for the ac|commodation of the servants of my guests, and my own horses turned into the fields, that their's might occupy my stable.

All these are hardships in their kind, Mr. Mirror, which the honour that accompanies them seems to me not fully to compensate; but these are slight grievances, in com|parison with what I have to complain of as the effects of this visit. The malady of my two eldest daughters is not only returned, with increased violence, upon them,

but has now communicated itself to every other branch of my family. My wife, formerly a decent, discreet wo|man, who liked her own way indeed, but was a notable manager, now talks of this and that piece of expense as necessary to the rank of a gentlewoman, and has lately dropped some broad hints, that a winter in town is neces|sary to the accomplishment of one. My two younger daughters have got the heads that formerly belonged to their elder sisters, to each of whom, unfortunately, the great Lady presented a set of feathers, for which new h••••ds were essentially requisite.

The inside of all of them has undergone a very striking metamorphosis, from this one night's instruction of their visitor. There is, it seems, a fashion in morality, as well as dress; and the present mode is not quite so strait-lac'd as the stays are. My two fine ladies talked, a few morn|ings ago, of such a gentleman's connexion with Miss C—, and such another's arrangement with Lady G—, with all the ease in the world. I sometimes remonstrate warm|ly especially when I have my son-in-law to bac•• me, a|gainst these new-fangled freedoms: but another doctrine they have learned, is, that a father and a parson may ••••••ch as they please, but are to be followed only accord|ing to the inclination of their audience.

This contempt of authority, and affectation of fashion, has gone a step lower in my household. My gardener has tied his hair behind, and stolen my flour to powder it, ever since he saw Mr. Papillot; and yesterday he gave me warning that he should leave me next term, if I did not take him into the house, and provide another hand for the work in the garden. I found a great hoyden, who washes my daughters' linens, sitting the other after|noon, dressed in one of their cast fly-caps, entertaining this same oaf of a gardener, and the wives of two of my farm-servants, with tea, forsooth; and when I quarrelled with her for it, she replied, that Mrs. Dimmity, my La|dy's gentlewoman, told her all the maids at—had tea, and saw company of an afternoon.

But I am resolved on a reformation, Mr. Mirror; and shall let my wife and daughters know, that I will be mas|ter of my own house and my own expenses, and will nei|ther

be made a fool nor a beggar, though it were after the manner of the greatest lord in christendom. Yet I confess I am always for trying gentle methods first. I beg, therefore, that you will insert this in your next pa|per, and add to it some exhortations of your own, to pre|vail on them, if possible, to give over a behaviour, which I think, under favour, is rather improper even in great folks, but is certainly ruinous to little ones.

I am, &c. JOHN HOMESPUN.

LETTER V.—TO THE AUTHOR OF THE MIRROR.

SIR,

I AM one of the young women mentioned in a letter which you published in your 25th number, though I did not know, till very lately, that our family had been put into print in the Mirror. Since it is so, I think I too may venture to write you a letter, which, if it be not quite so well written as my father's, will at least be as true.

Soon after my Lady —'s visit at our house, of which my father's letter informed you, a sister of his, who is married to a man of business here in Edinburgh, came with her husband to see us in the country; and, though my sister Mary and I soon discovered many vulgar things about them, yet, as they were both very good-humoured sort of people, and took great pains to make themselves agreeable, we could not help looking with regret to the time of their departure. When that drew near, they surprised us, by an invitation to me, to come and spend some months with my cousins in town, saying, that my mother could not miss my company at home, while she had so good a companion and assistant in the family as her daughter Mary.

To me there were not so many allurements in this journey as might have been imagined. I had lately

been taught to look on London as the only capital worth visiting; besides that, I did not expect the highest satis|faction from the society I should meet with at my aunt's, which, I confess, I was apt to suppose none of the most genteel. I contrived to keep the matter in suspense (for it was left entirely to my own determination) till I should write for the opinion of my friend, Lady —, on the subject; for, ever since our first acquaintance, we had kept up a constant and regular correspondence. In our letters, which were always written in a style of the warm|est affection, we were in the way of talking with the greatest freedom of every body of our acquaintance. It was delightful, as her Ladyship expressed it, "to un|fold one's feelings in the bosom of friendship." To pre|vent discovery, we corresponded under signatures of Hortensia and Leonora; and some very particular in|telligence her Ladyship taught me not to commit to ink, but to set down in lemon juice. I wander from my sto|ry, Mr. Mirror; "but I cannot help fondly recalling (as Emily in the novel says) those halcyon days of friend|ship and felicity."

When her Ladyship's answer arrived, I found her clearly of opinion that I ought to accept of my aunt's invitation. She was very jocular on the manners which she supposed I should find in that Lady's family; but she said I might take the opportunity of making some acquirements, which, though London alone could per|fect, Edinburgh might, in some degree, communicate. She concluded her letter with requesting the continua|tion of my correspondence, and a narrative of every thing that was passing in town, especially with regard to some ladies and gentlemen of her acquaintance, whom she pointed out to my particular observation.

To Edinburgh, therefore, I accompanied my aunt, and found a family very much disposed to make me happy. In this they might, perhaps, have succeeded more completely, had I not acquired, from the instruc|tion of Lady —, and the company I saw at her house, certain notions of polite life, with which I did not find any thing at Mr. —'s, correspond. It was often, in|deed, their good-humour which offended me as coarse,

and their happiness that struck me as vulgar. There was not such a thing as hip or low spirits among them, a sort of finery which, at —, I found a person of fash|ion could not possibly be without.

They were at great pains to shew me any sights that were to be seen, with some of which I was really little pleased, and with others I thought it would look like ig|norance to seem pleased. They took me to the play-house, where there there was little company, and very little attention. I was carried to the concert, where the case was exactly the same. I found great fault with both; for though I had not much skill, I had got words enough for finding fault from my friend Lady —: upon which they made an apology for our entertain|ment, by telling me, that the play-house was, at that time, managed by a fiddler, and the concert was allowed to manage itself.

Our parties at home were agreeable enough. I found Mr. —'s and my aunts visitors very different from what I had been made to expect, and not at all the cock|nies my Lady — and some of her humourous guests used to describe. They were not, indeed, so polite as the fashionable company I had met at her Ladyship's; but they were much more civil. Among the rest was my uncle-in-law's partner, a good looking young man, who, from the first, was so particularly attentive to me that my cousins, jokingly, called him my lover; and even my aunt sometimes told me she believed he had a serious attachment to me; but I took care not to give him any encouragement, as I had always heard my Lady — talk of the wife of a burgeois as the most contemptible creature in the world.

The season at last arrived, in which, I was told, the town would appear in its gaiety, a great deal of good company being expected at the races. For the races I looked with anxiety, for another reason; my dear La|dy — was to be here at that period. Of this I was informed by a letter from my sister. From her Lady|ship I had not heard for a considerable time, as she had been engaged in a round of visits to her acquaintance in the country.

The very morning after her arrival (for I was on the watch to get intelligence of her) I called at her lodg|ings. When the servant appeared, he seemed doubtful about letting me in; at last he ushered me into a little darkish parlour, where, after waiting about half an hour, he brought me word, that his Lady could not try on the gown I had brought then, but desired me to fetch it next day at eleven. I now perceived there had been a mis|take as to my person; and telling the fellow, somewhat angrily, that I was no mantua-maker, desired him to carry to his Lady a slip of paper, on which I wrote with a pencil the well known name of Leonora. On his go|ing up stairs, I heard a loud peal of laughter above, and soon after he returned with a message, that Lady — was sorry she was particularly engaged at present, and could not possibly see me. Think, Sir, with what aston|ishment I heard this message from Hortensia. I left the house, I know not whether most ashamed or angry; but afterwards I began to persuade myself, that there might be some particular reasons for Lady —'s not seeing me at that time, which she might explain at meet|ing; and I imputed the terms of the message to the rude|ness or simplicity of the footman. All that day, and the next, I waited impatiently for the note of explanation or inquiry from her Ladyship, but was a good deal disap|pointed when I found the second evening arrive, without having received any such token of her remembrance. I went, rather in low spirits, to the play. I had not been long in the house, when I saw Lady — enter the next box. My heart fluttered at the sight; and I watched her eyes, that I might take the first opportunity of pre|senting myself to her notice. I saw them soon after turn|ed towards me, and immediately curtsied, with a signifi|cant smile, to my noble friend, who being short-sighted, it would seem, which, however, I had never remarked before, stared at me for some moments, without taking notice of my salute, and at last was just putting up a glass to her eye, to point it at me, when a lady pulled her by the sleeve, and made her take notice of somebody on the opposite side of the house. She never afterwards happened to look to that quarter where I was seated.

Still, however, I was not quite discouraged; and, on an accidental change of places in our box, contrived to place myself at the end of the bench next her Ladyship's, so that there was only a piece of thin board between us. At the end of the act, I ventured to ask her how she did, and to express my happiness at seeing her in town, adding, that I had called the day before, but had found her par|ticularly engaged. "Why yes," said she, "Miss Home|spun, I am always extremely hurried in town, and have time to receive only a few visits; but I will be glad if you will come some morning and breakfast with me—but not to-morrow, for there is a morning concert; nor next day, for I have a musical party at home. In short, you may come some morning next week, when the hurry will be over, and, if I am not gone out of town, I will be happy to see you." I don't know what answer I should have made; but she did not give me an opportunity; for a gentleman in a green uniform coming into the box, she immediately made room for him to sit between us. He, after a broad stare full in my face, turned his back my way, and sat in that posture all the rest of the even|ing.

I am not so silly, Mr. Mirror, but I can understand the meaning of all this. My Lady, it seems, is contented to have some humble friends in the country, whom she does not think worthy of her notice in town; but I am determined to shew her, that I have a prouder spirit than she imagines, and shall not go near her, either in town or country. What is more, my father sha'nt vote for her friend at next election, if I can help it.

What vexes me beyond every thing else, is, that I had often been telling my aunt and her daughters of the in|timate footing. I was on with Lady —, and what a vi|olent friendship we had for each other; and so, from en|vy, perhaps, they used to nick-name me the countess, and Lady Leonora. Now that they had got this story of the mantua-maker and the play-house, (for I was so angry I could not conceal it) I am ashamed to hear the name of a lady of quality mentioned, even if it be only in a book from the circulating library. Do write a paper,

Sir, against pride and haughtiness, and people forgetting their country friends and acquaintance; and you will ve|ry much oblige

Your's, &c. ELIZABETH HOMESPUN.

LETTER VI.—IGNATIUS SANCHO TO MR. STERNE.

REVEREND SIR,

IT would be an insult to your humanity (or perhaps look like it) to apologize for the liberty I am taking. I am one of those people, whom the vulgar and illiberal call negroes. The first part of my life was rath|er unlucky, as I was placed in a family, who judged ig|norance the best and only security for obedience. A lit|tle reading and writing I got by unwearied application. The latter part of my life has been, through God's blessing, truly fortunate, having spent it in the service of one of the best and greatest families in the kingdom. My chief pleas|ure has been books—philanthropy I adore. How very much, good Sir, am I (amongst millions) indebted to you for the character of your amiable uncle Toby! I declare I would walk ten miles in the dog-days, to shake hands even with the honest corporal, his servant. Your sermons have touched me to the heart, and I hope have amended it; which brings me to the point. In your tenth discourse is this very affecting passage—"Consider how great a part of our species, in all ages, down to this, have been trod un|der the feet of cruel and capricious tyrants, who would neither hear their cries, nor pity their distresses! Consid|er slavery, what it is—how bitter a draught, and how many millions are made to drink of it!" Of all my fa|vourite authors, not one has drawn a tear, in favour of my miserable black brethren, except yourself and the hu|mane author of Sir George Ellison. I think you will forgive me; I am sure you will applaud me for beseech|ing you to give one half-hour's attention to slavery, as it is

this day practised in our West-Indies: that subject, hand|led in your striking manner, would ease the yoke, per|haps, of many; but, if only one—gracious God! what a feast to a benevolent heart! and sure I am, you are an epicurian in acts of charity. You, who are universally read, and as universally admired, you could not fail. Dear Sir, think in me you behold the uplifted hands of thou|sands of my brother Moors. Grief, you pathetically ob|serve, is eloquent: figure to yourself their attitudes! hear their supplicating addresses!—Alas! you cannot re|fuse; humanity must comply: in which hope, I beg per|mission to subscribe myself, Reverend Sir, &c.

LETTER VII.—MR. STERNE TO IGNATIUS SANCHO.

THERE is a strange coincidence, Sancho, in the little events, as well as in the great ones, of this world: for I had been writing a tender tale of the sor|rows of a friendless poor negro girl, and my eyes had scarce done smarting with it, when your letter of recom|mendation, in behalf of so many of her brethren and sis|ters, came to me. But why her brethren, or your's, San|cho, any more than mine? It is by the finest tints, and most insensible gradations, that nature descends from the fairest face about St. James's, to the sootiest complexion in Africa:—at which tint of these is it, that the ties of blood are to cease? and how many shades must we de|scend lower still in the scale, ere mercy is to vanish with them? But it is no uncommon thing, my good Sancho, for one half of the world to use the other half of it like brutes, and then endeavour to make them so. For my own part, I never look westward (when I am in a pen|sive mood, at least) but I think of the burthens which our brothers and sisters are there carrying; and could I ease their shoulders from one ounce of them, I declare I would set out this hour upon a pilgrimage to Mecca for their sakes—which, by the bye, Sancho, exceeds your walk of

ten miles in about the same proportion ••••at a vi••••t of humanity should one of mere form. However, if you meant my uncle Toby more, he is your de••tor. If I can weave the tale I have wrote, into the work I am about—it is at the service of the afflicted—and a much greater matter; for, in serious truth, it casts a sad shade upon the world, that so great a part of it are, and have been, so long bound in chains of darkness, and in chains of misery; and I cannot but both respect and felicitate you, that by so much laudable diligence you have broke the one—and that, by falling into the hands of so good and merciful a family, Providence has rescued you from the other.

And so, good-hearted Sancho, adieu! and believe me, I will not forget your letter. Yours, &c.

LETTER VIII.—DR. JOHNSON TO MISS SUSANNA THRALE.

DEAREST MISS SUSAN,

WHEN you favoured me with your letter, you seemed to be in want of materials to fill it, having met with no great adventures, either of peril or delight, nor done or suffered any thing out of the common course of life.

When you have lived longer, and considered more, you will find the common course of life very fertile of observation and reflection. Upon the common course of life must our thoughts and our conversation be gener|ally employed. Our general course of life must denom|inate us wise or foolish; happy or miserable: if it is well regulated, we pass on prosperously and smoothly; as if it is neglected, we live in embarrassment, perplexity, and uneasiness.

Your time, my love, passes, I suppose, in devotion, reading, work, and company. Of your devotions, in which I earnestly advise you to be very punctual, you may not perhaps think it proper to give me an account;

and of work, unless I understood it better, it will be of no great use to say much; but books and company will always supply you with materials for your letters to me, as I shall always be pleased to know what you are read|ing, and with what you are pleased; and shall take great delight in knowing what impression new modes and new characters make upon you, and to observe with what at|tention you distinguish the tempers, dispositions, and abil|ities of your companions.

A letter may be always made out of the books of the morning, or talk of the evening; and any letters from you, my dearest, will be welcome to

Yours, &c.

LETTER IX.—FROM MISS TALBOT TO A NEW-BORN CHILD.

YOU are heartily welcome, my dear little cousin, into this unquiet world; long may you continue in it, in all the happiness it can give, and bestow enough on all your friends to answer fully the impatience with which you have been expected. May you grow up to have every accomplishment, that you good friend, the Bishop of Derry, can already imagine in you; and, in the mean time, may you have a nurse with a tuneable voice, that may not talk an immoderate deal of nonsense to you. You are, at present, my dear, in a very philo|sophical disposition; the gaieties and follies of life have no attraction for you; its sorrows you kindly commiser|ate! but, however, do not suffer them to disturb your slumbers, and find charms in nothing but harmony and repose. You have as yet contracted no partialities, are entirely ignorant of party distinctions, and look with a perfect indifference on all human splendour. You have an absolute dislike to the vanities of dress; and are like|ly for many months to observe the Bishop of Bristol's first rule of conversation, silence; though tempted to transgress it by the novelty and strangeness of all objects around. As you advance farther in life, this philosoph|ical

temper will, by degrees, wear off: the first object of your admiration will probably be the candle; and thence (as we all of us do) you will contract a taste for the gau|dy and the glaring, without making one moral reflection upon the danger of such false admiration, as leads people many a time to burn their fingers. You will begin to shew great partiality for some very good aunts, who will contribute all they can towards spoiling you; but you will be equally fond of an excellent mamma, who will teach you, by her example, all sorts of good qualities; only let me warn you of one thing, my dear, and that is, not to learn of her to have such an immoderate love of home, as is quite contrary to all the privileges of this polite age, and to give up so entirely all those pretty graces of whim, flutter, and affectation, which so many charitable poets have declared to be the prerogative of our sex: oh! my poor cousin, to what purpose will you boast this prerogative, when your nurse tells you with a pious care, (to sow the seeds of jealousy and emulation as early as possible) that you have a fine little brother come to put your nose out of joint? There will be noth|ing to be done then but to be mighty good, and prove what, believe me, admits of very little dispute, (though it has occasioned abundance) that we girls, however people give themselves airs of being disappointed, are by no means to be despised. Let the men unenvied shine in public; it is we that must make their homes delightful to them; and if they provoke us, no less uncomfortable.

I do not expect you to answer this letter yet awhile; but as I dare say you have the greatest interest with your papa, will beg you to prevail upon him that we may know by a line that you and your mamma are well. In the mean time, I will only assure you, that all here re|joice in your existence extremely; and that I am, my very young correspondent, most affectionately

Your's, &c.

LETTER X.—TO THE AUTHOR OF THE LOUNGER.

SIR,

THAT distress finds some consolation from revealing its misfortunes, is a trite observation, which perhaps is in no instance, more strongly felt, than where we have ourselves to blame for our calamities. There is something in making a confession, though but on paper, (even if it should never be communicated to any one) which unloads the mind of a weight, that bears it down in secret; and though it cannot pluck the thorn from memory, has certainly the effect of blunting its poignan|cy. Suffer me then, Sir, to tell you, or to write as if I were telling you, how unhappy I am, and by what means I have become so.

I was left by my father at the age of thirteen, the eldest of two daughters, under the charge of one of the best and most indulgent of mothers. Our circumstances were affluent; our society respectable; and our education, from its very commencement, had been attended to with care, and provided for with the utmost liberality. No instruction was neglected, no accomplishment unattended to. In attaining these, my sister was not quite so fortu|nate as I. Born, as I have been often told, with un|common quickness of parts, I found no difficulty in mas|tering the studies that were taught me, or of acquiring the embellishments it was wished I should acquire. My sister was often deficient in the one and awkward at the other. She possessed, however, a sound, plain under|standing, and an excellent temper. My superiority nev|er excited envy in her, and I think never vanity in me. We loved one another most sincerely; and after some years had blunted the grief, which my mother felt for her husband's death, there were, I believe, few happier families than our's.

Though our affections were cordial, however, our dis|positions were very different. My sister was contented to

think as other people thought, and to feel as other peo|ple felt; she rarely ventured to speculate in opinion, or to soar in fancy. I was often tempted to reject, if not to despise the common opinions of mankind, and to cre|ate to myself a warm, and, I am afraid, a visionary pic|ture of happiness, arising from a highly refined sensibil|ity. My mother was at pains to discourage these enthu|siastic ideas, and to represent the danger of indulging in them. From a desire, perhaps, of overcoming that ten|dency towards them which she perceived in me, her dis|course, when we were alone, almost constantly turned on this subject. As she always allowed us the liberty of ar|gument with her, I stood up, in these conversations, the warm defender of my own maxims, in contradiction to those prudent ones, which she recommended. Her's, I am persuaded, admitted of better reasoning; but my cause gave greater room for eloquence. All my little talents were exerted in the contest; and I have often since thought that my mother had, from nature, a bent to my side of the question, which all her wisdom and expe|rience had not been able to overcome; that though she constantly applauded the prudent system of my sister, she was, in truth, rather partial to mine, and vain of that ability with which I defended it: however that might be, I myself always arose from the dispute more and more convinced of the justness of my own opinions, and proud of that superiority which I thought they conferred on me.

We had not long attained a marriageable age, when we found ourselves surrounded with those whom the world terms admirers. Our mother's benevolence and sweetness of temper inclined her to society, and we were too innocent for prudery; we had, therefore, a number of visitors of the other sex, many of whom were so par|ticular in their attentions, that women who wished to boast of conquests, would have called them lovers. With us they did not always assume that title; my sister was too prudent, and I was too nice, easily to believe a man a lover.

Among those, however, were two gentlemen, whose attachment was declared to me in terms too strong to be

misunderstood. Florio's person was universally allowed to be handsome; many, of whom I was one, thought it elegant. With external accomplishment his education had furnished him; his manner was easy and unembar|rassed; some called it assuming, I thought it natural. His conversation was full of the language of sensibility; in my idea it spoke a mind replete with sensibility itself. Other people sometimes suspected him of shallowness and affectation; I praised him for avoiding the pedantry of knowledge, and the rusticity of men proud of its acquire|ments.

Alcander was the only son of a particular friend of my mother, and therefore on a very intimate footing in our family. My mother, with whom he was a favourite, discovered in him a great fund of good sense and useful knowledge. I was struck with the inelegance of his appearance and address, and the want of refinement in his sentiments and conversation. His goodness and candour were often the topics of my mother's commendation; I remarked his want of discernment, and the coldness of his attachments and aversions. My mother often repeat|ed her own eulogiums of Alcander, and the criticisms of the world on Florio; I always heard her with a deter|mined opposition of sentiment, and therefore arose from the conversation more averse to the first, and more attach|ed to the latter. Alcander, after persisting for some time under a very marked disinclination to him, gave up the pursuit; but as he still continued his visits to the family, particularly during any occasional absence of mine, he transferred by degrees his affections to my sister. When he had ceased to be my lover, I was very willing to be ve|ry much his friend: my mother had always shewn her partiality in his favour; my sister was won by his vir|tues, and after some time became his wife.

Florio's suit to me was opposed by my mother, with rather more vehemence than was natural to her. She oft|en insisted on the infatuation, as she called it, of that de|ception which I was under, with regard to him; a de|ception which she predicted I should one day be convinc|ed of. Her opposition, however, though it over-ruled my conduct, never overcame my attachment: I would

not be his without the consent of my mother; but my affection it was not in her power to shake. Her love for me overcame her resolution; and at last she gave, how|ever unwillingly, my hand to Florio.

I was now the happiest of women. The scenes I had often pictured of conjugal tenderness and domestic hap|piness, I thought now realized in the possession of a man, who, I had taught myself to believe, was to love me for|ever, and was himself every thing I ought to love; and I often looked with a degree of pity on the situation of my sister, whose happiness (for she called it happiness) with Alcander was of a kind so inferior to mine.

How long this lasted I cannot exactly say. I fear I began to be unhappy long before I would allow myself to believe it. I have often wept alone at the coldness and neglect of Florio, when on meeting him, a few words of seeming tenderness and affection made me again re|proach my doubts of his love, and think my own situa|tion the most enviable of any. Alas! he at length drove me from this last strong hold, in which my affec|tion for him had entrenched itself. It is now three years since he has treated me in such a manner as to leave no apology for his treatment. During the last, my mother's death has deprived me of one of the few com|forts I had left. From my mother I carefully concealed my distress; but I believe in vain: she lived to guess at my misery; and I fear her sense of it added to the pres|sure of that which brought her to the grave.

After the loss of my husband's love, it is little to talk of my disappointment in his talents and accomplishments. It was long, however, before I allowed myself to see defects, which less penetration than I have been flattered with possessing ••••d long before discovered. My mother had often, before our marriage, expressed her surprise that one of my abilities should be so deceived, as not to see his inferiority. I believe it is by these abilities that the deception is aided: they are able to form a picture to which more ordinary minds are unequal; and in the weakness of their rash attachment, they find the likeness where they wish to find it.

I was interrupted by my sister. Why are her looks so serene? and why does she tell me how much mine are altered? I am too proud to allow a witness to my dis|tresses; and from her, of all womankind, I would con|ceal them. This dissimulation is due to my pride, per|haps to my duty; yet if you knew, Sir, what it is to smile in public, to seem to be happy with such feelings as mine; to act contentment all day long, and retire at night to my lonely pillow, with the anguish my heart has treasured up all the while!—but the subject over|powers me!—Farewel.

CONSTANTIA.

LETTER XI.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

MY fair companion still improves in my es|teem; the more I know her mind, her beauty becomes more poignant; she appears charming even among the daughters of Circa••••ia.

Yet were I to examine her beauty with the art of a statuary, I should find numbers here, that far surpass her; nature has not granted her all the boasted Circassian reg|ularity of feature, and yet she greatly exceeds the fairest of the country, in the art of seizing the affections. Whence, I have often said to myself, this resistless magic, that attends even moderate charms? Though I regard the beauties of the country with admiration, every inter|view weakens the impression; but the form of Zelis grows upon my imagination: I never behold her without an increase of tenderness and respect. Whence this injusti•••• of the mind in preferring imperfect beauty to that which nature seems to have finished with care? Whence the in|fatuation, that he, whom a comet could not amaze, should be astonished at a meteor? When reason was thus fatigued to find an answer, my imagination pursued the subject, and this was the result—I fancied myself placed between two landscapes, this called the region of beauty, and that the valley of the graces; the one embellished with all that

luxuriant nature could bestow; the fruits of various cli|mates adorned the trees; the grove resounded with mu|••••••; the gale breathed perfume; every charm that could arise from symmetry and exact distribution were here conspicuous; the whole offering a prospect of pleasure without end. The valley of the graces, on the other hand, seemed by no means so inviting; the streams and the groves appeared just as they usually do in frequented countries: no magnificent parterres; no concert in the grove: the rivulet was edged with weeds; and the rook joined its voice to that of the nightingale. All was sim|plicity and nature.

The most striking objects ever first allure the traveller. I entered the region of beauty with increased curiosity, and promised myself endless satisfaction, in being intro|duced to the presiding goddess. I perceived several stran|gers, who entered with the same design; and what sur|prised me not a little, was to see several others hastening to leave this abode of seeming felicity.

After some fatigue, I had at last the honour of being introduced to the goddess, who represented beauty in per|son. She was seated on a throne, at the foot of which stood several strangers lately introduced like me, all gaz|ing on her form with extasy. "Ah what eyes! what lips! how clear her complexion! how perfect her shape!" At these exclamations, beauty with downcast eyes, would endeavour to counterfeit modesty, but soon again looking round as if to confirm every spectator in his favourable sentiments, sometimes she would attempt to allure us by smiles; and at intervals would bridle back, in order to inspire us with respect as well as tenderness.

This ceremony lasted for some time, and had so much employed our eyes, that we forgot all this while that the goddess was silent. We soon, however, began to per|ceive the defect: "What," said we, among each other, "are we to have nothing but languishing airs, soft looks, and inclinations of the head? will the goddess only deign to satisfy our eyes?" Upon this, one of the company stepped up to present her with some fruits he had gather|ed by the way. She received the present, most sweetly smiling, and with one of the whitest hands in the world; but still not a word escaped her lips.

I now found that my companions grew weary of their homage; they went off one by one; and, resolving not to be left behind, I offered to go in my turn; when just at the door of the temple, I was called back by a female, whose name was Pride, and who seemed displeased with the behaviour of the company. "Where are you hast|ening?" said she to me, with an angry air, "the goddess of beauty is here." I have been to visit her, Madam, replied I, and I find her more beautiful even than report had made her. "And why then will you leave her?" added the female. I have seen her long enough, return|ed I; I have got all her features by heart. Her eyes are still the same. Her nose is a very fine one, but it is still just such a nose now as it was half an hour ago: could she throw a little more mind into her face, per|haps I should be for wishing to have more of her com|pany. "What signifies," replied my female, "whether she has a mind or not; has she any occasion for a mind, so formed as she is by nature? If she had a common face, indeed, there might be some reason for thinking to improve it; but when features are already perfect, every alteration would but impair them. A fine face is already at the point of perfection, and a fine lady should endea|vour to keep it so; the impression it would receive from thought, would but disturb its whole economy."

To this speech I gave no reply, but made the best of my way to the valley of the graces. Here I found all those, who before had been my companions in the region of beauty, now upon the same errand.

As we entered the valley, the prospect insensibly seem|ed to improve; we found every thing so natural, so do|mestic and pleasing, that our minds, which before were congealed in admiration, now relaxed into gaiety and good humour. We had designed to pay our respects to the presiding goddess, but she was no where to be found. One of our companions asserted, that her temple lay to the right; another to the left; a third insisted that it was straight before us; and a fourth that we had left it behind. In short, we found every thing familiar and charming, but could not determine where ••o seek for the grace in person.

In this agreeable incertitude we passed several hours; and, though very desirous of finding the goddess, by no means impatient of the delay. Every part of the valley presented some minute beauty, which, without offering itself, at once stole upon the soul, and captivated us with the charms of our retreat. Still, however, we continued to search, and might still have continued, had we not been interrupted by a voice, which, though we could not see from whence it came, addressed us in this manner:

"If you would find the goddess of grace, seek her not under one form, for she assumes a thousand. Ever chang|ing under the eye of inspection, her variety, rather than her figure, is pleasing. In contemplating her beauty, the eye glides over every perfection with giddy delight, and capable of fixing no where, is charmed with the whole. She is now contemplation with solemn look, again com|passion with humid eye; she now sparkles with joy, her countenance beaming with sensibility; soon every feature speaks distress; her looks at times invite our approach, at others repress our presumption; the goddess cannot be properly called beautiful under any one of these forms, but, by combining them all, she becomes irresistibly pleasing." Adieu.

C. W.

LETTER XII.—TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

YOU have very lately observed that, in the numerous subdivisions of the world, every class and or|der of mankind have joys and sorrows of their own; we all feel hourly pain and pleasure from events which pass unheeded before other eyes, but can scarcely communi|cate our perceptions to minds pre-occupied by different objects, any more than the delight of well-disposed col|ours or harmonious sounds can be imparted to such as want the senses of hearing or of sight.

I am so strongly convinced of the justness of this re|mark, and have on so many occasions discovered with how little attention pride looks upon calamity of which she thinks herself not in danger, and indolence listens to complaint when it is not echoed by her own remem|brance, that though I am about to lay the occurrences of my life before you, I question whether you will con|descend to peruse my narrative, or without the help of some female speculatist, be able to understand it.

I was born a beauty. From the dawn of my reason I had my regard turned wholly upon myself; nor can I recollect any thing earlier than praise and admiration. My mother, whose face had luckily advanced her to a condition above her birth, thought no evil so great as de|formity. She had not the power of imagining any oth|er defect than a cloudy complexion, or disproportionate features; and therefore contemplated me as an assem|blage of all that could raise envy or desire, and predict|ed, with triumphant fondness, the extent of my conquests, and the number of my slaves.

She never mentioned any of my young acquaintance before me, but to remark how much they fell below my perfection; how one would have had a fine face but that her eyes were without lustre; how another struck the sight at a distance, but wanted my hair and teeth at a nearer view; another disgraced an elegant shape with a a brown skin; some had short fingers, and others dim|ples in a wrong place.

As she expected no happiness nor advantage but from beauty, she thought nothing but beauty worthy of her care; and her maternal kindness was chiefly exercised in contrivances to protect me from any accident, that might deface me with a scar, or stain me with a freckle: she never thought me sufficiently shaded from the sun, or screened from the fire. She was severe or indulgent with no other intention than the preservation of my form: she excused me from work, lest I should learn to hang down my head, or harden my finger with a needle: she snatched away my book, because a young lady in the neighbourhood had made her eyes red, with reading by a candle; but she would scarce••y suffer me to eat, lest I

should spoil my shape; nor to walk, lest I should swell my ancle with a sprain. At night I was accurately surveyed from head to foot, lest I should have suffered any dimi|nution of my charms in the adventures of the day; and was never permitted to sleep, till I had passed through the cosmetic discipline, part of which was a regular lustration performed with bean-flower water and may-dews; my hair was perfumed with variety of unguents, by some of which it was to be thickened, and by others to be curled. The softness of my hands was secured by medicated gloves, and my bosom rubbed with a pomade prepared by my mother, of virtue to discuss pimples, and clear discolorations.

I was always called up early, because the morning air gives a freshness to the cheeks; but I was placed behind a curtain in my mother's chamber, because the neck is easily tanned by the rising sun. I was then dressed with a thousand precautions, and again heard my own praises, and triumphed in the compliments and prognostications of all that approached me.

My mother was not so much prepossessed with an opin|ion of my natural excellencies as not to think some cultiva|tion necessary to their completion. She took care that I should want none of the accomplishments included in fe|male education, or considered as necessary in fashionable life. I was looked upon in my ninth year as the chief ornament of the dancing-master's ball; and Mr. Ariet used to reproach his other scholars with my performances on the harpsichord. At twelve, I was remarkable for playing my cards with great elegance of manner, and accuracy of judgment.

At last the time arrived when my mother thought me perfect in my exercises, and qualified to display, in the open world, those accomplishments which had yet been only discovered in select parties, or domestic assemblies. Preparations were therefore made for my appearance on a public night, which she considered as the most impor|tant and critical moment of my life. She cannot be charged with neglecting any means of recommendation, or leaving any thing to chance, which prudence could ascertain. Every ornament was tried in every position

every friend was consulted about the colour of my dress; and the mantua-makers were harassed with directions and alterations.

At last the night arrived, from which my future life was to be reckoned. I was dressed and sent out to con|quer, with a heart beating like that of an old knight-er|rant at his first sally. Scholars have told me of a Spar|tan matron, who, when she armed her son for battle, bade him bring back his shield or be brought upon it. My venerable parent dismissed me to a field, in her opinion of equal glory, with a command to shew that I was her daughter, and not to return without a lover.

I went, and was received like other pleasing novel|ties, with a tumult of applause. Every man, who val|ued himself upon the graces of his person, or the ele|gance of his address, crowded about me, and wit and splendour contended for my notice. I was delightfully fatigued with incessant civilities, which were made more pleasing by the apparent envy of those, whom my pres|ence exposed to neglect, and returned with an attendant equal in rank and wealth to my utmost wishes, and from this time stood in the first rank of beauty, was followed by gazers in the Mall, celebrated in the papers of the day, imitated by all who endeavoured to rise into fashion, and censured by those whom age or disappointment forced to retire.

My mother, who pleased herself with the hopes of see|ing my exaltation, dressed me with all the exuberance of finery; and when I represented to her that a fortune might be expected proportionate to my appearance, told me that she should scorn the reptile, who could inquire after the fortune of a girl like me. She advised me to prosecute my victories, and time would certainly bring me a cap|tive, who might deserve the honour of being enchained forever.

My lovers were indeed so numerous, that I had no other care than that of determining to whom I should seem to give the preference. But having been steadily and industriously instructed to preserve my heart from any impressions which might hinder me from consulting my interest, I acted with less embarrassment, because my

choice was regulated by principles more clear and certain than the caprice of approbation. When I had singled out one from the rest as more worthy of encouragement, I proceeded in my measures by the rules of art; and yet, when the ardour of the first visits was spent, gene|rally found a sudden declension of my influence: I felt in myself the want of some power to diversify amuse|ment, and enliven conversation; and could not but sus|pect that my mind failed in performing the promises of my face. This opinion was soon confirmed by one of my lovers, who married Lavinia with less beauty and fortune than mine, because he thought a wife ought to have qualities, which might make her amiable when her bloom was past.

I had now completed my nineteenth year: if my charms had lost any of their softness, it was more than compensated by additional dignity; and if the attrac|tions of innocence were impaired, their place was sup|plied by the arts of allurement. I was therefore pre|paring for a new attack, without any abatement of my confidence, when in the midst of my hopes and schemes, I was seized with that dreadful malady, which has so oft|en put a sudden end to the tyranny of beauty. I re|covered my health after a long confinement; but when I looked again on that face, which had often been flush|ed with transport at its own reflection, and saw all that I had learned to value, all that I had endeavoured to im|prove, all that had procured me honours or praises, irre|coverably destroyed, I sunk at once into melancholy and despondence. My pain was not much consoled or alleviated by my mother, who grieved that I had not lost my life together with my beauty.

Having thus continued my relation to the period from which my life took a new course, I shall conclude it in another letter, if by publishing this you show any regard to the correspondence of,

Sir, &c.

VICTORIA.

LETTER XIII.—TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

YOU have shewn, by the publication of my letter, that you think the life of Victoria not wholly un|worthy of the notice of a philosopher: I shall therefore continue my narrative, without apology for unimpor|tance which you have dignified, or for inaccuracies which you are to correct.

When my life appeared to be no longer in danger, and as much of my strength was recovered as enabled me to bear the agitation of a coach, I was placed at a lodging in a neighbouring village, to which my mother dismissed me with a faint embrace, having repeated her command not to expose my face too soon to the sun or wind, and told me, that with care I might perhaps be|come tolerable again. The prospect of becoming tol|erable had very little power to elevate the imagination of one, who had so long been accustomed to praise and extasy; but it was some satisfaction to be separated from my mother, who was incessantly ringing the knell of de|parted beauty, and never entered my room without the whine of condolence, or the growl of anger. She often wandered over my face, as do travellers over the ruins of a celebrated city, to note every place which had once been remarkable for a happy feature. She condescend|ed to visit my retirement, but always left me more mel|ancholy; for after a thousand trifling inquiries about my diet, and a minute examination of my looks, she gener|ally concluded with a sigh, that I should never more be fit to be seen.

At last I was permitted to return home, but found no great improvement of my condition; for I was impris|oned in my chamber as a criminal, whose appearance would disgrace my friends, and condemned to be tor|tured into new beauty. Every experiment which the officiousness of folly could communicate, or the credu|lity of ignorance admit, was tried upon me. Sometimes

I was covered with emollients, by which it was expected that all the scars would be filled, and my cheeks plump|ed up to their former smoothness; and sometimes I was punished with artificial excoriations, in hopes of gaining new graces with a new skin. The cosmetic science was, exhausted upon me; but who can repair the ruins of na|ture? My mother was forced to give me rest at last, and abandon me to the fate of a fallen toast, whose fortune she considered as a hopeless game, no longer worthy of solicitude or attention.

I was so little able to find entertainment for myself, that I was forced in a short time to venture abroad, as the solitary savage is driven by hunger from his den. I entered with all the humility of disgrace into assemblies, where I had lately sparkled with gaiety, and towered with triumph. I was not wholly without hope, that de|jection had misrepresented me to myself, and that the re|mains of my former face might yet have some attraction and influence: but the first circle of visits convinced me, that my reign was at an end; that life and death were no longer in my hands; that I was no more to practise the glance of command, or the frown of prohibition, to receive the tribute of sighs and praises, or to be soothed with the gentle murmurs of amorous timidity. My opin|ion was now unheard, and my proposals were unregard|ed; the narrowness of my knowledge, and the meanness of my sentiments, were easily discovered, when the eyes were no longer engaged against the judgment; and it was observed, by those who had formerly been charmed with my vivacious loquacity, that my understanding was impaired as well as my face, and that I was no longer qualified to fill a place in any company but a party at cards.

Though the negligence of the men was not very pleas|ing, when compared with vows and adoration, yet it was far more supportable than the insolence of my own sex. For the first ten months after my return into the world, I never entered a single house, in which the memory of my downfall was not revived. At one place I was con|gratulated on my escape with life; at another I heard of the benefits of early inoculation; by some I have been

told in express terms, that I am not yet without my charms; others have whispered, at my entrance—This is the celebrated beauty. One told me of a wash that would smooth the skin; and another offered me her chair that I might not front the light. Some soothed me with the observation that none can tell how soon her case may be my own; and some thought it proper to re|ceive me with mournful tenderness, formal condolence, and consolatory blandishments.

Thus was I every day harassed with all the stratagems of well-bred malignity; yet insolence was more tolerable than solitude, and I therefore persisted to keep my time at the doors of my acquaintance, without gratifying them with any appearance of resentment or depression. I ex|pected that their exultation would in time vapour away; that the joy of their superiority would end with its novel|ty; and that I should be suffered to glide along in my present form among the nameless multitude whom nature never intended to excite envy or admiration, nor enable to delight the eye or inflame the heart.

This was naturally to be expected, and this I began to experience. But when I was no longer agitated by the perpetual ardour of resistance and effort of perseverance, I found more sensibly the want of those entertainments, which had formerly delighted me: the day rose upon me without an engagement; and the evening closed in its natural gloom, without summoning to a concert or a ball. None had any care to find amusements for me, and I had no power of amusing myself. Idleness expos|ed me to melancholy, and life began to languish in mo|tionless indifference.

Misery and shame are nearly allied. It was not without many struggles that I prevailed on myself to confess my uneasiness to Euphemia, the only friend who had never pained me with comfort or with pity. I at last laid my calamities before her, rather to ease my heart than to receive assistance.

We must distinguish, (said she) my Victoria, those evils which are imposed by Providence, from those to which we ourselves give the power of hurting us. Of your calamity, a small part is the infliction of Heaven,

the rest is little more than the corrosion of idle discon|tent. You have lost that which may indeed sometimes contribute to happiness, but to which happiness is by no means inseparably annexed. You have lost what the greater part of the human race never have possessed; what those on whom it is bestowed for the most part possess in vain; and what you, while it was your's, knew not how to use: you have only lost early what the laws of nature forbid you to keep long, and have lost it while your mind is yet flexible, and while you have time to substitute more valuable and more durable excellencies. Consider yourself, my Victoria, as a being born to know, to reason, and to act: rise at once from your dream of melancholy to wisdom and to piety; you will find that there are other charms than those of beauty, and other joys than the praise of fools.

I am, Sir, &c. VICTORIA.

PART III. Dialogues and Dramatic Pieces.

DIALOGUE I.—ON DIFFERENT STATIONS IN LIFE.

LITTLE Sally Meanwell had one day been to pay an afternoon's visit to Miss Harriet, the daughter of Sir Thomas Pemberton. The evening proving rainy, she was sent home in Sir Thomas's coach; and on her return, the following conversation passed between her and her mother.

Mrs. Meanwell.

Well, my dear, I hope you have had a pleasant visit.

Sally.

O yes, mamma, very pleasant; you cannot think what a great many fine things I have seen. And then it is so charming to ride in a coach!

Mrs. M.

I suppose Miss Harriet shewed you all her play-things.

Sally.

O yes, such fine large dolls, so smartly dressed, as I never saw in my life before. Then she has a baby-house and all sorts of furniture in it; and a grotto all made of shells, and shining stones. And then she shewed me all her fine clothes for the next ball: there's a white slip all full of spangles, and pink ribbons; you can't think how beautiful it looks.

Mrs. M.

And what did you admire most of all these fine things?

Sally.

I don't know—I admired them all; and I think I liked riding in the coach better than all the rest. Why don't we keep a coach, mamma? and why have not I such fine clothes and play-things as Miss Harriet?

Mrs. M.

Because we cannot afford it, my dear. Your papa is not so rich, by a great deal as Sir Thomas; and if we were to lay out our money upon such things, we should not be able to procure food and raiment and other necessaries for you all.

Sally.

But why is not papa as rich as Sir Thomas?

Mrs. M.

Sir Thomas had a large estate left him by his father, but your papa has little but what he gains by his own industry.

Sally.

But why should not papa be as rich as any body else? I am sure he deserves it as well.

Mrs. M.

Do you not think that there are a great many people poorer than he, that are also very deserving?

Sally.

Are there?

Mrs. M.

Yes, to be sure. Don't you know what a number of poor people there are all around us, who have very few of the comforts we enjoy? What do you think of Plowman the labourer? I believe you never saw him idle in your life.

Sally.

No; he is gone to work long before I am up, and he does not return till almost bed-time, unless it be for his dinner.

Mrs. M.

Well; how do you think his wife and chil|dren live? Should you like that we should change places with them?

Sally.

O, no! they are so dirty and ragged.

Mrs. M.

They are, indeed, poor creatures! but I am afraid they suffer worse evils than that.

Sally.

What, mamma?

Mrs. M.

Why I am afraid they often do not get as much victuals as they could eat. And then, in winter, they must be half starved for want of fire and warm cloathing. How do you think you could bear all this?

Sally.

Indeed I don't know. But I have seen Plow|man's wife carry great brown loaves into the house; and I remember once eating some brown bread and milk, and I thought it very good.

Mrs. M.

I believe you would not much like it con|stantly: besides, they can hardly get enough of that. But you seem to know almost as little of the poor as the young French Princess did.

Sally.

What was that, mamma?

Mrs. M.

Why there had been one year so bad a harvest in France, that numbers of the poor were famish|ed to death. This calamity was so much talked of, that it reached the Court, and was mentioned before the young Princesses. Dear me! said one of them, how sil|ly that was! Why, rather than be famished, I would eat bread and cheese. Her governess was then obliged to acquaint her, that the greatest part of her father's subject's scarcely ever eat any thing better than black bread all their lives; and that vast numbers would now think themselves very happy to get only their usual pit|tance of that. Such wretchedness as this was what the Princess had not the least idea of; and the account shocked her so much, that she was glad to sacrifice all her finery to afford some relief to the sufferings of the poor.

Sally.

But I hope there is nobody famished in our country.

Mrs. M.

I hope not; for we have laws by which ev|ery person is entitled to relief from the parish, if he is unable to gain a subsistence; and were there no laws about it, I am sure it would be our duty to part with every superfluity rather than let a fellow-creature perish for want of necessaries.

Sally.

Then do you think it was wrong for Miss Pem|berton to have all those fine things?

Mrs. M.

No, my dear, if they are suitable to her fortune, and do not consume the money which ought to be employed in more useful things for herself and others.

Sally.

But why might she not be contented with such things as I have; and give the money that the rest cost to the poor?

Mrs. M.

Because she can afford to be both charitable to the poor, and also to indulge herself in these pleasures. But do you recollect, that the children of Mr. White, the

baker, and Mr. Shape, the taylor, might just ask the same questions about you?

Sally.

How so?

Mrs. M.

Are you not as much better dressed, and as much more plentifully supplied with play-things than they are, as Miss Pemberton is than you?

Sally.

Why, I believe I am; for I remember Polly White was very glad of one of my old dolls; and Nancy Shape cried for such a sash as mine, but her mother would not let her have one.

Mrs. M.

Then you see, my dear, that there are ma|ny who have fewer things to be thankful for than you have; and you may also learn what ought to be the true measure of the expectations of children, and the indulgen|cies of parents.

Sally.

I don't quite understand you, mamma.

Mrs. M.

Every thing ought to be suited to the station in which we live, or are likely to live, and the wants and duties of it. Your papa and I do not grudge laying out part of our money to promote the innocent pleasure of our children; but it would be very wrong in us to lay out so much on this account as would oblige us to spare in more necessary articles, as in their education, and the common household expenses required in our way of liv|ing. Besides, it would be so far from making y•••• hap|pier, that it would be doing you the greatest injury.

Sally.

How could that be, mamma?

Mrs. M.

If you were now to be dressed like Miss Pemberton, don't you think you should be greatly mor|tified at being worse dressed, when you come to be a young woman?

Sally.

I believe I should, mamma; for then perhaps I might go to assemblies; and to be sure I should like to be as smart then as at any time.

Mrs. M.

Well, but it would be still more improper for us to dress you then beyond our circumstances, be|cause your necessary clothes will then cost more, you know. Then if we were to hire a coach or chair for you to go a visiting in, should you like to leave it off ever af|terwards? But you have no reason to expect that you will be able to have those indulgencies when you are a

woman. And so it is in every thing else. The more fine things, and the more gratifications you have now, the more you will require hereafter; for custom makes things so familiar to us, that while we enjoy them less, we want them more.

Sally.

How is that, mamma?

Mrs. M.

Why, don't you think you have enjoyed your ride in the coach this evening more than Miss Har|riet would have done?

Sally.

I suppose I have; because if Miss Harriet liked it so well, she would be always riding, for I know she might have the coach whenever she pleased.

Mrs. M.

But if you were both told that you were never to ride in a coach again, which would think it the greater hardship? You could walk, you know, as you have always done before; but she would rather stay at home, I believe, than expose herself to the cold wind, and trudge through the wet and dirt in pattens.

Sally.

I believe so too; and now, mamma, I see that all you have told me is very right.

Mrs. M.

Well, my dear, let it dwell upon your mind, so as to make you cheerful and contented in your station, which you see is so much happier than that of many and many other children. So now we will talk no more on this su••••ect.

DIALOGUE II.—ON PRESENCE OF MIND.

MRS. F. one day having occasion to be blooded, sent for the surgeon. As soon as he entered the room, her young daughter, Eliza, started up, and was hastily going away, when her mother called her back.

Mrs. F.

Eliza, do not go; I want you to stay by me.

Eliza.

Dear mamma! I can never bear to see you blooded.

Mrs. F.

Why not? what harm will it do you?

Eliza.

O dear! I cannot look at blood. Besides, I cannot bear to see you hurt, mamma!

Mrs. F.

O, if I can bear to feel it, surely you may to see it. But come—you must stay, and we will talk about it afterwards.

Eliza then, pale and trembling, stood by her mother, and saw the whole operation. She could not help, how|ever, turning her head away when the incision was made, and the first flow of blood made her start and shudder: When all was over, and the surgeon gone, Mrs. F. be|gan. Well. Eliza! what do you think of this mighty matter now? would it not have been very foolish to have run away from it?

Eliza.

O, mamma! how frightened I was when he took out his lancet! Did it not hurt you a great deal?

Mrs. F.

No, very little. And if it had, it was to do me good, you know.

Eliza.

But why should I stay to see it? I could do you no good.

Mrs. F.

Perhaps not; but it will do you good to be accustomed to such sights.

Eliza.

Why, mamma?

Mrs. F.

Because instances are every day happening in which it is our duty to assist our fellow creatures in circumstances of pain and distress; and, if we were to indulge a reluctance to come near to them on those occa|sions, we should never acquire either the knowledge or the presence of mind necessary for the purpose.

Eliza.

But if I had been told how to help people in such cases, could not I do it without being used to see them.

Mrs. F.

No; we have all naturally a horror at every thing which is the cause of pain and danger to ourselves and others; and nothing but habit can give most of us the presence of mind necessary to enable us, in such oc|currences, to employ our knowledge to the best advan|tage.

Eliza.

What is presence of mind, mamma?

Mrs. F.

It is the steady possession of ourselves in cases of alarm, that prevents us from being flurried and fright|ened. You have heard the expression of having all our wits about us. This is the effect of presence of mind, and

a most inestimable quality it is; for without it, we are full as likely to run into danger as to avoid it. Do you not remember of hearing of your cousin Mary's cap taking fire in the candle?

Eliza.

O yes, very well.

Mrs. F.

Well, the maid, as soon as she saw it, set up a great scream, and ran out of the room; and Mary might have been burnt to death for any assistance she could give her.

Eliza.

How foolish that was.

Mrs. F.

Yes. The girl had not the least presence of mind, and the consequence was, depriving her of all recollection, and making her entirely useless. But as soon as your aunt came up, she took the right method for preventing the mischief. The cap was too much on fire to be pulled off, so she whipped a quilt from the bed, and flung it round Mary's head, and thus stifled the flame.

Eliza.

Mary was a good deal scorched, though.

Mrs. F.

Yes; but it was very well that it was no worse. If the maid, however, had acted with any sense at first, no harm at all would have been done, except burning the cap. I remember a much more fatal example of the want of presence of mind. The mistress of a family was awakened by flames bursting through the wainscot into her chamber. She flew to the stair-case; and, in her confusion, instead of going up stairs to call her children, who slept together in the nursery over-head, and who might all have escaped by the top of the house, she ran down, and, with much danger, made way through the fire into the street. When she had got thither, the thought of her poor children rushed into her mind, but it was too late; the stairs had caught fire, so that nobody could get near them, and they were burned in their beds!

Eliza.

What a sad thing!

Mrs. F.

Sad, indeed! Now I will tell you of a dif|ferent conduct. A lady was awakened by the crackling of fire, and saw it shining under her chamber floor. Her husband would immediately have opened the door, but she prevented him, since the smoke and flame would then have burst in upon them. The children, with a maid,

slept in a room opening out of theirs. She went and awakened them; and, tying together the sheets and blankets, she sent down the maid from the window first, and then let down the children, one by one, to her; last of all she descended herself. A few minutes after the floor fell in, and all the house was in flames.

Eliza.

What a happy escape!

Mrs. F.

Yes; and with what cool recollection of mind was it managed! For mothers to love their chil|dren, and be willing to run any hazards for them, is common; but in weak minds that very love is apt to prevent exertions in time of danger. I have heard a remarkable story of the mother of that Mr. Day who wrote Sanford and Merton. She was distinguished, as he so was, for courage and presence of mind. When a young woman, she was one day walking in the fields with a companion, when they perceived a bull coming to them, roaring and tossing about his horns in the most tremendous manner.

Eliza.

O, how I should have screamed!

Mrs. F.

I dare say you would; and so did her com|panion. But she bid her walk away behind her as gently as she could, whilst she herself stopt short, and faced the bull, eyeing him with a determined countenance. The bull, when he had come near, stopt also, pawing the ground and roaring. Few animals will attack a man who steadily waits for them. In a while, she drew back some steps, still facing the bull. The bull followed. She stopt, and then he stopt. In this manner, she made good her retreat to the stile over which her companion had before got. She then turned and sprung over it, and got clear out of danger.

Eliza.

That was bravely done indeed! but I think very few women could have done as much.

Mrs. F.

Such a degree of cool resolution, to be sure, is not very common. But I have read of a lady in the East-Indies who shewed, at least, as much. She was sitting out of doors with a party of pleasure, when they were aware of a huge tyger that had crept through a hedge near them, and was just ready to make his fatal spring. They were struck with the utmost consternation;

but she, with an umbrella in her hand, turned to the tyger, and suddenly spread it full in his face. This unusual assault so terrified the beast, that taking a pro|digious leap, he sprung over the fence, and plunged out of sight into the neighbouring thicket.

Eliza.

Well, that was the boldest thing I ever heard of. But is it possible, mamma, to make one's self coura|geous?

Mrs. F.

Courage, my dear, is of two kinds; one the gift of nature, the other of reason and habit. Men have naturally more courage than women; that is, they are less affected by danger; it make a less impression upon them, and does not flutter their spirits so much. This is owing to the difference of their bodily constitution; and, from the same cause, some men and some women are more courageous than others. But the other kind of courage, may, in some measure, be acquired by every one. Reason teaches us to face smaller dangers, in order to avoid greater, and even to undergo the greatest, when our duty requires it. The courage of women is chief|ly tried in domestic dangers. They are attendants on the sick and dying; and they must qualify themselves to go through many scenes of terror, in these situations, which would alarm the stoutest hearted man, who was not accustomed to them.

Eliza.

I have heard that women generally bear pain and illness better than men.

Mrs. F.

They do so, because they are more used to them, both in themsel••es and others.

Eliza.

I think I should not be afraid again to see any body blooded.

Mrs. F.

I hope not. It was for that purpose I made you stand by me. And I would have you always force yourself to look on and give assistance in cases of this kind, however painful it may at first be to you, that you may, as soon as possible, gain that presence of mind which arises from habit.

DIALOGUE III.—ON FLATTERY.

LADY DOWNRIGHT, MATILDA her Daughter.

Matilda.

O DEAR mamma, kiss me for the good news that I have to tell you.

Lady D.

What is it, my dear?

Mat.

I am just going to introduce you to the most agreeable acquaintance in the world, Miss Sacharissa Bland, a sweet girl: she is to be here presently.

Lady D.

Here! I imagined that to visit in this house, the person should be first introduced to me.

Mat.

Very true, mamma, but I was so sure of your liking her company, that I thought it no harm to dis|pense with ceremony for this time.

Lady D.

Do you give the name of ceremony to your duty? this shews you as heedless as usual: but the young lady's behaviour has not that reserve or discretion that I could wish in the person whom you desire to make your friend. I think she should have waited for my invitation.

Mat.

Why, she was so impatient to pay you her respects—you cannot think how highly she speaks of you.

Lady D.

How can she know me? I never saw her but once, and then by chance at a third person's.

Mat.

Well, that interview was enough to form her opinion of you. She has drawn so favourable a picture of your good qualities, that I shall always be proud of having such a mother.

Lady D.

And no doubt, too, her skilful hand has drawn a fair portrait of your accomplishments.

Mat.

I don't know how it is; but you cannot imag|ine how many happy qualities she discovered in me— more than I myself was aware of.

Lady D.

But which you are now clearly convinced belong to you.

Mat.

Yes, it is so plain! so striking!

Lady D.

I shall be apt to fear that she did not reckon diffidence ••mong the number of your happy qualities.

Mat.

Perhaps you are joking, and yet she was almost tempted to chide me for having too much. However, she agreed at the last, that diffidence was more necessary to me than another, to disarm the envy of such as do not possess equal accomplishments.

Lady D.

Really I wish you joy of these fine discov|eries.

Mat.

Why mamma, she was so just in her panegyric upon you, that I am the more apt to give her credit with regard to myself! Oh! she is a sweet girl!

Lady D.

I don't wonder that you are so much taken with her.

Mat.

How can one help loving her! she is of so amiable a temper, you never hear a word from her lips but is perfectly obliging.

Lady D.

Have you been often in her company?

Mat.

Only twice with the Miss Delmores, at their house. She has a great deal of friendship for them, but they do not seem sufficiently to return it. Do you think that the Miss Delmores possess much penetration? I have visited them these four years, and in that time they have not been able to know me as perfectly as Miss Bland in three days.

Lady D.

What makes you imagine so?

Mat.

Because they have sometimes taken upon them to find little defects in me, which however I flatter my|self do not belong to me. I should suppose them to be something envious.

Lady D.

It happens pretty often that I take the same liberties with you. Do you imagine me also to be jealous of your merit?

Mat.

Oh! that is quite different. You only speak to me out of friendship, and for my good: but—

Lady D.

Why cannot you suppose your friends to have the same motive? Without being so strongly inter|ested in your improvement as your own family, may they not wish it nevertheless very affectionately, in order that you may be more worthy a continuance of that intimacy which has subsisted between you from your childhood? Besides, I know them sufficiently to be convinced, that in

their remarks and advice to you, they have always pre|served the discretion of friendship.

Mat.

But then they chid me for such trifles.

Lady D.

Your self-love is ingenious enough to im|peach their delicacy; however, I see for my part, strong|er reason from their behaviour, for your valuing their at|tachment. I am persuaded that nobody in the world, next to your relations, can be more worthy of a distin|guished place in your friendship.

Mat.

Oh! I am sure Miss Bland has already as much friendship for me as they have. But I hear somebody coming up stairs. It is she! It is she! How happy I am! Now you will see her.

Miss Bland.

(Approaching Lady Downright with an assum|ed ••ir of respect.)

Your Ladyship will pardon my taking the liberty of introducing myself thus abruptly; but in all companies I have heard your estimable qualities men|tioned so handsomely, that I could not resist the desire I felt of paying you the tribute of my respects. I am no longer surprised that Miss Downright is already possest of such splendid accomplishments.

Mat.

(Whispering her mother.)

There, mamma!

Lady D.

Miss, your compliment is very pretty. It would have come indeed with more weight from a person better qualified, by age or intimacy, to form an opinion of us; especially if she had had the delicacy to express it in any other manner than bluntly to our faces.

Miss B.

(A little disconcerted.)

Who can suppress the sentiments you inspire even at first sight? Ah! had I so amiable a mother!

Lady D.

Do you think, Miss, that this wish testifies much respect to your mother?

Miss B.

Pardon me, Madam, I cannot tell how to express my admiration of your character. Look where I will, I find none that can be compared with your Lady|ship: and, as to Miss Downright, what young lady of her age can dispute the palm with her for wit, grace, or accomplishments! I am not apt to be blindly partial even to those that I esteem; for instance, I have the greatest friendship for the Miss Delmores, and wish to shut my

eyes to all their faults, but how awkward, stiff▪ and i••|imate they are, when compared to your daughter!

Lady D.

You certainly forget that they are her friends, and this description of them cannot be agreeable to us, particularly as they by no means deserve it. Besides, I hear that you have a thousand times, complimented the•• on their agreeable qualities, and that in the most po••|pous style.

Mat.

Indeed so she has, mamma; this change surprise•• me. It is no longer ago than yesterday, that she said all manner of fine things to them.

Lady D.

I see that is no reason why the lady should treat them as favourably behind their b••cks.

Miss B.

One does not like to mention disagreeable truths. For my part, I tell none their faults except my real friends.

Lady D.

I do not know whether my daughter should think very highly of that distinction; but I should ••e much afraid, were I in her place, of becoming the sub|ject of the same sort of confidence with some other of your real friends; for I suppose you have a good many of that description.

Miss B.

Bless me! what an opinion your Ladyship entertains of me! I have too sincere a love for Mis•• Downright.

Lady D.

Well, ma'am, as you are so sincere, I must also be sincere with you on my side; and assure you, that as I did not, nay, could not expect this visit, I had set apart this evening for the purpose of conversing with my daughter on several important points of education. I see every reason not to delay a moment longer what I have to say to her, concerning the danger of silly credu|lity, as well as the meanness of servile flattery; and I should fear that such topics might not be agreeable to you. When my daughter and I shall be so near perfec|tion as you are pleased to suppose, we shall then receive your compliments without scruple. I shall give you no|tice, ma'am, when that period arrives; and, in the mean time, your most obedient.

Miss B.

(Retiring in confusion.)

Your Ladyship's humble servant.

Mat.

Oh! mamma, what a reception you have given her!

Lady D.

Should I keep any measures with a person who comes to insult us in our own house?

Mat.

Insult us, mamma?

Lady D.

Is it not an insult to put a cheat upon us? And is it not putting a gross cheat on us, to load us with compliments and praises the most false and ridiculous possible? Do you think that she really takes you for a prodigy of graces and accomplishments, as she did not blush to call you to your face? Did she not speak in the same style to the Miss Delmores, and have you not heard how she treated them? Did you not mark with what un|natural adulation she would have complimented me, at the expense of her own mother? I do not know how I refrained treating such an instance of meanness with all the contempt and indignation that it merited.

Mat.

A shocking character indeed!

Lady D.

It is the character of all flatterers who dare t•• aim at governing others, while their littleness and servility sink them to the lowest rank of the human species.

Mat.

How? Do you think that Miss Bland would have aimed at governing me?

Lady D.

Your inexperience hindered you from seeing through her artifices, coarse as they were. But while she insinuated herself into your favour, by praising you at the expense of truth, what were her views? To gain an ascendant over your understanding, by reducing you at length to the habitual necessity of being flattered. That she might rule you with more absolute dominion, did she not endeavour to alienate your friendship from two ami|able young ladies, by ridiculing them, or by hinting them to be secretly envious of those imaginary perfections that she ascribed to you? Had she succeeded in thus intoxicat|ing your mind, who knows if she would not have at|tempted to sap the foundation of all your duties, by rep|resenting my advice to you as harshness and reproach, the anxiety of my affection for you as a splenetic hu|mour, and my authority as tyranny? What would then have become of you, abandoned by your friends and your parents?

Mat.

(Throwing herself into her mother's 〈◊〉〈◊〉.)

O my dear|est mamma, I see it plainly; without you I should have been lost. From what a dangerous acquaintance have you saved me!

Lady D.

(Embracing her tenderly.)

Yes, my dear, we are now reunited forever. I perceived your surprise at seeing me treat Miss Bland with so much freedom and seeming incivility; but you know that all my happiness is cen|tered in you; judge then of my feelings, when I saw it so near being embittered by her seducing arts. You have as yet no idea of the unhappy condition of a woman, who is early spoiled by flattery. Coming into the world with pretensions that nothing can justify, and an opinion of her own merit, in which nobody else joins her, what mortifications must she experience! As to the homage she expected, the more her pride exacts it, the more she finds it withheld, and the sneer of contempt supply its place. If, blinded as she is by self-opinion, a transient ray of reflection should enlighten her for a moment, and shew her the true state of herself, what shame must she feel on finding herself destitute of a claim to those qual|ities, which she imagined herself to possess, and what re|gret at having lost the opportunities of acquiring them! On what should she, for the future, found her pretensions to public esteem, to the love of her husband, or the re|spect of her family? To stifle the reproaches of her mind as well as the troublesome consciousness of her own want of merit, she can suffer none about her, but despicable flatterers of the same stamp with those, who first corrupt|ed her understanding; and to crown her disgrace, while she contemns them, she feels herself worthy of their con|tempt. Irritated by all these mortifications, she is still farther tortured at the sight of desert in another, even in her own children. If she distinguishes any by her regard, it is those whom she has tutored to a servile compliance with her folly; and thus she is condemned to the crime of corrupting their veracity, in order to make them wor|thy o••••ects of her affection.

Ma••.

Dear Madam, turn away this picture; it fills me with horror.

Lady D.

Well then, in order to rest your imagination upon more agreeable objects, picture to yourself a young woman adorned with that modesty, which is so graceful, and with that diffidence in her powers of pleasing, which gives them their highest charm. Even the flatterers re|spect her, even the envious receive her with a smile. By modestly yielding to her rivals all that they assume, she takes the surest way to gain a superiority over them. She seems to appear every day with a constant addition of good qualities, as the esteem which she inspires puts peo|ple upon finding new graces in her character. Assisted by the advice of her friends, which her diffidence induces her to accept, she is beloved by them as the creature of their good wishes. The homage addressed to her, from all quarters, enhances her value in the eyes of her hus|band, who therefore studies to become more worthy of her affection by his constancy and attention. Her chil|dren nourished by her virtues, look up to no other pattern; and indeed the experience of her own success will make her the more proper to direct their education. She will be able to qualify them for the happiness which she herself enjoys. More and more pleased every day with herself, and with every thing that is around her, she will be hap|py in the prime of life, and secure to herself in a more advanced age the grateful esteem of her acquaintance, ••hose attachment her merit will have rendered both zeal|ous and sincere.

Mat.

Dear Madam, make me that happy woman. Henceforth I shall distrust the most dexterous flattery; and if ever my self-love becomes blind, I will look up to your prudence and affection to enlighten it.

DIALOGUE IV.

Enter TONY and Miss CONSTANTIA NEVILLE, followed by Mrs. HARDCASTLE and HASTINGS.

Tony.

WHAT do you follow me for, cousin Con? I wonder you're not ashamed to be so very engag|ing.

Miss Neville.

I hope, cousin, one may speak to one's own relations, and not be to blame.

Tony.

Aye, but I know what sort of a relation you want to make me, though; but it won't do. I tell you, cousin Con, it won't do; so I beg you'll keep you dis|tance; I want no nearer relationship.

(She follows, co••|ting him to the back scene.)

Mrs. Hardcastle.

Well! I vow, Mr. Hastings, you are very entertaining. There's nothing in the world I love to talk of so much as London, and the fashions, though I was never there myself.

Hastings.

Never there! you amaze me! from your air and manner, I concluded you had been bred all your life either at Ranelagh, St. James's, or Tower Wharf.

Mrs. H.

O! Sir, you're only pleased to say so. We country persons can have no manner at all. I'm in love with the town, and that serves to raise ••e above some of our neighbouring rustics; but who can have a manner that has never seen the pantheon, the grotto gardens, the borough, and such like places, where the nobility chiefly resort? All I can do is to enjoy Lon|don at second hand. I take care to know every tete-a-••e from the Scandalous Magazine, and have all the fashions, as they come out, in a letter from the two Miss Rickets of Crooked-Lane. Pray how do you like this head, Mr. Hastings?

Hast.

Extremely elegant and degagée, upon my word, Madam. Your fri••eur is a Frenchman, I suppose!

Mrs. H.

I protest I dressed it myself from a print in the ladies' memorandum-book for the last year.

Hast.

Indeed! Such a head in a side-box, at the play-house, would draw as many gazers as my lady Mayoress at a city ball.

Mrs. H.

I vow, since inoculation began, there is no such thing to be seen as a plain woman; so one must dress a little particular, or one may escape in the crowd.

Hast.

But that can never be your case, Madam, in any dress.

(Bowing.)

Mrs. H.

Yet, what signifies my dressing, when I have such a piece of antiquity by my side as Mr. Hardcastle? All I can say will never argue down a single button

from his clothes. I have often wanted him to throw off his great flaxen wig, and where he was bald, to plaster it over like my lord Pately, with powder.

Hast.

You are right, Madam; for, as among the la|dies, there are none ugly, so among the man there are ••one old.

Mrs. H.

But what do you think his answer was? Why, with his usual Gothic vivacity, he said I only wanted him to throw off his wig, to convert it into a••tete for my own wearing.

Hast.

Intolerable! at your age you may wear what you please, and it must become you.

Mrs. H.

Pray Mr. Hastings what do you take to be the most fashionable age about town?

Hast.

Some time ago forty was all the mode; but I'm told the ladies intend to bring up fifty for the ensu|ing winter.

Mrs. H.

(Seriously.)

Then I shall be too young for the fashion.

Hast.

No lady begins now to put on jewels, till she's past forty. For instance, Miss there, in a polite circle, would be considered as a child, as a mere maker of sam|ple••s.

Mrs. H.

And yet Mrs. niece thinks herself as much a woman, and is as fond of jewels, as the oldest of us all.

Hast.

Your niece, is she? And that young gentle|man a brother of your's, I should presume?

Mrs. H.

My son, Sir. They are contracted to each other. Observe their little sports. They fall in and out ten times a day, as if they were man and wife already.

(To them.)

Well, Tony, child, what soft things are you saying to your cousin Constance this evening?

Tony.

I have been saying no soft things; but that its very hard to be followed about so▪ Ecod! I've not a place in the house now, that's left to myself, but the stable.

Mrs. H.

Never mind him, Con, my dear; he's in another story behind your back.

Miss N.

There's something generous in my cousin's manner. He falls out before faces to be forgiven in pri|vate.

Tony.

That's a confounded—crack.

Mrs. H.

Ah! he's a sly one. Don't you think they're like each other about the mouth, Mr. Hastings? The Blenkinsop mouth to a T. They're of a size too. Back to back, my pretties, that Mr. Hastings may see you. Come, Tony.

Tony.

You had as good not make me, I tell you.

(Measuring.)

Miss N.

O lud! he has almost cracked my head.

Mrs. H.

O the monster! For shame, Tony. You a man, and behave so!

Tony.

If I'm a man, let me have my fortune. Ecod! I'll not be made a fool of no longer.

Mrs. H.

Is this, ungrateful boy, all that I'm to get for the pains I have taken in your education? I that have rocked you in your cradle, and fed that pretty mouth with a spoon! Did I not work that waistcoat to make you genteel? Did I not prescribe for you every day, while the receipt was operating?

Tony.

Ecod! you had reason to weep, for you have been do••ng me ever since I was born. I have g••••e through every receipt in the Complete Housewife ten times over; and you have thoughts of coursing me through Quincy next spring. But ecod! I tell you, I'll not be made a fool of no longer.

Mrs. H.

Was'n't it all for your good, viper? Was'n't it all for your good?

Tony.

I wish you would let me and my good alone, then. Snubbing this way when I'm in spirits. If I'm to have any good, let it come of itself; not to keep ding|ing it, dinging it into one so.

Mrs. H.

That's false; I never see you when you're in spirits. No, Tony; you then go to the ale-house or kennel. I'm never to be delighted with your agreeable, wild notes, unfeeling monster!

Tony.

Ecod! mamma, your own notes are the wild|est of the two.

Mrs. H.

Was ever the like? but I see he wants to break my heart; I see he does.

Hast.

Dear Madam, permit me to lecture the young gentleman a little. I'm certain I can persuade him to his duty.

Mrs. H.

Well! I must retire. Come, Constance, my love. You see, Mr. Hastings, the wretchedness of my situation. Was ever poor woman so plagued with a dear, sweet, pretty, undutiful boy.

DIALOGUE V.

Enter Mr. DELVILLE, Mr. BRIGGS, and CECILIA.

Mr. B.

SO! what's all this? hey? Where are go|ing?—a coach at the door!—horses to every wheel!— servants fine as lords! what's in the wind new?—think to chouse me out of my belongings?

Cec.

I thought, Sir, I explained, before I left you, that I should not return.

Mr. B.

Didn't, didn't; waited for you three days;— dressed a breast o' mutton o' purpose;—got in a lobster and two crabs;—all spoilt by keeping;—stink already: weather quite muggy—forced to souse them in vinegar: one expense brings on another;—never begin the like age••.

Cec.

I am very sorry, indeed, if there has been any mistake through my neglect; but I had hoped I was understood, and I have been so much occupied—

Mr. B.

Ay, ay,—fine work! rare doings!—a merry ••••••••halling, with pistols at all your noddles!—thought as much—thought he'd tip the perch—saw he wasn't ••aunch—knew he'd go by his company—a set of jack|anapes!—all black legs!—nobody warm among 'em— follows with a month's good living upon their backs, and not sixpence for the hangman in their pockets!

Cec.

I will not, Sir, as your time is precious, detain you here; but as soon as it is in my power, I will wait upon you in the city.

Mr. B.

Well I'd all your cash myself—seized that else!—run out the constable for you next, and made you blow your own brains out for company. Mind what I say, never give your mind to a gold-laced hat; many a one wears it don't know five farthings from two-pence.

A good man always wears a bob-wig; make that your rule. Ever see master Harrel wear such a thing;—no, I'll warrant. Better if he had kept his head on his own shoulders. And now pray how does he cut up?—what has he left behind him? a ••wey case I suppose, and a bit of a hat won't go on a man's head!

Cec.

At present, Sir, we are all going out of town; the carriage is waiting at the door, and therefore—

Mr. B.

No such thing—shan't go—come for you myself—take you to my own house. Got every thing ready—been to the broker's—bought a nice blanket— hardly a brack in it. Pick up a table soon—one in my eye.

Cec.

I am sorry you have so totally mistaken me, Sir; for I am now going into the country with Mr. and Mrs. Delville.

Mr. B.

Won't consent, won't consent. What will you go there, for?—hear of nothing but dead Dukes—as well visit an old tomb.

Mr. D.

Miss Beverly, if this person wishes for a longer conference with you, I am sorry you did not ap|point a more seasonable hour for your interview.

Mr. B.

Ay, ay—want to hurry her off! see that. But 'twon't do—a'n't to be nicked—choose to come in for my thirds—won't be gulled—shan't have more than your share.

Mr. D.

Sir!

Mr. B.

What! all above it, hey? warrant your Span|ish Don never thinks of such a thing! Don't believe 'em, my duck! great cry and little wool—no more of the ready than other folks—mere puff and gone.

Mr. D.

This is language, Sir, so utterly incompre|hensible, that I presume you do not intend it should be understood: otherwise, I should very little scruple to inform you, that no man of the name of Delville brooks the smallest insinuation of dishonour.

Mr. B.

Don't he? why how will he help it? will the old grandees jump out of their graves to frighten us?

Mr. D.

What old grandees, Sir? to whom are you pleased to allude?

Mr. B.

Why all them grandfathers and aunts you brag of; a set of poor souls you won't let rest in their coffins; mere clay and dirt! fine things to be proud of! a parcel of old mouldy rubbish quite departed this life! taking up bones and dust, nobody knows for what!— ought to be ashamed; who cares for dead carcasses? noth|ing but carrion. My little Tom's worth forty of 'em.

Mr. D.

I can so ill make out, Miss Beverly, what this person is pleased to drive at, that I cannot pretend to enter into any sort of conversation with him; you will therefore be so good as to let me know when he has fin|ished his discourse, and you are at leisure to set off.

Mr. B.

Ay, ay, Don Duke, poke in the old charnel houses by yourself; none of your defunct for me! did'nt care if they were all hung in a string. Who's the better for 'em?

Mr. D.

Pray, Sir, to whom were you pleased to ad|dress that speech?

Mr. B.

To one Don Puffendorf—ever know such a person, hey?

Mr. D.

Don who? Sir, I must trouble you to say that name over again.

Mr. B.

Suppose don't choose it? how then?

Mr. D.

I am to blame to suffer myself to be irrita|ted so unworthily; and I am sorry in my own house, to be compelled to hint that the sooner I have it to myself, the better I shall be contented with it.

Mr. B.

Ay, ay, want to get me off; want to have her to yourself! won't be so soon choused; who's the bet|ter man, hey? which do you think is warmest? and all got by myself; obliged to never a grandee for a penny; what do you say to that? will you cast an account with me?

Mr. D.

Very extraordinary this! the most extraor|dinary circumstance of the kind I ever met with! a per|son to enter my house in order to talk in this incompre|hensible manner! a person too I hardly know by sight!

Mr. B.

Never mind, old Don, know me better another time!

Mr. D.

Old who, Sir!—what?

Mr. B.

Come to a fair reckoning, suppose you were

in my case, and had never a farthing but of your own getting; where would you be then? What would be|come of your fine coach and horses? you might stump your feet off before you'd ever get one. Where would be all this smart crockery work for your breakfast? you might pop your head under a pump, or drink out of your own paw. What would you do for that fine jem|my tye? Where would you get a gold head to your stick? You might dig long enough in them cold vaults, before any of your old grandfathers would pop out to give you one.

(Mr. Delville rings a bell with great violence.)

And as to ringing a bell, you'd never know what it was in your life, unless you could make interest to be a dust|man.

Mr. D.

A dustman! I protest—

(Biting his lips and ••••opping short.)

Mr. B.

Ay, love it, don't you? suits your taste; why not one dust as well as another? Dust in a cart as good as dust in a charnel; don't smell half so bad.

Mr. D.

(To a servant.)

Is every thing ready?

Serv.

Yes Sir.

Mr. D.

Desire Mrs. Delville to get into the coach;

(To Cecilia)

and please to follow, Miss Beverly, when you are at leisure.

Exit.

Cecilia.

(To Mr. Delville.)

I will come immediately, Sir.

(To Mr. Briggs.)

I am sorry to leave you, and much concerned you have had this trouble; but I can detain Mr. Delville no longer.

Exit.

DIALOGUE VI.

Mr. BRIGGS, Mr. HOBSON, CECILIA—enter to them Mr. ALBANY, speaking to CECILIA.

ONCE more I am come to prove thy sincer|ity. Now wilt thou go with me where sorrow calls thee? sorrow thy charity can mitigate!

Cecilia.

I am very much concerned, but indeed at present it is utterly impossible.

Albany.

Again thou failest me! what wanton trif••ing! Why shouldst thou elate a worn-out mind, only to make it feel its lingering credulity? or why, teaching me to think I had found an angel, so unkindly undeceive me?

Cec.

Indeed if you knew how heavy a loss I had per|sonally suffered—

Alb.

I do know it, and I grieved for thee when I heard it. Thou hast lost a faithful old friend, a loss which with every setting sun thou may'st mourn, for the rising sun will never repair it! But was that a reason for shunning the duties of humanity? Was the sight of death a mo|tive for neglecting the claims of benevolence? Ought it not rather to have hastened your fulfilling them? And should not your own suffering experience of the brevity of human life have taught you the vanity of all things but preparing for its end?

Cec.

Perhaps so; but my grief at that time made me think only of myself.

Alb.

And of what else dost thou think now?

Cec.

Most probably of the same person still! but yet, believe me, I have real business to transact.

Alb.

Frivolous, unmeaning, ever-ready excuses! What business is so important as the relief of a fellow-creature.

Cec.

I shall not, I hope, there be backward; but at least for this morning I must beg to make you my al|moner.

(Taking out her purse.)

Mr. Hobson.

(In a whisper to Mr. Briggs.)

This, you must know, is, I am told, a very particular old gentleman; quite what I call a genius. He comes often to my house, to see my lodger Miss Henny Belfield, though I never happened to light upon him myself, except once in the passage: but what I hear of him is this—he makes a practice, as one may say, of going about into people's houses, to do nothing but find fault.

Mr. B.

Shan't get into mine! promise him that! don't half like him; be bound he's an old sharper.

Cec.

(To Mr. Albany.)

How much money do you wish for, Sir?

Alb.

Half a guinea.

Cec.

Will that do?

Alb.

For those who have nothing, it is much. Here|after you may assist them again. Go but and see their distresses, and you will wish to give them every thing▪

Mr. B.

(To Cecilia, twitching her sleeve.)

Don't give it! don't let him have it! chouse him, chouse him! nothing but an old bite.

Cec.

Pardon me, Sir, his character is very well known to me.

(Presenting the money to Mr. Albany.)

Mr. B.

Be ruined! see it plainly; be fleeced! be robbed! won't have a gown to your back! won't have a shoe to your foot! won't have a rag in the world! be a beggar in the street! come to the parish! rot in a jail!—half a guinea at a time!—enough to break the Great Mogul!

Alb.

Inhuman spirit of selfish parsimony! repinest thou at this loan, given from thousands to those who have worse than nothing? who pay to day in hunger for bread they borrowed yesterday from pity? who, to save them|selves from the deadly pangs of famine, solicit but what the rich know not when they possess, and miss not when they give?

Mr. B.

Anan! what d'ye say?

Alb.

If to thyself distress may cry in vain, if thy own heart resists the suppliant's prayer, callous to entreaty, and hardened to the world, suffer, at least, a creature yet un|tainted, who melts at sorrow, and who glows with char|ity, to pay, from her vast wealth, a generous tax of thank|fulness, that fate has not reversed her doom, and those whom she relieves, relieve not her.

Mr. B.

Anan!

Mr. H.

Pray, ma'am if it's no offence, was the gen|tleman ever a player?

Cec.

I fancy not, indeed!

Mr. H.

I ask pardon, then, ma'am; I meant no harm; but my notion was, the gentleman might be speaking something by heart.

Alb.

Is it but on the stage, humanity exists? Oh, thither hasten, then, ye monopolizers of plenty! ye self|ish, unfeeling engrossers of wealth, which ye dissipate without enjoying, and of abundance, which ye waste

while ye refuse to distribute! thither, thither haste, if there humanity exists!

Mr. H.

As to engrossing, it's what I never approved myself. My maxim is this; if a man makes a fa•••• pen|ny, without any underhand dealings, why he has as much a title to enjoy his pleasure as the Chief Justice, or the Lord Chancellor; and it's odds but he's as happy as a greater man. Though what I hold to be best of all, is a clear conscience, with a neat income of two or three thousand pounds a year. That's my notion; and I don't think it's a bad one.

Alb.

Weak policy of short-sighted ignorance! to wish for what, if used, brings care; and if neglected, remorse! have you not now beyond what nature craves? why then still sigh for more?

Mr. B.

Why? why to buy in, to be sure! ever hear of stocks, eh?—know any thing of money?

Alb.

Still to make more and more, and wherefore? to spend in vice and idleness, or hoard in cheerless mise|ry! not to give succour to the wretched; not to support the falling; all is for self, however little wanted; all goes to added stores, or added luxury; no fellow-creature served, nor even one beggar relieved!

Mr. B.

Glad of it! glad of it; would not have them relieved; don't like 'em; hate a beggar; ought to be all whipt; live upon spunging.

Mr. H.

Why as to a beggar, I must needs say, I am by no means an approver of that mode of proceeding; being I take 'em all for cheats; for what I say is this, what a man earns, he earns; and it's no man's business to inquire what he spends; for a free-born Englishman is his own master, by the nature of the law. But as to a beggar, it's quite another thing; he comes and asks me for money; but what has be to show for it? what does he bring me in exchange? why a long story that he i'n't worth a penny! what's that to me? nothing at all. Let every man have his own; that's my way of arguing.

Alb.

Ungentle mortals! in wealth exulting, exulting even in inhumanity! think you these wretched outcasts have less sensibility than yourselves; think you, in cold

and hunger they lose those feelings, which even in vo|luptuous prosperity from time to time disturb you? You say they are all cheats? 'tis but the niggard cant of ava|rice, to lure away remorse from obduracy. Think you the naked wanderer begs from choice? give him your wealth and try.

Mr. B.

Sha'n't have a sous! give him a whip! send him to bridewell! nothing but a pauper; hate 'em; hate 'em all! full of tricks; break their own legs, put out their arms, cut off their fingers, snap their own an|cles, —all for what? to get at the chink! to chouse us of cash! ought to be well flogged; have 'em all sent to the Thames; worse than the convicts.

Alb.

Poor subterfuge of callous cruelty! you cheat yourselves to shun the fraud of others! and, how better do you use the wealth so guarded? what nobler pur|pose can it answer you, than even a chance to snatch some wretch from sinking? think less how much ye save, and more for what; and then consider how thy full cof|fers may hereafter make reparation for the empty cat|alogue of thy virtues.

Mr. B.

Anan!

Alb.

(Turning towards Cecilia.)

Oh, yet, preach not here the hardness which ye practise: rather amend your|selves than corrupt her; and give with liberality what ye ought to receive with gratitude.

DIALOGUE VII. TRUDGE, WOWSKI, AND RUNNER.

Enter TRUDGE and WOWSKI, as from the Ship, with a dirty Runner to one of the Inns.

Runner.

THIS way, Sir; if you will let me rec|ommend—

Trudge.

Come along Wows! take care of your furs and feathers, my girl.

Wowski.

Iss.

Trudge.

That's right.—Somebody might steal 'em, perhaps.

Wow.

Steal!—What that?

Trudge.

O Lord! see what one loses by not being born in a Christian country.

Run.

If you would, Sir, but mention to your master, the house that belongs to my master; the best accommo|dations on the Quay.

Trudge.

What is your sign, my lad?

Run.

The Crown, Sir—here it is,

Trudge.

Well, get us a room for half an hour, and we'll come; and, hark'es! let it be light and airy, dy'e ••••ar? my master has been used to open apartments lately.

Run.

Depend upon it. Much obliged to you, Sir.

Exit.

Wow.

Who be that fine man? he great Prince?

Trudge.

A Prince!—ha! ha!—no, not quite a Prince, but he belongs to the crown. But how do you like this, Wows—is'n't it fine?

Wow.

Wonder!

Trudge.

Fine men, eh!

Wow.

Iss! All white like you.

Trudge.

Yes, all the fine men are like me; as differ|ent from your people as powder and ink, or paper and blacking.

Wow.

And fine lady, face like snow?

Trudge.

What! the fine ladies complexions? Oh, yes, exactly; for too much heat often dissolves them! Then their dress too.

Wow.

Your countrymen dress so.

Trudge.

Better, better a great deal. Why a young flashy Englishman will sometimes carry his whole for|tune on his back. But did you mind the women? All here and there; they have it all from us in England— And then the fine things they carry on their heads.

Wow.

Iss. One lady carry good fish, so fine she call every body to look at her.

Trudge.

Pshaw! an old woman bawling flounders. But the fine girls we meet here on the Quay—so round and so plump.

Wow.

You not love me now!

Trudge.

Not love you! You talk like a simpleton▪ Wows.

Wow.

Now you get here, you forget poor Wowsky!

Trudge.

Not I: I will stick to you like wax.

Wow.

Ah, I fear!—what make you love me now?

Trudge.

Gratitude, to be sure.

Wow.

What that?

Trudge.

Ha! that is now to live without education. The poor dull devils of her country are all in the practice of gratitude, without finding out what it means; while we can tell the meaning of it with a little or no practice at all. Lord, Lord, what a fine advantage Christian learning is! Hark'ee, Wows!

Wow.

Iss.

Trudge.

Now we've accomplished our landing, I'll accomplish you. You remember the instructions I gave you on the voyage?

Wow.

Iss.

Trudge.

Let's see now—What are you to do, when I introduce you to the nobility, gentry, and others of my acquaintance?

Wow.

Make believe sit down, then get up.

Trudge.

Let me see you do it.

(She makes a low cur••|se••.)

Very well; and how are you to recommend your self, when you have nothing to say, amongst all our great friends.

Wow.

Gria—shew my teeth.

Trudge.

Right! they'll think you've lived with peo|ple of fashion: but suppose you meet an old shabby friend in misfortune, that you don't wish to be seen to speak to—what would you do?

Wow.

Look blind—not see him.

Trudge.

Why would you do that?

Wow.

'Cause I can't bear to see good friend in dis|tress.

Trudge.

That's a good girl; and I wish every body could boast of so kind a motive for such cruel behaviour. But come, though we have got among fine folks here in an English settlement, I won't be ashamed of my old ac|quaintance; yet for my own part I should not be sorry now to see my old friend with a new face.

DIALOGUE VIII.

SCENE—A Cave, decorated with skin of wild 〈◊〉〈◊〉 feathers, &c.

Enter INKLE and TRUDGE, as from the mouth of the Cavern.

Trudge.

WHY, Sir, Sir, you must be ma•• to go any farther.

Ink.

So far at least we have proceeded with safety. Ha! no bad specimen of savage elegance. Those or|naments would be worth something in England. We have little to fear here. I hope this cave rather 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the pleasing face of a profitable adventure.

Trudge.

Very likely, Sir, but for a pleasing ••••ce it has the most ugly mouth, I ever saw in my life. Now, do Sir, make off as fast as you can. If we once get clear of the natives' houses, we have little to fear from the lions and leopards; for by the appearance of their parlours, they seem to have killed all the wild beasts in the country. Now pray do, my good master, take my advice and run away.

Ink.

Rascal! talk again of going out, and I'll ••y you alive.

Trudge.

That's just what I expect for coming in. All that enter here appear to have had their skin stript over their ears; and our's will be kept for curiosities.

Ink.

This curtain seems to lead to another apartment: I'll draw it.

Trudge.

No, no, no; don't, don't. We may be call|ed to account for disturbing the company—you may get a curtain lecture, perhaps, Sir.

Ink.

Peace, booby, and stand on your guard.

Trudge.

O! what will become of us! some grim seven-foot fellow ready to scalp us.

Ink.

By heaven! a woman.

As the curtain draws, Yaric•• and Wowski discovered asleep.

Trudge.

A woman!

(Aside.)

(Loud.)

But let him

come on: I'm ready; I don't fear facing the devil him|self. Faith, it is a woman—fast asleep, too.

Ink.

And beautiful as an angel.

Trudge.

And there seems to be a nice little plump bit in the corner, only she's an angel of rather a darker sort.

Ink.

Hush! keep back, she wakes.

(Yarico comes for|wa••.)

SONG.—YARICO.

When the chase of the day is done. And the shaggy lion's skin, Which for us our warriors win. Decks our cell at set of sun, Worn with toil, with sleep opprest, I press my mossy bed, and sink to rest.

Ink.

Our language!

Trudge.

〈…〉〈…〉 ••ne has thrown me into a cold strea••.

Yar.

〈…〉〈…〉 a noise! Wowski, awake! whence can it proceed▪

(••••e wakes Wowski, and they both 〈◊〉〈◊〉 forward.)

Trudge.

Madam, your very humble servant.

Yar.

Ah! what form is this▪—are you a man?

Ink.

True flesh and blood, my charming heathen, I promise you.

Yar.

What harmony in his voice! what a shape! How fair his skin, too!

(Gazing.)

Trudge.

This must be a lady of quality, by her staring.

Yar.

Say, stranger whence come you?

Ink.

From a far distant island, driven on this craft by distress, and deserted by my companions.

Yar.

And do you know the danger that surrounds you here? Our woods are filled with beasts of prey. My countrymen too— (yet I think they could not find the heart) might kill you. It would be a pity if you fell in their way—I think I should weep if you come to any harm.

Ink.

How wild and beautiful! sure there's magic in her shape, and she has rivetted me to the place; but where shall I look for safety? let me fly and avoid my 〈◊〉〈◊〉▪

Yar.

Oh, no, but,—

(p••••••••••ed)

well then di••, stran|ger,

but don't depart. I will try to preserve you, and if you are killed, Yarico must die too!—yes 'tis I alone can save you; your death is certain without my assist|ance, and indeed you shall not want it.

Ink.

My kind Yarico! but what means must be used for my safety?

Yar.

My cave must conceal you: None enter in it since my father was slain in battle. I will bring you food by day, then lead you to our unfrequented groves by moon-light, to listen to the nightingale. If you should sleep, I'll watch you, and wake you when there's danger.

Ink.

Generous maid! then to you I will owe my life; and while it lasts nothing shall part us.

Yar.

And sha'n't it, sha'n't it, indeed?

Ink.

No, my Yarico, for when an opportunity offers to return to my country, you shall be my companion.

Yar.

What, cross the seas?

Ink.

Yes, help me to discover a vessel, and you shall enjoy wonders: you shall be decked in silks, my brave maid, and have a house drawn with horses to carry you.

Yar.

Nay, do not laugh at me—But is it so?

Ink.

It is, indeed.

Yar.

Oh wonder! I wish my countrywomen could see me. But won't your warriors kill us?

Ink.

No, our only danger on land is here.

Yar.

Then let us retire further into the cave. Come, —your safety is in my keeping.

Ink.

I follow you.

DIALOGUE IX. AESOP AND MRS. RIOT.

Aesop.

SHIELD me, and defend me! Another fine lady!

Enter Mrs. RIOT.

Mrs. R.

A monster! a filthy brute! Your water|men are as unpolite upon the Styx as upon the Tham••s. —Stow a lady of fashion with tradesmen and mechan|ics

—〈◊〉〈◊〉 what's this, Serburus, for Plutus!

(Seeing Aesop)

Am I to be frighted by all the monsters of this internal world?

Aesop.

What's the matter, lady?

Mrs. R.

Every thing is the matter—my spirits are uncompos'd, and every circumstance about me in a 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉 dilemma.

Aesop.

What has disordered you thus?

Mrs. R.

Your filthy boatman, Scarroon there.

Aesop.

Charon, lady, you mean.

Mrs. R.

And who are you, you ugly creature you? If I see any more of you, I shall die with temerity.

Aesop.

The wife think me handsome, Madam.

Mrs. R.

I hate the wise; but who are you?

Aesop.

I am Aesop, Madam, honoured this day by Proserpina with the distribution of the waters of L••th••. Command me.

Mrs. R.

Shew me to the pump-room then, fellow— where's the company? I die in solitude.

Aesop.

What company?

Mrs. R.

The best company! people of fashion! the beau-monde! Shew me to none of your gloomy souls, who wander about in your groves and streams! shew me to glittering balls, enchanting masquerades, ravishing operas, and all the polite enjoyments of Elysian.

Aesop.

This is a language unknown to me, lady— No such fine doings here, and very little good company (as you call it) in Elysian.

Mrs. R.

What! no operas! eh! no Elysian then!

(Sings fantastically in Italian.)

'Sfortunato Monticelli! ban|ish'd Elysian, as well as the Hay-market! your taste here, I suppose, rises no higher than your Shakespeares and your Johnsons: oh you Goats and Vandals! in the name of barbarity, take 'em to yourselves; we are tired of 'em upon earth:—one goes indeed to a play-house sometimes, because one does not know how else one can kill one's time—every body goes, because all the world's there—but for my part—call Scarroon, and let him take me back again, I'll stay no longer here—stupid immor|tals!

Aesop.

You are a happy woman, that have neither cares nor follies to disturb you.

Mrs. R.

Cares! ha! ha! ha! nay, now I must laugh in your ugly face, my dear; what cares, does your wis|dom think, can enter into the circle of a fine lady's en|joyments?

Aesop.

By the account I have just heard of a fine la|dy's life, her very pleasures are both follies and cares; so drink the water, and forget them, Madam.

Mrs. R.

Oh, gad! that was so like my husband now ••forget my follies! I forget the fashions! forget my be|ing, the very quincet••ence and emptity of a fine lady•• The fellow would make me as great a brute as my hus|band.

Aesop.

You have an husband, then, Madam?

Mrs. R.

Yes—I think so—an husband and no hus|band—come, fetch me some of your water; if I must for|get something, I had as good forget him, for he's grown insufferable of late.

Aesop.

I thought, Madam, you had nothing to com|plain of.

Mrs. R.

One's husband, you know, is almost next to nothing.

Aesop.

How has he offended you.

Mrs. R.

The man talks of nothing but his money, and my extravagance—won't remove out of the filthy city, though he knows I die for the other end of the town; nor leave off his nasty merchandizing, though I've labour'd to convince him he loses money by it. The man was once tolerable enough, and let me have money when I wanted it; but now he's never out of a tavern, and is grown so valiant, that, do you know, he has pre|sum'd to contradict me, and refuse me money upon ev|ery occasion.

Aesop.

And all this without any provocation on your side?

Mrs. R.

I keep the best company, Sir, and day-light is no agreeable sight to a polite assembly: the sun is ve|ry well and comfortable, to be sure, to the lower part of the creation; but to ladies, who have a true taste of

pleasure, wax candles or no candles are preferable to all the sun-beams in the universe.

Aesop.

Preposterous fancy!

Mrs. R.

And so, most delicate sweet Sir, you don't approve my scheme; ha! ha! ha!—oh you ugly devil you! have you the vanity to imagine people of fashion will mind what you say? or that to learn politeness and breeding, it is necessary to take a lesson of morality out of Aesop's Fables—ha! ha! ha!

Aesop.

It is necessary to get a little reflection some|where; when these spirits leave you, and your senses are furfeited, what must be the consequence?

Mrs. R.

Oh, I have the best receipt in the world for the vapours; and lest the poison of your precepts should taint my vivacity, I must beg leave to take it now, by way of anecdote.

Aesop.

Oh by all means—ignorance and vanity!

Mrs. R.

(Drawing out a cord.)

Lady Rantan's com|pliments to Mrs. Riot.

SONG.

The card invites, in crowds we fly, To join the jovial rout, full cry; What joy from cares and plagues all day, To hie to the midnight hark-away.

Nor want, nor pain, nor grief, nor care, Nor dronish husbands enter there; The brisk, the bold, the young, the gay, All hie to the midnight hark-away.

Uncounted strikes the morning clock, And drowsy watchmen idly knock; Till day light peeps, we sport and play, And roar to the jolly hark-away.

When tir'd with sport, to bed we creep, And kill the tedious day with sleep; To morrow's welcome call obey, And again to the midnight hark-away.

Mrs. R.

There's life for you, you old fright! so trouble your head no more about your betters. I am so

perfectly satisfied with myself, that I will not alter an atom of me, for all you can say; so you may bottle up your philosophical waters for your own use, or for the fools that want 'em—Gad's my life! there's Billy But|terfly in the grove—I must go to him—we shall so rally your wisdom between us—ha! ha! ha!

The bold, the brisk, the young, the gay, All hie to the midnight hark-away.

Exit singing.

Aesop.

Unhappy woman! nothing can retrieve her; when the head has once got a wrong bias, 'tis ever ob|stinate, in proportion to its weakness.

DIALOGUE X.—THE FORCE OF VIRTUE IN MISFORTUNE. BETWEEN A HUSBAND AND WIFE.

Lucinda.

GOOD morning, my dear husband.

(Tak|ing him by the hand.)

I rejoice to see you, with all my heart.

Erastus.

(Embracing her.)

I thank you, my dear.— How have you passed your time since I left you?

Luc.

Very agreeably. I have been as happy as I could be, deprived of your company. I have amused myself with a song while engaged in my little occupa|tions.

Eras.

How I admire your firmness under misfor|tune! In you I behold a true heroine.

Luc.

My happiness consists in possessing you and a virtuous mind, which will ever be a support to our cour|age••. I am never unhappy but when you appear so.

Eras.

Heavens, what tenderness for me! and yet this very tenderness has placed you in your present situ|ation, which is such as would reduce an ordinary soul to despair.

Luc.

I conjure you, by all that is sacred, not to dis|turb our repose by such unjust reproaches: I protest, and call Heaven to witness, that my tranquillity is not pre|tended,

but real. I am happy in possessing you, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 without you life would be insupportable.

Eras.

Is it possible, that in spite of our extreme pov|erty, in spite of our desperate situation, the air of con|tent, which I observe in you, is not assumed to conceal from me your true feelings? Is it possible that your ea••+ness can proceed from a mind at ease?

Luc.

I repeat it again, I feel no uneasiness b•••• ••hat arise from seeing you unhappy.

Eras.

What goodness!

Luc.

Call to mind that there are a thousand perso•• much more unfortunate than we are. Shall we, by nourishing discontent, render ourselves more unhappy than we really are?

Eras.

It cannot make us poorer, my dear. The bi•• of heaven are less so than we. There is nothing in our cottage which can serve us for food. I have been climb|ing the mountains in quest of a supply, but have return|ed unsuccessful. What frightful indigence? I will, how|ever, endeavour to support myself; your courage is suf|ficient to animate mine: yet, when I contemplate our dear children, when I see the tears ready to start from their eyes, but which they endeavour to restrain, lest they should add to our affliction, great God! what bitter pangs pieroe my inmost soul!

Luc.

My friend, a misfortune, which exists only in imagination, ought not to deprive you of all your cour|age. Our eldest son is gone into the forest to gather fruit, and he will not return empty handed: we may besides hope much from the care of Simon, whom I ex|pect every moment from the city.

Eras.

I am greatly mortified that fear should have 〈◊〉〈◊〉 much power over me.

Luc.

(Shewing him a piece of embroidery.)

Besides this, here is a piece of work which I have just finished. Simon shall carry it to the city, where it will fetch a good price, as my work has always done. Do not be impatient, my dear, but look back upon the past. We have often been in desperate situations, and as often had relief when we least expected it.

Eras.

The greatness of your soul is to you an inex|haustible source of consolation: but for me, I cannot

bear the idea of the miseries, which our children, th•••• abandoned by every body, must inevitably experience. What way can we point out to them, by which they can obtain an honourable support?

Luc.

The way of virtue, my dear, which is ever infallible.

Eras.

Yes▪ but virtue under a suffering form, is nev|ertheless a sad spectacle. O how difficult it is to preserve virtue unspotted in the soul, when we are assailed by all sorts of misfortunes. Ah! ••ll the happiness which I desire, is, that they may pass through life without being unfounded with the vi••e populace▪ Alas! they will be •• enough below the rank to which their birth entit••es them. I pray Heaven, O my father, that the sighs, which th•• severity draws from me, may never be a torment to ••y soul, and that thou never mayest behold thy grandson begging his bread unknown at thy door.

Luc.

Why increase this misery, from which futurity may shield them? Providence can open an infinite num|ber of ways, which may lead to fortune.

Eras.

Without doubt; but how is it possible to follow 〈◊〉〈◊〉, when one has, for a long time, been plunged in the d••epest misery. Hardly had my father abandoned us; hardly had our necessities consumed our little ••ore, and left us in extreme poverty, when all the world appeared to be against us. What resource is there now left?

Luc.

The only part we can take, is to quit the ••rld, hide ourselves in solitude, fix our residence in one of the most beautiful countries on earth, and resign our|selves wholly to the care of Providence.

Eras.

Very well, my dear; but this is not the hap|piness I wish for my children. What enjoyment, gra|cious Heaven, can we expect in a situation, where all the strength of reason can hardly prevent our falling into despair?

Luc.

The situation in which Providence has seen ••it to place us, is not so desperate as many others. It is unjust to murmur at his decrees. I have just returned from visiting a poor neighbour: are not her misfortunes much greater than ours? For many years has she felt ••he griping hand of poverty, and been tormented a long time by a painful illness. Alas! the whole course of her

life has been one continued scene of affliction; yet rarely have I known her discover any sighs of impatience. She has no hope but in death, which, perhaps, will not ter|minate her life, until after a much longer period of suffer|ing. Shall we, then, who have had the advantage of a better education, and whose minds are much more highly cultivated, render ourselves more unhappy than she is, by our weakness, and want of fortitude under misfortune▪

Eras.

No, this must not be, my dear.

Luc.

Let us, then, learn to adore the wisdom of Providence, who directs all for the best ends. He loves his creatures, and will take equal care of the little and the great. He preserves the birds which sing in ou•• groves, the bee that hums around us, and the worm which crawls under our feet: and shall we murmur against his ways, because we are not placed in a situation to attract envy? Take courage, then, my dear, behold this beautiful country which smiles upon us. A clear sky and a charming evening are prepared to embellish the declining day, a day which has advanced our journ••y, and brought us nearer to the developement of our fortune.

Eras.

I thank you a thousand times, my dear Lucinda. How great is my happiness in possessing you! you have supported my weak reason; you have infused serenity into my soul. You calm continually my agitating fears that my father has abandoned me, and banished me entirely from his heart.

Luc.

O best of husbands! your reason would of itself have banished these gloomy ideas. I have only placed before your eyes the motives we have for consolation, which, at any other time, you yourself would readily have discovered.

DIALOGUE XI.

SIGISMUNDA

alone.

AND am I then alone? The most undone, Most wretched being now beneath the cope Of this affrightning gloom, that wraps the world!

I said I did not fear—Ah me! I feel A shivering horror run through all my powers! O, I am nought but tumults, fears and weakness! And yet how idle fear when hope is gone, Gone, gone forever!—Oh thou gentle scene

(Looking to|wards her bed.)

Of sweet repose, where by the oblivious draught Of each sad toilsome day, to peace restor'd, Unhappy mortals lose their woes awhile, Thou hast no peace for me!—What shall I do? How pass this dreadful night, so big with terror? Here, with the midnight shades, here will I sit, A prey to wild despair, and ceaseless weep The hours away—Bless me! I heard a noise— No—I mistook—Nothing but silence reigns And awful midnight round—Again—O heavens! My lord the king!

Enter TANCRED.

Tancred.

Be not alarm'd, my love!

Sigismunda.

My royal lord! why at this midnight hour, How came you hither?

Tan.

By that secret way My love contriv'd, when we in happier days, Us'd to devote these hours, so much in vain, To vows of love and everlasting friendship.

Sig.

Why will you thus persist to add new stings To her distress, who never can be thine? O fly me! fly!—you know—

Tan.

I know too much. O how I could reproach thee, Sigismunda! Pour out my injur'd soul in just complaints! But now the time permits not, these swift moments! I told thee how thy father's artifice Forc'd me to seem perfidious in thine eyes. E'er since—a dreadful interval of care!— My thoughts have been employ'd, not without hope, How to deseat Siffredi's barbarous purpose; But thy credulity has ruin'd all.

Sig.

Ah, generous Tancred! ah thy truth destroys me! Yes, yes, 'tis I, 'tis I alone am false! My hasty rage, join'd to my tame submission, More than the most exalted filial duty Could e'er demand, has dash'd our cup of fate

With bitterness unequall'd—But, alas! What are thy woes to mine?—to mine! just Heaven!— Now is thy turn of vengeance—hate, renounce me! O leave me to the fate I well deserve, To sink in hopeless misery!—at least, Try to forget the worthless Sigismunda!

Tan.

Forget thee! No! thou art my soul itself! I have no thought, no hope, no wish but thee! Ah, how forget thee!—much must be forgot, Ere Tancred can forget his Sigismunda!

Sig.

But you, my lord, must make that great effort.

Tan.

Can Sigismunda make it?

Sig.

Ah! I know not With what success—But all that feeble woman And love-entangled reason can perform, I, to the utmost, will exert to do.

Tan.

Fear not—'Tis done!— Success is sure—I am forgot already!

Sig.

Ah Tancred!—But, my lord, respect me more. Think who I am—What can you now propose?

Tan.

To claim the plighted vows which heaven has heard. To vindicate the rights of holy love, By faith and honour bound, to which compar'd These empty forms, which have ensnar'd thy hand, Are impious guile, abuse, and profanation— Nay, as a king, whose high prerogative By this unlicens'd marriage is affronted, To bid the laws themselves pronounce it void.

Sig.

Honour, my lord, is much too proud to catch At every slender twig of nice distinction. These for th' unfeeling vulgar may do well: But those, whose souls are by the nicer rules Of virtuous delicacy nobly sway'd, Stand at another bar than that of laws. Then cease to urge me—since I am not born To that exalted state to be your queen— Or, yet a dearer name—to be your wife!— I am the wife of an illustrious lord Of your own princely blood; and what I am, I will with proper dignity remain. Retire, my royal lord—There is no means To cure the wounds this fatal day has given. We meet no more!

Tan.

O barbarous Sigismunda! And canst thou talk thus steadily? Thus treat me With such unpitying, unrelenting rigour? Poor is the love, that rather than give up A little pride, a little formal pride, The breath of vanity, can bear to see The man, whose heart was once so dear to thine, A prey to anguish, fury and distraction! Thou canst not surely make me such a wretch; Thou canst not, Sigismunda! Yet relent, O save us yet!—Rodolpho, with my guards, Waits in the garden—Let us seize the moments We ne'er may have again—With more than power I will assert thee mine, with fairest honour. The world shall even approve; each honest bosom Swell with a kindred joy to see us happy.

Sig.

The world approve!—What is the world to me? The conscious mind is its own awful world. And mine is fixt—distress me then no more; Not all the heart can plead Shall ever shake th' unalterable dictates That tyrannize my breast.

Tan.

'Tis well—No more— I yield me to my fate—yes, yes, inhuman! Since thy barbarian heart is steel'd by pride, Shut up to love and pity, here behold me Cast on the ground, a vile and abject wretch! Lost to all cares, all dignities, all duties! Here will I grow, breathe out my faithful soul Here at thy feet—Death, death alone shall part us!

Sig.

Have you then vow'd to drive me to perdition? What can I more?—yes, Tancred! once again I will forget the dignity my station Commands me to sustain—for the last time, Will tell thee, that I fear no ties, no duty Can ever root thee from my hapless bosom. Retire my lord; and if you truly love me; If you respect my honour, nay, my peace, Retire! for tho' th' emotions of my heart Can ne'er alarm my virtue; yet, alas! They tear it so, they pierce it with such anguish— Oh 'tis too much!—I cannot bear the conflict!

DIALOGUE XIII.

LEONTINE and his Daughter ATHENAIS.

Leontine.

SO Athen••is, now our compliment To the young Persian Prince is at an end: What then remains but that we take our leave, And bid him everlastingly farewel?

Athenais.

My lord!

Leon.

I say that decency requires We should be gone; nor can you stay with honour.

Ath.

Most true, my lord.

Leon.

The court is now at peace, The emp'ror's sisters are retired forever, And he himself compos'd. What hinders then, But that we bid adieu to Prince Varanes?

Ath.

Ah, Sir! why will you break my heart?

Leon.

I would not. Thou art the only comfort of my age: Like an old tree, I stand amongst the storms; Thou art the only limb that I have left me;

(She kneels.)

My dear green branch! and how I pri••e thee, child, Heav'n only knows. Why dost thou kneel and weep?

Ath.

Because you are so good, and will, I hope, Forgive my fault, who first occasioned it.

Leon.

I charg'd thee to receive and hear the Prince.

Ath.

You did; and O my lord, I heard too much, Too much, I fear, for my eternal quiet!

Leon.

Rise, Athenais; credit him who bears More years than thou: Varanes has deceiv'd thee.

Ath.

How do we differ then? you judge the Prince Impious and base; while I take Heav'n to witness, I think him the most virtuous of men: Therefore, take heed, my lord, how you accuse him Before you make the trial. Alas, Varanes! If thou art false, there's no such thing on earth As solid goodness, or substantial honour. A thousand times, my lord, he has sworn to give me▪ (And I believe his oaths) his crown and empire, That day I make him master of my heart.

Leon.

That day he'll make thee mistress of his power, Which carries a soul name among the vulgar. No, Athenais, let me see thee dead, Borne a pale corpse, and gently laid in earth; So I may say—she's chaste, and dy'd a virgin, Rather than view thee with these wounded eyes, Seated upon the throne of Isdigerdes, The blast of common tongues, the nobles' scorn, Thy father's curse, that is, the Prince's mistress.

Ath.

O horrid supposition! how I detest it! Be witness, Heav'n, that sees my secret thoughts! Have I, for this, my lord, been taught by you The nicest justice, and severest virtue? No, Athenais: when the day beholds thee So scandalously rais'd, pride cast thee down, The scorn of honour, and the people's prey! No, cruel Leon••e, not to redeem That aged head from the descending ax▪ Would I for empire, to the man I love, Be made the object of unlawful pleasure.

Leon.

Oh, greatly said! and by the blood which warms me, Which runs as rich as any Athens holds, It would improve the virtue of the world, If ev'ry day a thousand votaries, And thousand virgins, came from far to hear thee!

Ath.

Look down, ye pow'rs, take notice, we obey The rigid principles ye have infus'd; Yet, O my noble father! to convince you, Since you will have it so, propose a marriage; Though with the thought I'm cover'd o'er with blushes; Not that I doubt the Prince; that were to doubt The heavens themselves. I know he is all truth; But modesty, the virgin's constant guest, That, that alone forbids.

Leon.

I wish to Heaven There prove no greater bar to my relief. Behold the Prince. I will retire awhile, And, when occasion calls, come to thy aid.

Exit Leon.

Enter VARANES and ARANTHES.

Var.

To fix her on a throne, to me seems little. This is the nature of thy Prince. But, Oh!

As to the world, thy judgment soars above me, And I am dar'd, with this gigantic honour; Glory forbids her prospect to a crown, Nor must she gaze that way; my haughty soul, That day when she ascends the throne of Cyrus, Will leave my body pale, and to the stars Retire in blushes, and quite lost forever.

Aran.

What then do you propose?

Var.

I know not what. But see, she comes, the glory of my arms, The only business of my instant thought, My soul's best joy, and all my true repose.

Ath.

What have you found, my lord, In me so harsh or cruel, that you fear To speak your griefs?

Var.

First let me kneel and swear, And on thy hand seal my religious vow: Strait let the breath of gods blow me from earth, If I prefer thee not, O Athenais, To all the Persian greatness.

Ath.

I believe you; For I have heard you swear as much before.

Var.

Hast thou? O why then did I swear again, But that my love knew nothing worthier of thee, And could no better way express my passion.

Ath.

O rise, my lord!

Var.

I will do every thing Which Athenais orders; if there be more In nature to convince thee of my love, Whisper it, O som•• god, into my ear, And on her breast, thus to her list'ning soul I'll breathe the inspiration. Wilt thou not speak?

Ath.

My lord, I dare not hear you.

Var.

Why dost thou frown at what thou dost not know? 'Tis an imagination never pierc'd thee; Yet as 'tis ravishing, 'tis full of honour.

Ath.

I must not doubt you, Sir: but, ah! I tremble To think, if Isdigerdes should behold you, Should hear you thus protesting to a maid Of no degree, but virtue, in the world.

Var.

No more of this—no more; for I disdain All pomp when thou art by. Far be the noise

Of kings and courts from us, whose gentler souls Our kinder stars have steer'd another way. Free as the forest birds we'll pair together, Without rememb'ring who our fathers were; Fly to the arbours, grotts, and flowery meads, Together drink the crystal of the stream, Or taste the yellow fruit which Autumn yields; And when the golden ev'ning calls us home, Wing to our downy nest, and sleep till morn.

Ath.

Ah! Prince, no more! Forbear, forbear to charm me, Since I am doom'd to leave you, Sir, forever.

Var.

Hold, Athenais—

Ath.

I know your royal temper, And that high honour reigns within your breast, Which would disdain to waste so many hours With one of humble blood compar'd to you; Unless strong passion sway'd your thoughts to love her. Therefore receive, O Prince! and take it kindly, For none on earth but you cou'd win it from me, Receive the gift of my eternal love: 'Tis all I can bestow, nor is it little; For sure a heart so coldly chaste as mine, No charms but your's, my lord, cou'd e'er have warm'd.

Var.

Well have you made amends by this last comfort, For the cold dart you shot at me before. For this last goodness, O my Athenais! (For now, methinks, I ought to call you mine) I empty all my soul in thanks before you. Yet, oh, one fear remains! like death it chills me, Why my relenting love did talk of parting!

Ath.

Look there, and cease your wonder: I have sworn T'obey my father, and he calls me hence—

Enter LEONTINE.

Var.

Ha, Leontine! by which of all my actions Have I so deeply injur'd thee, to merit The smartest wound revenge could form to end me?

Leon.

Answer me now, O Prince! for virtue prompts me, And honestly will dally now no longer. What can the end of all this passion be? Glory requires the strict account, and asks What you intend at last to Athenais?

Var.

How, Leontine?

Leon.

You saw her, Sir, at Athens; said you lov'd her. I charg'd her humbly to receive the honour, And hear your passion. Has she not, Sir, obey'd me?

Var.

She has, I thank the gods; but whither wouldst thou?

Leon.

Having resolv'd to visit Theodosius, You swore you would not go without my daughter; Whereon I gave command that she should follow.

Var.

Yes, Leontine, my old remembrancer, Most learn'd of all philosophers, you did.

Leon.

Thus long she has attended; you have seen her, Sounded her virtues and her imperfections; Therefore, dread Sir, forgive this bolder charge Which honour sounds; and now let me demand you—

Var.

Now help, Aranthes, or I'm dash'd forever.

Aran.

Whatever happens, Sir, disdain the marriage.

Leon.

Can your high thoughts so far forget themselves, T' admit this humble virgin to your bride?

Var.

Ha!

Ath.

He blushes, gods, and stammers at the question!

Leon.

Why do you walk, and chase yourself, my lord? The business is not much.

Var.

How, Leontine! Not much! I know that she deserves a crown; Yet 'tis to reason much, though not to love. And s••re the world would blush to see the daughter Of a philosopher upon the throne of Cyrus.

Ath.

Undone forever?

Leon.

Is this your answer, Sir?

Var.

Why dost thou urge me thus, and push me to The very brink of glory? Where, alas! I look, and tremble at the vast descent; Yet, even there, to the vast bottom, down My rash adventurer, love, would have me leap, And grasp my Athenais with my ruin.

Leon.

Tis well, my lord—

Var.

Why dost thou then provoke me! I thought that Persia's court had store of honour To satisfy the height of thy ambition. Besides, old man, my love is too well grown To want a tutor for his good behaviour: What he will do, he of himself will do, And not be taught by you—

Leon.

I know he will not;

Fond tears away! I know, I know he will not; But he would buy, with his old man's preferment, My daughter's shame.

Var.

Away, I say! my soul disdains the motion.

Leon.

The motion of a marriage; yes, I see it: Your angry looks, and haughty words betray it: I found it at the first. I thank you, Sir. You have at last rewarded your old tutor For all his cares, his watchings, services. Yet let me tell you, Sir, this humble maid, This daughter of a poor philosopher, Shall, if she please, be seated on a throne As high as that of the immortal Cyrus.

Var.

I think that age and deep philosophy Have crack'd thy brain: farewel, old Leontine; Retire to rest; and when this brawling humour Is rock'd asleep, I'll meet my Athenais, And clear the accounts of love, which thou hast blotted.

Exit.

Leon.

Old Leontine! perhaps I'm mad indeed. But hold, my heart, and let that solid virtue, Which I so long ador'd, still keep the reins. O Athenais! but I will not chide thee: Fate is in all our actions; and, methinks, At least a father judges so, it has Rebuk'd thee smartly for thy easiness: There is a kind of mournful eloquence In thy dumb grief, which shames all clam'rous sorrow.

Ath.

Is there, O speak, a possibility To be forgiv'n?

Leon.

Thy father does forgive thee, And honour will; but on this hard condition, Never to see him more—

Ath.

See him! O heavens!

Leon.

Unless it be, my daughter, to upbraid him; Not though he should repent, and strait return, Nay, proffer thee his crown—No more of that. Honour too cries, revenge, revenge thy wrongs, Revenge thyself, revenge thy injur'd father. For 'tis revenge so wise, so glorious too, As all the world shall praise—

Ath.

Oh, give me leave;

For yet I am all tenderness: the coward woman The weak, the mild, the fond, the coward woman, Dares not look forth; but runs about my breast, And visits all the warmer mansions there, Where she so oft has harbour'd false Varanes! Cruel Varanes! false, forsworn Varanes!

Leon.

Is this forgetting him? Is this the course Which honour bids thee take?

Ath.

Ah, Sir, allow A little time for love to make his way: Hardly he won the place, and many sighs, And many tears, and thousand oaths it cost him; And, oh! I find he will not be dislodg'd Without a groan at parting hence forever.

Leon.

No woman, sure, but thou, so low in fortune, Therefore the nobler is thy fair example, Would thus have griev'd, because a Prince ador'd her; Yet do I still advise—preserve thy virtue: And since he does disdain thee for his bride, Scorn thou to be—

Ath.

Hold, Sir; oh, hold—forbear; For my nice soul abhors the very sound: Yet with the shame of that, and the desire Of an immortal name, I am inspir'd!

Leon.

Oh Athenais! on; 'tis bright before thee, Pursue the track, and thou shalt be a star.

Ath.

O Leontine! I swear, my noble father, That I will starve, e'er once forego my virtue: And thus let's join to contradict the world: That empire could not tempt a poor old man To sell his Prince the honour of his daughter: And she too match'd the virtue of her father. Tho' humbly born, and yet more humbly bred; She for her fame refus'd a royal bed; Who, though she lov'd, yet did put off the hour, Nor cou'd her virtue be betray'd by pow'r. Patterns like these will guilty courts improve, And teach the fair to blush at conscious love.

PART IV. Poetry.

AN ELEGY, DESCRIBING THE SORROW OF AN INGENUOUS MIND, ON THE MELANCHOLY EVENT OF A LICENTIOUS AMOUR.

WHY mourns my friend? why weeps his downcast eye? That eye where mirth, where fancy us'd to shine? Thy cheerful meads reprove that swelling sigh; Spring ne'er enamell'd fairer meads than thine.

Art thou not lodg'd in fortune's warm embrace? Wer't thou not form'd by nature's partial care? Bless'd in thy song, and bless'd in ev'ry grace That wins the friend, or that enchants the fair?

Damon, said he, thy partial praise restrain; Not Damon's friendship can my peace restore; Alas! his very praise awakes my pain, And my poor wounded bosom bleeds the more.

For oh! that nature on my birth had frown'd! Or fortune fix'd me to some lowly cell! Then had my bosom 'scap'd this fatal wound, Nor had I bid these vernal sweets farewel.

But led by fortune's hand, her darling child, My youth her vain licentious bliss admir'd; In fortune's train, the syron flatt'ry smil'd, And rashly hallow'd all her queen inspir'd.

Of folly studious, e'en of vices vain, Ah vices! gilded by the rich and gay! I chas'd the guileless daughters of the plain, Nor dropp'd my chace, till Jessy was my prey.

Poor artless maid! to stain thy spotless name, Expense, and art, and toil, united strove? To lure a breast that felt the purest flame, Sustain'd by virtue, but betray'd by love.

School'd in the science of love's mazy wiles, I cloth'd each feature with affected scorn; I spoke of jealous doubts, and fickle smiles, And, feigning, left her anxious and forlorn.

Then, while the fancy'd rage alarm'd her care, Warm to deny, and zealous to disprove; I bade my words their wonted softness wear, And seiz'd the minute of returning love.

To thee, my Damon, dare I paint the rest? Will yet thy love a candid ear incline? Assur'd that virtue by misfortune prest, Feels not the sharpness of a pang like mine.

Nine envious moons matur'd her growing shame; Ere while to flaunt it in the face of day; When scorn'd of virtue, stigmatiz'd by fame, Low at my feet desponding Jessy lay.

"Henry," she said, "by thy dear form subdu'd, "See the sad relics of a nymph undone! "I find, I find this rising sob renew'd: "I sigh in shades, and sicken at the sun.

"Amid the dreary gloom of night, I cry, "When will the morn's once pleasing scenes return? "Yet what can morn's returning ray supply, "But foes that triumph, or but friends that mourn?

"Alas! no more that joyous morn appears "That led the tranquil hours of spotless same; "For I have steep'd a father's couch in tears, "And ting'd a mother's glowing cheek with shame.

"The vocal birds, that raise their mattin strain, "The sportive lambs increase my pensive moan;

"All seem to chase me from the cheerful plain, "And talk of truth and innocence alone.

"If through the garden's flow'ry tribes I stray, "Where bloom the jess'mines, that could once allure, "Hope not to find delight in us, they say, "For we are spotless, Jessy; we are pure.

"Ye flowers! that well reproach a nymph so frail, "Say, could ye with my virgin fame compare? "The brightest bud, that scents the vernal gale, "Was not so fragrant, and was not so fair.

"Now the grave old alarm the gentler young; "And all my fame's abhorr'd contagion flee; "Trembles each lip, and falters ev'ry tongue, "That bids the morn propitious smile on me.

"Thus, for your sake I shun each human eye; "I bid the sweets of blooming youth adieu; "To die I languish, but I dread to die, "Lest my sad fate should nourish pangs for you.

"Raise me from earth; the pains of want remove; "And let me silent seek some friendly shore; "There only, banish'd from the form I love, "My weeping virtue shall relapse no more.

"Be but my friend; I ask no dearer name; "Be such the meed of some more artful fair; "Nor could it heal my peace, or chase my shame, "That pity gave what love refus'd to share.

"Force not my tongue to ask its scanty bread; "Nor hurl thy Jessy to the vulgar crew; "Not such the parent's board at which I fed; "Not such the precept from his lips I drew!

"Haply when age has silver'd o'er my hair, "Malice may learn to scorn so mean a spoil; "Envy may slight a face no longer fair; "And pity welcome to my native soil."

She spoke—nor was I born of savage race; Nor could these hands a niggard boon assign; Grateful she clasp'd me in a last embrace, And vow'd to waste her life in pray'rs for mine.

I saw her foot the lofty bark ascend; I saw her breast with ev'ry passion heave; I left her—torn from ev'ry earthly friend; Oh! my hard bosom, which could bear to leave!

Brief let me be; the fatal storm arose; The billows rag'd; the pilot's art was vain; O'er the tall mast the circling surges close; My Jessy floats upon the wat'ry plain!

And see my youth's impetuous fires decay; Seek not to stop reflection's bitter tear; But warn the frolic, and instruct the gay, From Jessy floating on her wat'ry bier!

OPHELIA'S URN.—AN ELEGY.

THROUGH the dim veil of ev'ning's dusky shade, Near some lone fane, or yew's funereal green, What dreary forms has magic fear survey'd! What shrouded spectres superstition seen!

But you secure shall pour your sad complaint, Nor dread the meagre phantom's wan array; What none but fear's officious hand can paint, What none but superstition's eye survey.

The glimm'ring twilight and the doubtful dawn Shall see your step to these sad scenes return: Constant, as crystal dews impearl the lawn, Shall Strephon's tear bedew Ophelia's urn.

Sure nought unhallow'd shall presume to stray Where sleep the relics of that virtuous maid: Nor aught unlovely bend its devious way, Where soft Ophelia's dear remains are laid.

Haply thy muse, as with unceasing sighs She keeps late vigils on her urn reclin'd, May see light groups of pleasing visions rise; And phantoms glide, but of celestial kind.

T•• fame, her clarion pendant at her side, ••ll seek forgiveness of Ophelia's shade;

'Why has such worth without distinction dy'd; 'Why, like the desert's lily, bloom'd to fade?'

Then young simplicity, averse to feign, Shall unmolested breathe her softest sigh: And candour with unwonted warmth complain, And innocence indulge a wailful cry.

Then elegance, with coy judicious hand, Shall cull fresh flow'rets for Ophelia's tomb! And beauty chide the fate's severe command, That shew'd the frailty of so fair a bloom!

And fancy then, with wild ungovern'd woe, Shall her lov'd pupil's native taste explain: For mournful sable all her hues forego, And ask sweet solace of the muss in vain!

Ah! gentle forms, expect no fond relief; Too much the sacred nine their loss deplore: Well may ye grieve, nor find an end of grief— Your best, your brightest fav'rite is no more.

THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH. A BALLAD ALLUDING TO A STORY RECORDED OF HER, WHEN SHE WAS PRISONER AT WOODSTOCK, 1554.

WILL you hear how once repining Great Eliza captive lay; Each ambitious thought resigning, Foe to riches, pomp and sway?

While the nymphs and swains delighted, Tript around in all their pride; Envying joys by others slighted, Thus the royal maiden cry'd:

'Bred on plains, or born in vallies, 'Who would bid those scenes adieu? 'Stranger to the arts of malice, 'Who would ever courts pursue?

'Malice never taught to treasure; 'Censure never taught to bear: 'Love is all the shepherd's pleasure; 'Love is all the damsel's care.

'How can they of humble station 'Vainly blame the Pow'rs above? 'Or accuse the dispensation, 'Which allows them all to love?

'Love like air is widely given; 'Pow'r nor chance can these restrain; 'Truest, noblest gift of Heaven! 'Only purest on the plain!

'Peers can no such charms discover, 'All in stars and garters drest; 'As, on Sunday, does the lover, 'With his nosegay in his breast.

'Pinks and roses in profusion, 'Said to fade when Chloe's near; 'Fops may use the same allusion; 'But the shepherd is sincere.

'Hark to yonder milk-maid singing 'Cheerly o'er the brimming pail; 'Cowslips, all around her springing, 'Sweetly paint the golden vale.

'Never yet did courtly maiden 'Move so sprightly, look so fair; 'Never breast with jewels laden 'Pour a song so void of care.

'Would indulgent Heav'n had granted 'Me some rural damsel's part! 'All the empire I had wanted 'Then had been my shepherd's heart.

'Then, with him, o'er hills and mountains, 'Free from fetters, might I rove: 'Fearless taste the crystal fountains; 'Peaceful sleep beneath the grove.

'Rustics had been more forgiving; 'Partial to my virgin bloom; 'None had envy'd me when living; 'None had triumph'd o'er my tomb.'

THE ROSE, TO DR. PRIESTLY. ON HIS EXPERIMENTS, PROVING THAT EVEN THE MOST AGREEABLE VEGETABLE ODOURS RENDER THE AIR LESS FIT FOR RESPIRATION.

AH! once to purest unpolluted fame I, fairest flower, with ardent hope aspir'd; Once every Muse rever'd my honour'd name, And every eye my blushing charms desir'd.

My blooming race th' immortal bard has sung, That first in groves of Paradise we grew; That there we, lovelier blossom'd, fairer sprung, Our verdant stems no thorny briars knew.

My fame the animated canvass speaks; Descriptive beauty borrows charms from me; Behold my hues display'd in Hebe's cheeks! The radiant morn with rosy fingers see!

Unblemish'd long my modest beauties glow'd, Unblemish'd sweets those beauties shed around, And wafted odours, by the breeze bestow'd, Were balmy treasures in my bosom found.

The nymphs and swains delighted to inhale So pure a breath, oft woo'd the vernal air; Presumptuous science now defames that gale Whose rich effluvia gods might deign to share.

Ah! should persuasion crown thy learned lore, And fame applaud thy scientific taste; An exile I from this luxuriant shore, On barren mountains may my odours waste.

No more of summer's chosen bowers the pride, My leaves expanding to the orient sun; No more on beauty's snowy breast reside; Beauty shall learn my baleful charms to shun.

Nor e'er transplant me to the embellish'd room, In China's splendid vases to appear; Nor round her couch admit my dread perfume, Nor dare to slumber if the Rose be near.

No more shall luxury, to give me birth, Raise the warm ••ile, excluding winter's cold; Nor, mid the dreary scenes of frozen earth, Court my reluctant graces to unfold.

Yet, know—whate'er thy celebrated art, Whate'er thy volumes may presume to shew, The Rose shall grateful pleasure still impart, And still a welcome fragrance shall bestow.

Remote from science, in th' unletter'd plain, Where no philosopher our fame assails, There, unreproach'd, shall bloom the vernal train, There, unimpeach'd, shall flow our spicy gales.

ATHEISM PUNISHED.

WHERE England stretch'd towards the setting sun, Narrow and long, o'erlooks the western wave, Dwelt young Misagathus. A scorner he, Of God and goodness, atheist in ostent, Vicious in act, in temper savage fierce. He journey'd, and his chance was, as he went, To join a trav'ller of far diff'rent note, Evander, fam'd for piety, for years. Deserving honour, but for wisdom more. Fame had not left the venerable man A stranger to the manners of the youth, Whose face too was familiar to his view. Their way was on the margin of the land, O'er the green summit of the rocks, whose base Beats back the roaring surge, scarce heard so high, The charity that warm'd his heart was mov••d At sight of the man-monster. With a smile, Gentle, and affable, and full of grace, As fearful of offending whom he wish'd Much to persuade, he ply'd his ear with truths, Not harshly thunder'd forth, or rudely press'd, But, like his purpose, gracious, kind, and sweet. ••nd dost thou dream, the impenetrable man ••im'd, that me, the lullabies of age,

And fantasies of dotards, such as thou, Can cheat, or move a moment's fear in me? Mark now the proof I give thee, that the brave Need no such aid as superstition lends, To steel their hearts against the dread of death. He spoke, and to the precipice at hand Push'd with a madman's fury. Fancy shrinks, And the blood thrills and curdles at the thought▪ Of such a gulf, as he design'd his grave. But though the felon on his back could dare The dreadful leap, more rational, his steed Declin'd the death, and wheeling swiftly round, Or ere his hoof had press'd the crumbling verge, Baffled his rider, sav'd against his will. The frenzy of the brain may be redress'd By med'cine well applied, but, without grace, The heart's insanity admits no cure. Enrag'd the more, by what might have reform'd His horrible intent; again he sought Destruction, with a zeal to be destroy'd, With sounding whip, and rowels dy'd in blood. But still in vain. The Providence that meant A longer date to the far nobler beast, Spar'd yet again th' ignobler for his sake. And now, his prowess prov'd, and his sincere Incurable obduracy evinc'd, His rage grew cool; and pleas'd, perhaps t' have earn'd, So cheaply, the renown of that attempt, With looks of some complacence, he resum'd His road, deriding much the blank amaze Of good Evander, still where he was left, Fixt motionless, and petrified with dread. So on they far'd; discourse on other themes Ensuing, seem'd to obliterate the past, And tamer far for so much fury shown, (As is the course of rash and fiery men) The rude companion smil'd, as if transform'd. But 'twas a transient calm; a storm was near, An unsuspected storm. His hour was come. The impious challenger of pow'r divine Was now to learn, that Heav'n, tho' slow to wrath, Is never with impunity defy'd.

His horse, as he had caught his master's mood, Snorting, and starting into sudden rage, Unbidden, and not now to be controll'd, Rush'd to the cliff, and having reach'd it, stood. At once the shock unseated him. He flew Sheer o'er the craggy barrier, and immers'd Deep in the flood, found, when he sought it not, The death he had deserv'd, and dy'd alone. So God wrought double justice; made the fool The victim of his own tremendous choice, And taught a brute the way to safe revenge.

DOMESTIC HAPPINESS.

DOMESTIC happiness, thou only bliss Of Paradise that has surviv'd the fall! Though few now taste thee unimpair'd and pure, Or tasting, long enjoy thee, too infirm Or too incautious to preserve thy sweets Unmixt with drops of bitter, which neglect Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup— Thou art the nurse of virtue. In thine arms She smiles, appearing, as in truth she is, Heav'n born and destin'd to the skies again. Thou art not known where pleasure is ador'd, That reeling goddess, with the zoneless waist, And wand'ring eyes, still leaning on the arm Of novelty, her fickle frail support; For thou art meek and constant, hating change, And finding, in the calm of truth-tied love, Joys that her stormy raptures never yield.

VIRTUE AND ORNAMENT.

THE diamond's and the ruby's rays Shine with a milder, finer flame, And more attract our love and praise Than beauty's self, if lost to fame.

But the sweet tear in pity's eye Transcends the diamond's brightest beam••; And the soft blush of modesty More precious than the ruby seems.

The glowing gem, the sparkling stone, May strike the sight with quick surprise; But truth and innocence alone Can still engage the good and wise.

No glitt'ring ornament or show Will aught avail in grief or pain: Only from inward worth can flow Delight that ever will remain.

A FAIRY TALE.

IN Britain's Isle, and Arthur's days, When midnight fairies danc'd the mare, Liv'd Edwin of the green; Edwin, I wis, a gentle youth, Endow'd with courage, sense, and truth, Tho' badly shap'd he been.

His mountain back mote well be said To measure height against his head, And lift itself above; Yet, spite of all that nature did To make his uncouth form forbid, This creature dar'd to love.

He felt the charms of Edith's eyes, Nor wanted hope to gain the prize, Could ladies look within; But one Sir Topaz, dress'd with art; And, if a shape could win a heart, He had a shape to win.

Edwin, if right I read my song, With slighted passion pac'd along, All in the moony light;

'Twas near an old enchanted court, Where sportive fairies made resort, To revel out the night.

His heart was drear, his hope was cross'd; 'Twas late, 'twas far, the path was lost That reach'd the neighbour town; With weary steps he quits the shades, Resolv'd, the darkling dome he treads, And drops his limbs adown.

But scant he lays him on the floor, When hollow winds remove the door, A trembling rocks the ground: And, well I ween, to count aright, At once a hundred tapers light On all the walls around.

Now sounding tongues assail his ear, Now sounding feet approache•• near, And now the sounds increase: And from the corner where he lay, He sees a train profusely gay Come prankling o'er the place.

But (trust me gentles) never yet Was dight a masquing half so neat, Or half so rich, before; The country lent the sweet perfumes, The sea the pearl, the sky the plumes, The town its silken store.

Now, while he gaz'd, a gallant, drest In flaunting robes above the rest, With awful accent cry'd, "What mortal of a wretched mind, "Whose sighs infect the balmy wind, "Has here presum'd to hide?"

At this, the swain, whose vent'rous soul No fears of magic art control, Advanc'd in open sight; "Nor have I cause of dread," he said, "Who view, by no presumption led, "Your revels of the night.

"'Twas grief for scorn of faithful love, "Which made my steps unweeting rove "Amid the nightly dew." "'Tis well," the gallant cries again, "We fairies never injure men, "Who dare to tell us true.

"Exalt thy love-dejected heart; "Be mine the task, or ere we part, "To make thee grief resign; "Now take the pleasure of thy chaunce; "Whilst I with Mab, my partner, daunce, "Be little Mable thine."

He spoke, and all a sudden, there Light music flo••••s in wanto•• air; The monarch leads the queen: The rest their fairy partners found: And Mable trimly tript the ground, With Edwin of the green.

The dauncing past, the board was laid, And fiker such a feast was made As heart and lip desire: Withouten hands the dishes fly, The glasses with a wish come nigh, And with a wish retire.

But now, to please the fairy king, Full every deal they laugh and sing, And antic feats devise; Some wind and tumble like an ape, And other-some transmute their shape In Edwin's wond'ring eyes.

Till one at last, that Robin hight, Renown'd for pinching maids by night, Has hent him up aloof; And full against the beam he ••••ung, Where, by the back, the youth he hung, To sprawl unneath the roof.

From thence, "reverse my charm," he cries, "And let it fairly now suffice "The gambol has been shown;"

But Oberon answers with a smile, "Content thee, Edwin, for a while, "The vantage is thine own."

Here ended all the phantom play; They smelt the fresh approach of day, And heard a cock to crow; The whirling wind, that bore the crowd, Has clapp'd the door, and whistled loud, To warn them all to go.

Then, screaming all at once, they fly, And, all at once, the tapers die; Poor Edwin falls to floor; Forlorn his state, and dark the place, Was never wight in such a case Through all the land before.

But, soon as ••an Apollo rose, Full jolly creature home he goes, He feels his back the less; His honest tongue and steady mind Had rid him of the lump behind, Which made him want success.

With lusty livelyhed he talks, He seems a dancing as he walks; His story soon took wind; And beauteous Edith sees the youth Endow'd with courage, sense, and truth, Without a bunch behind.

The story told, Sir Topaz mov'd, The youth of Edith erst approv'd, To see the revel scene: At close of eve he leaves his home, And wends to find the ruin'd dome All on the gloomy plain.

As there he bides, it so befel, The wind came rustling down a dell, A shaking seiz'd the wall: Up sprung the tapers as before, The fairies bragly foot the floor, And music fills the hall.

But, certes, society s••••nk with woe, Sir Topaz seen the e••p••••in show, His spirits in him dye: When Oberon crie••, "a man is near; "A mortal passion, clepped fear, "Hangs flagging in the sky."

With that Sir Topaz, hapless youth In accents falt'ring, ay for ruth, Entreats them pity graunt, For als he been a ••••i••••er wight, Betray'd by wand'ring in the night To tread the circled haunt;

"Ah losell 〈◊〉〈◊〉" at once they roar; "And little skill'd of fa••ry lo••••, "Thy cause to co••e we know: "Now has thy ••est••ell courage fell; "And fairies, fi•• a lye you tell, "Are free to work thee woe."

Then Will, who bears the wispy fire, To trail the swa••ns among the mire, The captive upward flung: There, like a tortoise in a shop, He dangled from the chamber top, Where, whilom, Edwin hung.

The revel now proceeds apace, Deftly they frisk it o'er the place, They sit, they drink, and eat; The time with frolie mirth beguile, And poor Sir Topaz h••ngs the while, Till all the rout retreat.

By this the stars began to wink, They shriek, they fly, the tapers sink, And down ydrops the knight: For never spell by fairy laid With strong enchantment, bound a glade Beyond the length of night.

Chill, dark, alone, adreed, he lay, Till up the welkin rose the day, Then deem'd the dole was o'er: But wot ye well his harder lot; His seely back the bunch had got Which Edwin lost afore.

This tale a sybil-nurse ared; She softly stroak'd my youngling head; And, when the tale was done, "Thus some are born, my son," she cries, "With base impediments to rise, "And some are born with none.

"But virtue can itself advance "To what the fav'rite fools of chance "By fortune seem'd design'd; "Virtue can gain the odds of fate, "And from itself shake off the weight "Upon th' unworthy mind."

WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT, IN A THUNDER STORM.

LET coward guilt, with pallid fear, To shelt'ring caverns fly, And justly dread the vengeful fate That thunders through the sky.

Protected by that hand, whose law The threat'ning storms obey, Intrepid virtue smiles secure, As in the blaze of day.

In the thick cloud's tremendous gloom, The light'ning's lurid glare, It views the same all-gracious Pow'r That breathes the vernal air.

Thro' Nature's ever-varying scene, By different ways pursu'd, The one eternal end of Heav'n Is universal good.

With like beneficent effect O'er flaming aether glows, As when it tunes the linnet's voice, Or blushes in the rose.

By reason taught to scorn those fears That vulgar minds molest, Let no fantastic terrors break My dear Narcissa's rest.

Thy life may all the tend'rest care Of Providence defend; And delegated angels round Their guardian wings extend!

When thro' creation's vast expanse The last dread thunders roll, Untune the concord of the spheres, And shake the rising soul;

Unmov'd may'st thou the final storm Of jarring worlds survey, That ushers in the glad serene Of everlas••••ng day!

THE THREE WARNINGS. A TALE.

THE tree of deepest root is found Least willing still to quit the ground; 'Twas therefore said by ancient sages, That love of life increas'd with years: So much, that in our latter stages, When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages, The greatest love of life appears.

This great affection to believe, Which all confess, but few perceive, If old assertions can't prevail, Be pleas'd to hear a modern tale.

When sports went round, and all were gay, On neighbour Dobson's wedding day, Death call'd aside the jocund groom With him into another room;

And, looking grave, 'you must,' says he, 'Quit your sweet bride, and come with me.'— 'With you! and quit my Susan's side! 'With you!' the hapless husband cry'd: 'Young as I am! 'tis monstrous hard! 'Besides, in truth, I'm not prepar'd: 'My thoughts on other matters go; 'This is my wedding night, you know.'

What more he urg'd, I have not heard; His reasons could not well be stronger: So death the poor delinquent spar'd, And left to live a little longer.

Yet calling up a serious look, His hour-glass trembled while he spoke, 'Neighbour,' he said, 'farewel; no more 'Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour: 'And farther; to avoid all blame 'Of cruelty upon my name, 'To give you time for preparation, 'And fit you for your future station, 'Three several Warnings you shall have, 'Before you're summon'd to the grave:

'Willing for once I'll quit my pr••y, 'And grant a kind reprieve; 'In hopes you'll have no more to say, 'But when I call again this way, 'Well pleas'd the world will leave.'

To these conditions both consented, And parted perfectly contented.

What next the hero of our tale befel, How long he liv'd, how wise, how well, How roundly he pursu'd his course, And smok'd his pipe, and strok'd his horse, The willing muse shall tell:

He chaffer'd then, he bought, he sold, Nor once perceiv'd his growing old, Nor thought of Death as near; His friends not false, his wife no shrew, Many his gains, his children few, He pass'd his hours in peace:

But while he view'd his wealth increase, While thus along life's dusty road The beaten track content he trod, Old Time whose haste no mortal spares, Uncall'd, unheeded, unawares, Brought on his eightieth year.

And now, one night, in musing mood, As all alone he sate, Th' unwelcome messenger of Fate Once more before him stood.

Half kill'd with anger and surprise, 'So soon return'd!' old Dobson cries. 'So soon, d'ye call it!' Death replies:

'Surely, my friend, you're but in jest! 'Since I was here before ''Tis six-and-thirty years, at least, 'And you are now fourscore.'

'So much the worse, the clown rejoin'd; 'To spare the aged would be kind: 'However, see your search be legal; 'And your authority—is't regal? 'Else you are come on a fool's errand, 'With but a Secretary's warrant. 'Besides, you promis'd me Three Warnings, 'Which I have look'd for nights and mornings! 'But for that loss of time and ease, 'I can recover damages.'

'I know,' cries Death, 'that at the best 'I seldom am a welcome guest; 'But don't be captious, friend, at least: 'I little thought you'd still be able 'To stump about your farm and stable; 'Your years have run to a great length: 'I wish you joy, tho' of your strength!' 'Hold,' says the farmer, 'not so fast, 'I have been lame these four years past.'

'And no great wonder,' Death replies; 'However, you still keep your eyes; 'And sure, to see one's loves and friends, 'For legs and arms would make amends.'

'Perhaps,' says Dobson, 'so it might, 'But latterly I've lost my sight.'

'This is a shocking story, faith! 'Yet there's some comfort still,' says Death; 'Each strives your sadness to amuse; 'I warrant you hear all the news.'

'There's none,' cries he; 'and if there were, 'I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear.'

'Nay, then,' the spectre stern rejoin'd, 'These are unjustifiable yearnings; 'If you are lame, and deaf, and blind, 'You've had your Three sufficient Warnings.

'So come along; no more we'll part:' He said, and touch'd him with his dart; And now old Dobson, turning pale, Yields to his sate—so ends my tale.

PSALM 148th. PARAPHRASED.

BEGIN, my soul, th' exalted lay! Let each enraptur'd thought obey, And praise th' Almighty's name: Lo! heaven and earth, and seas and skies, In one melodious concert rise, To swell th' inspiring theme.

Ye fields of light, celestial plains, Where gay transporting beauty reigns, Ye scenes divinely fair! Your Maker's wond'rous power proclaim, Tell how he form'd your shining frame, And breath'd the fluid air.

Ye angels, catch the thrilling sound! While all th' adoring thrones around His boundless mercy sing: Let ev'ry list'ning saint above Wake all the tuneful soul of love, And touch the sweetest string.

Join, ye ••••d spheres, the vocal chair; Thou drinking ••••b of liquid 〈◊〉〈◊〉 The mighty chorus aid: Soon as grey ev'ning spreads the plain▪ Thou, moon, protract the melting strain▪ And praise him in the shade.

Thou heav'n of heav'ns, his vast abode, Ye clouds, proclaim your forming God, Who call'd you worlds from night: "Ye shades dispel!"—th' Eternal said; At once th' involving darkness fled, And Nature sprung to light.

Whate'er a blooming world contains, That wings the air, that skims the plains, United praise bestow: Ye dragons, sound his awful name To heav'n aloud; and r••a•• acclaim Ye swelling d••ops below.

Let every element rejoice: Ye thunders, burst with awful voice To him who bids you roll; His praise in softer notes declare, Each whispering breeze of yielding air, And breathe it to the soul.

To him, ye graceful cedars, bow; Ye tow'ring mountains, bending low, You: great Creator own; Tell, when affrighted Nature shook, How Sinai kindled at his look, And trembled at his frown.

Ye flocks that h••unt the humble vale, Ye insects flutt'ring on the gale, In mutual concourse rise; Crop the gay rose's vermil bloom, And waft its spoils, a sweet perfume, In incense to the skie••.

Wake, all ye mounting tribes, and sing; Ye plumy warblers of the spring, Harmonious anthems raise

To him who shap'd your ••••ner mould, Who tipp'd your glittering wings with gold, And tun'd your voice to praise.

Let man, by nobler passions sway'd, The feeling heart, the judging head, In heavenly praise employ; Spread his tremendous name around, Till heaven's broad arch rings back the sound, The general burst of joy.

Ye whom the charms of grandeur please, Nurs'd on the downy lap of ease, Fall prostrate at his throne: Ye princes, rulers, all adore; Praise him, ye kings, who makes your pow'r An image of his own.

Ye fair, by nature form'd to move, O praise th' eternal Source of love, With youth's enlivening fire: Let age take up the tuneful lay, Sigh his bless'd name, then soar away, And ask an angel's lyre.

CHARITY. A PARAPHRASE ON THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER OF THE FIRST EPISTLE TO THE CORINTHIANS.

DID sweeter sounds adorn my flowing tongue, Than ever man pronounc'd, or angel sung: Had I all knowledge, human and divine, That thought can reach, or science can define; And had I pow'r to give that knowledge birth, In all the speeches of the b••bbling earth: Did Shadrach's ••eal my glowing breast inspire, To weary tortures, and rejoice in fire: Or had I faith like that which Israel saw, When Moses gave them miracles, and law:

Yet, gracious Charity, indulgent g••••••t, Were not thy pow'r ••ro••••d in my breast▪ Those speeches would send up unheeded pray'r▪ That scorn of life would be but wild despair: A tymbal's sound were better than my voice: My faith were form; ••y eloquence were noise.

Charity, decent, modest, easy, kind, Softens the high, and ••e••r•• the object mind▪ Knows with just reins, and gentle hand, to gui•••• Betwixt vile shame, and arbitrary pride: Not soon provok'd, she easily forgives, And much she suffers, as she much believes: Soft peace she brings, wherever she arrives: She builds our quiet, as she forms our lives; Lays the rough path of peevish nature even, And opens in each heart a little heav'n.

Each other gift, which God on man bestow••, Its proper bounds and d•••• restriction knows; To one fixt purpose dedic•• its pow'r▪ And finishing its act, exists no more. Thus, in obedience to what Heav'n decrees, Knowledge shall fall, and prophecy shall cease▪ But lasting Charity's more ample sway, Nor bound by time, nor subject to decay, In happy triumph shall forever live, And endless good diffuse, and endless praise receive.

As through the artist's intervening glass Our eye observes the distant planets pass; A little we discover; but allow, That more remains unseen, than ar•• can shew: So whilst our mind its knowledge would improve, (Its feeble eye intent on things above) High as we may, we lift our reason up, By faith directed, and confirm'd b•• ho••••▪ Yet are we able only to survey Dawnings of 〈◊〉〈◊〉, and promises of day, Heaven's fuller effluence moc••s our d••••••led sight; Too great its swiftness, and too strong its light,

But soon the mediate clouds shall be disp••ll'd: The sun shall soon be face to face behold,

In all his robes, with all his glory on, Seated sublime on his meridian thro••e.

Then constant Faith, and holy Hope shall die, One lost in certainty, ••nd one in joy: Whilst thou, more happy pow'r, fair Charity, Triumphant sister, greatest of the three, Thy office and thy nature still the same, Lasting thy lamp, an•• unconsum'd thy flame, Shalt still survive— Shalt stand before the host of heav'n confest, Forever blessing, and forever blest.

A PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE.

OFT I've implor'd the gods in vain, And pray'd till I've been weary; For once I'll try my wish to gain Of Oberon, the Fairy.

Sweet airy being, wanton sprite, That lurk'st in woods unseen, And oft, by Cynthia's silver light, Tripp'st gaily o'er the green;

If e'er thy pitying heart was mov'd, As ancient stories tell, And for th' Athenian maid, who lov'd, Thou sought'st a wond'rous spell;

O deign once more t' exert thy power; Haply some herb or tree, Sov'reign as juice of western flower, Conceals a balm for me.

I ask no kind return of love, No tempting charm to please: Far from the heart those gifts remove, That sighs for peace and ease.

Nor peace nor ease that heart can know, Which, like the needle true, Turns at the touch of joy or woe, But, turning, trembles too.

Far as distress the soul can wound, 'Tis pain in each degree: 'Tis bliss but to a certain bound: Beyond, is agony.

Take then this treacherous sense of mine, Which dooms me still to smart; Which pleasure can to pain refine, To pains new pangs impart.

Oh! haste to shed the sacred balm! My shatter'd nerves new string; And for my guest, serenely calm, The nymph Indifference bring.

At her approach, see Hope, see Fear, See Expectation fly; And Disappointment in the rear, That blasts the promis'd joy.

The tear which pity taught to flow, The eye shall then disown; The heart that melts for others' woe, Shall then scarce feel its own.

The wounds, which now each moment bleed, Each moment then shall close, And tranquil days shall still succeed To nights of calm repose.

O fairy elf! but grant me this, This one kind comfort send; And so may never fading bliss Thy flow'ry paths attend!

So may the glow-worm's glimm'ring light Thy tiny footsteps lead To some new region of delight, Unknown to mortal tread.

And be thy acorn goblet fill'd With heaven's ambrosial dew; From sweetest, freshest flow'rs distill'd, That shed fresh sweets for you.

And what of life remains for me, I'll pass in sober ease; Half pleas'd, contented will I be, Content b•••• half to please.

THE FAIRY'S ANSWER.

WITHOUT preamble to my friend, These hasty lines I'm bid to send, Or give, if I am able: I dare not hesitate to say, Tho' I have trembled all the day— It looks so like a fable.

Last night's adventure is my theme; And should it strike you as a dream, Yet soon its high import Must make you own the matter such, So delicate, it were too much To be compos'd in sport.

The moon did shine serenely bright, And every star did deck the night, While zephyr fann'd the trees; No more assail'd my mind's repose, Save that you stream, which murmuring flows, Did echo to the breeze.

Enwrapt in solemn thoughts, I sate, Revolving o'er the turns of fate, Yet void of hope or fear; When lo! behold an aëry throng, With lightest steps, and jocund song, Surpris'd my eye and ear.

A form, superior to the rest, His little voice to me address'd, And gently thus began— "I've heard strange things from one of you, "Pray tell me if you think 'tis true— "Explain it if you can.

"Such incense has perfum'd my throne! "Such eloquence my heart has won! "I think I guess the hand: "I know her wit and beauty too; "But why she sends a prayer so new, "I cannot understand.

"To light some flames, and some revive, "To keep some others just alive, "Full oft I am implor'd; "But, with peculiar power to please, "To supplicate for nought but ease— "'Tis odd, upon my word!

"Tell her, with fruitless care I've fought, "And tho' my realms, with wonders fraught, "In remedies abound, "No grain of cold Indifference "Was ever yet ally'd to sense "In all my fairy round.

"The regions of the sky I'd trace, "I'd ransack every earthly place, "Each leaf, each herb, each flower, "To mitigate the pangs of fear, "Dispel the clouds of black despair, "Or lull the restless hour.

"I would be generous, as I'm just, "But I obey, as others must, "Those laws which Fate has made. "My tiny kingdom how defend, "And what might be the horrid end, "Should man my state invade?

"'Twould put your mind into a rage, "And such unequal war to wage "Suits not my regal duty! "I dare not change a first decree, "She's doom'd to please, nor can be free, "Such is the lot of beauty."

This said, he darted o'er the plain, And after follow'd all his train; No glimpse of him I find; But sure I am, the little sprite These words, before he took his flight, Imprinted on my mind.

LEDYARD'S PRAISE OF WOMEN.

THRO' many a land and clime a ranger, With toilsome steps I've held my way. A lonely unprotected stranger, To all the stranger's ills a prey.

While steering thus my course precarious, My fortune still has been to find Men's hearts and dispositions various, But gentle woman ever kind.

Alive to every tender feeling, To deeds of mercy always prone; The wounds of pain and sorrow healing, With soft compassion's sweetest tone.

No proud delay, no dark suspicion, Stints the free bounty of their heart; They turn not from the sad petition, But cheerful aid at once impart.

Form'd in benevolence of nature, Obliging, modest, gay, and mild, Woman's the same endearing creature In courtly town and savage wild.

When parch'd with thirst, and hunger wasted, Her friendly hand refreshment gave; How sweet the coarsest food has tasted! What cordial in the simple wave!

Her courteous looks, her words caressing, Shed comfort on the fainting soul; Woman's the stranger's general blessing, From sultry India to the Pole.

ODE TO WISD••M.

THE solitary bird of night Thro' the thick shades now wings his flight, And quits his time-shook tow'r; Where, shelter'd from the blaze of day, In philosophic gloom he lay, Beneath his ivy bow'r.

With joy I hear the solemn sound, Which midnight echoes waft around, And sighing gales repeat. Fav'rite of Pallas! I attend, And faithful to thy summons, bend At Wisdom's awful seat.

She loves the cool, the silent eve, Where no false shews of life deceive, Beneath the lunar ray. Here folly drops each vain disguise, Nor sport her gaily-coloured dyes, As in the beam of day.

O Pallas! queen of ev'ry art, That glads the sense, and mends the heart, Blest source of purer joys: In every form of beauty bright, That captivates the mental sight With pleasure and surprise:

At thy unspotted shrine I bow; Attend thy modest suppliant's vow, That breathes no wild desires: But taught by thy unerring rules, To shun the fruitless wish of fools, To nobler views aspires.

To me thy better gifts impart, Each moral beauty of the heart, By studious thoughts refin'd:

For wealth the smiles of glad content; For pow'r, its amplest, best extent; An empire o'er the mind.

When fortune drops her gay parade, When pleasure's transient roses fade, And wither in the tomb; Unchang'd is thy immortal prize, Thy ever verdant laurels rise In undecaying bloom.

Thy breath inspires the poet's song, The patriot's free, unbiass'd tongue, The hero's gen'rous strife; Thine are retirement's silent joys, And all the sweet engaging ties Of still domestic life.

No more to fabled names confin'd, To the supreme all-perfect Mind My thoughts direct their flight▪ Wisdom's thy gift, and all her force From thee deriv'd, eternal Source Of intellectual light.

O send her sure, her steady ray, To regulate my doubtful way, Through life's perplexing road: The mists of error to control, And through its gloom direct my soul To happiness and good.

Beneath her clear discerning eye The visionary shadows fly Of folly's painted show: She sees through ev'ry fair disguise, That all but virtue's solid joys Are vanity and woe.

THE ORIGIN OF THE FAN.

ONCE in Arcadia, that fam'd seat of love, There liv'd a nymph, the pride of all the grove, A lovely nymph, adorn'd with ev'ry grace, An easy shape, and sweetly blooming face; Fanny the damsel's name, as chaste as fair, Each virgin's envy, and each swain's despair: To charm her ear the rival shepherds sing, Blow the soft flute, and wake the trembling string: For her they leave their wand'ring flocks to rove, Whilst Fanny's name resounds thro' ev'ry grove, And spreads on ev'ry tree, inclos'd in knots of love; As Fielding's now, her eyes all hearts inflame, Like her in beauty, as alike in name.

'Twas when the summer sun, now mounted high, With fiercer beams had scorch'd the glowing sky, Beneath the covert of a cooling shade, To shun the heat, this lovely nymph was laid; The sultry weather o'er her cheeks had spread A blush, that added to their native red; Aeolus the mighty god, whom winds obey, Observ'd the beauteous maid, as thus she lay, O'er all her charms he gaz'd with fond delight, And suck'd in poison at the dang'rous sight: He sighs, he burns; at last declares his pain, But still he sighs, and still he woos in vain; The cruel nymph, regardless of his moan, Minds not his flame, uneasy with her own; But still complains, that he who rul'd the air Would not command one zephyr to repair Around her face, nor gentle breeze to play Through the dark glade to cool the sultry day. By love incited, and the hopes of joy, Th' ingenious god contriv'd this pretty toy, With gales incessant to relieve her flame; And call'd it PAN, from lovely Fanny's name.

TO A YOUNG LADY, WITH SOME FLOWERS.

TO thee, sweet smiling maid, I bring The beauteous progeny of spring: In every breathing bloom I find Some pleasing emblem of thy mind. The blushes of that opening rose Thy tender modesty disclose. These snow-white lilies of the vale Diffusing fragrance to the gale, No ostentatious tints assume, Vain of their exquisite perfume; Careless, and sweet, and mild, we see In them a lovely type of thee. In yonder gay enamell'd field, Serene that azure blossom smil'd: Not changing with the changeful sky, Its faithful tints inconstant fly; For, unimpair'd by winds and rain, I saw th' unalter'd hue remain. So were thy mild affections prov'd, Thy heart by fortune's frown unmov'd, Pleas'd to administer relief, In times of woe would solace grief. These flowers with genuine beauty glow; The tints from nature's pencil flow: What artist could improve their bloom? Or sweeter make their sweet perfume? Fruitless the vain attempt. Like these Thy native truth, thine artless ease, Fair unaffected mind, can never fail to please.

THE GUARDIAN GENIUS OF FEMALE EX|CELLENCE.

BENEATH the lucid arch, in robes of gold, A youth appears of more than mortal mould; His yellow tresses o'er his shoulders stray, Kiss the loose wind, and negligently play; His feet like silver gleam, a taper wand Of adamant sustains his bette•• band; O'er his fair temples wreathing myrtles twine, And all around him beaming glories shine: The scene is chang'd, the caverns melt in air, Her well-known roofs rise slowly round the fair; Then thus the genius. "Nymph, dismiss thy fear; No evil can approach while I am near. Behold the Guardian Power whose secret sway The wiser females of the world obey; I bid them cast each woman toy behind, And raise to nobler views th' aspiring mind; 'Twas I that gave to Dudley's beauteous wife, Whom Mary's cruel hand depriv'd of life, A nobler fortitude than heroes reach, And virtue, greater than the sages teach, Sweetness of soul beyond what mortals sh••w, And piety like that which seraphs know. And now, in modern days, though rare to see, Behold accomplish'd beauty led by me. Streatfield, the learn'd, the gay, in blooming years Forsakes the dance to dry a widow's tears: When hoary age her Tutor's brows o'erspread, And sickness bow'd his venerable head, O'er the pale couch she hung with filial care, And pluck'd the thorn disease had planted there. My voice inspires the cultivated mind, Whose polish'd page instructs and charms mankind; 'Twas I directed Carter's piercing eyes To roll inquisitive through starry skies;

To her the lore of Grecian schools I brought, And rooted in her heart the truths she taught. I, to Chapone, th' important task assign'd, To smooth the temper and improve the mind. Through Moore I pointed to the paths of truth, And rais'd her voice to guide unthinking youth: That sensibility, allied to Heaven, That sacred pen she boasts, by me were given. I stood, a favouring muse, at Burney's side, To lash unfeeling wealth and stubborn pride. Soft affectation, insolently vain, And wild extravagance, with all her sweeping train, Led her that modern hydra to engage, And point a Harrel to a mad'ning age: Then bade the moralist, admir'd and prais'd, Fly from the loud applause her talent rais'd. Ev'n Montague my aiding hand must own, That plac'd her high on learning's polish'd throne; That taught her arm the critic spear to wield, Foil'd the fly Gaul, and drove him from the field: I bade her liberal care receive, caress That struggling merit which the proud depress, That bashful want, which, bending to the grave, Shrinks from the pitying hand held out to save. Nor think that she alone my aid acquires, Whom learning tutors or whom genius fires; On all the smile of favour I bestow, Who fly from fashion, vanity and show.

THE ROSE.—A SONG.

THE Rose had been wash'd, lately wash'd in a show'r▪ That Mary to Anna convey'd; A plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower, And weigh'd down its beautiful head.

The cup was all fill'd; the leaves were all wet; And seem'd, at a fanciful view, To weep for the buds it had left with regret, On the flourishing bush where it grew.

I hastily siez'd it, unfit as it was For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd; And, shaking it rudely, too rudely, alas! I snapp'd it! it fell to the ground!

And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part Some act by the delicate mind; Regardless of wringing and breaking the heart Already to sorrow resign'd!

This delicate rose, had I shaken it less, Might have bloom'd with the owner a while: And the tear that is wip'd with a little address, May be follow'd, perhaps, with a smile!

EXTRACTS FROM A SATIRE ON WOMEN.

SOME nymphs prefer astronomy to love; Elope from mortal men, and range above, The fair philosopher to Rowley flies, Where in a box the whole creation lies. She sees the planets in their turns advance; And scorns, Duport, thy sublunary dance. Of Desagulier she bespeaks fresh air, And Whiston has engagements with the fair, To F— turn she never took the height Of Saturn, yet is ever in the right; She strikes each point with native force of mind, While puzzled learning blunders far behind. Graceful to sight, and elegant to thought, The great are vanquish'd, and the wise are taught. Her breeding finish'd, and her temper sweet, When serious, easy; and when gay, discreet; In glitt'ring scenes, o'er her own heart severe; In crowds, collected; and in courts, sincere; Sincere, and warm, with zeal well understood▪ She takes a noble pride in doing good.

Yet not superior to her sex's cares, The mo••e she fixes by the gown she wears: Of silks, and chin•• she's the last appeal; In these great points she leads the common-weal; And if disputes of empire rise between Mechlin the queen of lace, and Colberteen, 'Tis doubt! 'tis darkness! 'till suspended fate Assumes her nod to close the grand debate. When such her mind, why will the fair express Their emulation only in their dress. The languid lady next appears in state, Who was not born to carry her own weight; She lolls, reels, staggers, 'till some foreign aid To her own stature lifts the feeble maid. Then, if ordain'd to so severe a doom, She by just stages journeys round the room: But knowing her own weakness, she despairs To scale the Alps—that is, ascend the stairs. My fan! let others say, who laugh at toil; Fan! hood! glove! scarf! is her laconic style. And that is spoke with such a dying fall, That Betty rather sees, than hears the call: The motion of her lips, and meaning eye Piece out the idea her faint words deny. O listen with attention most profound! Her voice is but the shadow of a sound. And help! O help! her spirits are so dead, One hand scarce lifts the other to her head. If there, a stubborn pin it triumphs o'er, She pants! she sinks away! and is no more. Let the robust, and the gigantic carve; Life is not worth so much; she'd rather starve: But chew she must, herself; ah cruel fate! That Rosalinda can't by proxy eat. An antidote in female caprice lies (Kind Heav'n!) against the poison of their eyes. Thalestris triumphs in a manly mein, Loud is her accent, and her phrase obscene. (Vain is the task to petticoats assign'd, If wanton language shews a naked mind.)

And now and then to grace her eloquence, An oath supplies the vacancies of sense. Hark! the shrill notes transpierce the yielding air, And teach the neighb'ring echoes how to swear. But though the volley rattles in your ear, Believe her dress, she's not a grenadier. If thunder's awful, how much more our dread, When Jove deputes a lady in his stead? A lady! pardon my mistaken pen, A shameless woman is the worst of men. Few to good-breeding make a just pretence, Good-breeding is the blossom of good sense; The last result of an accomplish'd mind, With outward grace, the body's virtue, join'd. A violated decency now reigns. And nymphs for failings take peculiar pains: They throw their persons, with a hoyden air, Across the room, and toss into the chair. So far their commerce with mankind is gone, They for our manners, have exchang'd their own. The modest look, the castigated grace, The gentle movement, and slow-measur'd pace, For which her lovers dy'd, her parents pay'd, Are indecorums with the modern maid. Stiff forms are bad, but let not worse intrude, Nor conquer art and nature, to be rude. Aspasia's highly born, and nicely bred, Of taste refin'd, in life and manners read, Yet reaps no fruit from her superior sense, But to be teaz'd by her own excellence. "Folks are so awkward! things so unpolite!" She's elegantly pain'd from morn to night. Her delicacy's shock'd where'er she goes, Each creature's imperfections are her woes. Heav'n by its favours has the fair distrest, And pours such blessings—that she can't be blest. Ah! why so vain, tho' blooming in thy spring, Thou shining, frail, ador'd, and wretched thing! Old age will come, disease may come before, Fifteen is full as mortal as threescore.

Thy fortune and thy charms may soon decay; But grant these fugitives prolong their stay, Their basis totters, their foundation shakes, Life, that supports them, in a moment breaks; Then, wrought into the soul let virtue shine, The ground eternal, as the work divine. But Clio thus. "What, railing without end? Mean task! how much more generous to commend!" Yes, to commend as you are wont to do, My kind instructor, and example too. "Daphnis, says Clio, has a charming eye: "What pity 'tis her shoulder is awry? "Aspasia's shape indeed—but then her air— "The man has parts who finds destruction there. "Almeria's wit has something that's divine; "And wit's enough—how few in all things shine? "Selina serves her friends, relieves the poor— "Who was it said Selina's near threescore? "At Lucia's match I from my soul rejoice, "The world congratulates so wise a choice; "His Lordship's rent-roll is exceeding great, "But mortgages will sap the best estate. "In Shirley's form might cherubims appear, "But then—she has a freckle on her ear." Without a but, Hortensia she commends, The first of women, and the best of friends; Owns her in person, wit, fame, virtue, bright; But how comes this to pass?—she dy'd last night. Thus nymphs commend who yet at satire rail; Indeed that's needless, if such praise prevail: And whence such praise? our virulence is thrown On other's fame, thro' fondness for our own.

A VERNAL SHOWER.

THE north-east spends his rage; he now shuts up, Within his iron cave, th' effusive south Warms the wide air, and o'er the void of heaven

Breathes the big clouds with vernal showers distent. At first a dusky wreath they seem to rise, Scarce staining ether; but by swift degrees, In heaps on heaps, the doubling vapour sails Along the loaded sky, and mingling deep Sits on th' horizon round a settled gloom: Not such as wintry storms on mortals shed, Oppressing life; but lovely, gentle, kind, And full of ev'ry hope and ev'ry joy, The wish of nature. Gradual sinks the breeze Into a perfect calm: that not a breath Is heard to quiver th•••• the closing woods. Or rustling turn the many-twinkling leaves Of aspin tall. Th' un••••rling floods, diffus'd In glassy breadth, seem thro' delusive lapse Forgetful of their course. 'Tis silence all, And pleasing expectation. Herds and flocks Drop the dry sprig, and mute-imploring eye The falling verdure. Hush'd in short suspense, The plumy people streak their wings with oil, To throw the lucid moisture trickling off; And wait th' approaching sign to strike, at once, Into the general choir. Even mountains, vales, And forests seem impatient to demand The promis'd sweetness. Man superior walks Amid the glad creation, musing praise, And looking lively gratitude. At last, The clouds consign their treasures to the fields; And softly shaking on the dimpled pool Prelusive drops, let all their moisture flow, In large effusion, o'er the freshen'd world. The stealing shower is scarce to patter heard, By such as wander thro' the forest-walks, Beneath the umbrageous multitude of leaves. But who can hold the shade, while heaven descend•• In universal bounty, shedding herbs, And fruits, and flowers, on Nature's ample lap? Swift fancy fir'd anticipates their growth; And, while the milky nutriment distils, Beholds the kindling country colour round.

A FLOWER GARDEN.

AT length the finish'd garden to the view Its vistas opens, and its alloys green. Snatch'd thro' the verdant maze, the hurried eye Distracted w••nders; now the bowery wal•• Of covert close, where scarce a speck of day Falls on the lengthen'd gloom, protracted sweeps; Now meets the bending sky; the river now Dimpling along, the breezy-ruffled lake, The forest darkening round, the glittering spire, Th' ethereal mountain, and the distant main. But why so far excursive? when at hand, Along these blushing borders, bright with dew, And in you mingled wilderness of flowers, Fair-handed Spring unbosoms every grace; Throws out the s••ow-drop, and the crocus first; The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue, And polyanthus of unnumber'd dyes; The yellow wall-flower, stain'd with iron brown; And lavish stock that scents the garden round: From the soft wing of vernal breezes shed, Anemonies; auricul••s, enrich'd With shining meal o'er all their velvet leaves; And full ranunculas, of glowing red. Then comes the tulip race, where beauty plays Her idle freaks; from family diffu••'d To family, as flies the father-dust, The varied colours run; and, while they break On the charm'd eye, the exulting florist marks, With secret pride, the wonders of his ha••d. No gradual bloom is wanting: from the bud, First-born of Spring, to Summer's musky tribes: Nor hyacinths, of purest virgin white, Low-bent, and blushing inward; nor jonquil••, Of potent fragrance; nor narcissus fair,

As o'er the fabled fountain hanging still; Nor broad carnations, nor gay spotted pinks; Nor, shower'd from every bush, the damask rose. Infinite numbers, delicacies, smells, With hues on hues expression cannot paint, The breath of Nature, and her endless bloom.

Hail, Source of Being! Universal Soul Of heaven and earth! Essential Presence, hail! To thee I bend the knee! to thee my thoughts, Continual, climb; who, with a master-hand, Hast the great whole into perfection touch'd. By thee the various vegetative tribes, Wrapt in a filmy net, and clad with leaves, Draw the live ether, and imbibe the dew: By thee dispos'd into congenial soils, Stands each attractive plant, and suc'••s, and swells The juicy tide; a twining mass of tubes. At thy command, the vernal sun awakes The torpid sap, detruded to the root By wint'ry winds; that now in fluent dance, And lively fermentation, mounting, spreads All this innumerous-colour'd scene of things.

FEMALE AMUSEMENTS AND EMPLOYMENT.

BUT if the rougher sex by this fierce sport Is hurried wild, let not such horrid joy E'er stain the bosom of the British fair. Far be the spirit of the chace from them! Uncomely courage, unbeseeming skill; To spring the fence, to rein the prancing steed: The cap, the whip, the masculine attire In which they roughen to the sense, and all The winning softness of their sex is lost. In them 'tis graceful to dissolve at woe;

With every motion, every word, to wave Quick o'er the kindling cheek, the ready blush; And from the smallest violence to shrink, Unequal, then the loveliest in their fears; And by this silent adulation, soft, To their protection more engaging man. O, may their eyes no miserable sight, Save weeping lovers, see! a nobler game, Thro' love's enchanting wiles pursu'd, yet fled, In chace ambiguous. May their tender limbs Float in the loose simplicity of dress! And, fashion'd all to harmony, alone Know they to seize the captivated soul, In rapture warbled from soft-breathing lips; To teach the lute to languish; with smooth step, Disclosing motion in its every charm, To swim along and swell the mazy dance; To train the foliage o'er the snowy lawn; To guide the pencil, turn the tuneful page; To lend new flavour to the fruitful year, And heighten nature's dainties; in their race To rear their graces into second life; To give society its highest taste; Well order'd home man's best delight to make; And by submissive wisdom, modest skill, With every gentle care-eluding art, To raise the virtues, animate the bliss, And sweeten all the toils of human life: This be the female dignity and praise.

MORAL REFLECTIONS ON THE WINTER OF LIFE.

'TIS done! dread Winter spreads his latest glooms, And reigns tremendous o'er the conquer'd year. How dead the vegetable kingdom lies!

How dumb the tuneful! Horror wide extends His desolate d••main. Behold, fond man! See here thy pictur'd life; pass some few years, Thy flowering Spring, thy Summer's ardent strength, Thy sober Autumn fading into age, And pale concluding Winter comes at last, And shuts the scene. Ah! whither now are fled Those dreams of greatness? those unsolid hopes Of happiness? those longings after fame? Those restless cares? those busy bustling days? Those gay spent festive nights? those veering thoughts, Lost between good and ill, that shar'd thy life? All now are vanish'd! Virtue sole survives, Immortal never-failing friend of man, His guide to happiness on high. And see! 'Tis come, the glorious morn! the second birth Of heaven and earth! Awakening nature hears The new-creating word, and starts to life, In every heightened form, from pain and death Forever free. The great eternal scheme, Involving all, and in a perfect whole Uniting, as the prospect wider spreads, To reason's eye refin'd, clears up apace. Ye vainly wise! ye blind presumptuous! now, Confounded in the dust, adore the Power And Wisdom oft arraign'd: see now the cause, Why unassuming worth in secret liv'd, And dy'd, neglected: why the good man's share In life was gall and bitterness of soul: Why the lone widow and her orphan pin'd In starving solitude; while luxury, In palaces, lay straining her low thought, To form unreal wants: why heaven-born truth, And moderation fair, wore the red marks Of superstition's scourge: why licens'd pain, That cruel spoiler, that embosom'd foe, Embitter'd all our bliss. Ye good distress'd! Ye noble few! who here unbending stand

Beneath life's pressure, yet bear up a while, And what your bounded view, which only saw A little part, deem'd evil, is no more: The storms of wint'ry time will quickly pass, And one unbounded Spring encircle all.

CONCLUSION. A SHORT SYSTEM OF VIRTUE AND HAP|PINESS.

I WILL suppose a virtuous young lady form|ing in her mind the principles of her future conduct, and uttering the result of her reflections in the following solil|oquy.

"At the time when I am approaching to maturity of reason, I perceive myself placed in a world abounding with external objects, and I also perceive within me fac|ulties and passions formed to be powerfully excited by them. I am naturally tempted to interrogate myself, What am I? Whence came I? and, Whither am I going?

"With a view to satisfy my own inquiries, I consider others who appear to be just like myself; I listen to the instruction of those who are older and wiser than I am; and I examine, with serious attention, the volumes of di|vine inspiration.

"The result of the whole inquiry is a sincere convic|tion, that I am placed here to perform many duties; that I originate from a supreme Creator; and that I am going on in the journey of life, to accomplish some of his gracious purposes at the close of it, as well as in its progress.

"I divide my duty into three parts, according to the suggestions of my own reason, and the instruction of books. They consist of the obligations which I owe to myself, to others, and to him, in whose hands are both they and I, the great Lord of the universe.

"With respect to myself, as I consist of two parts, a body and a mind, my duty to myself divides itself into two parts also. My body is a machine curiously organ|ized, and easily deranged by excess and irregularity. When disturbed in its economy, it subjects me to pain,

and disables me from all necessary and pleasant exertion. I owe it therefore to myself to live a regular, orderly, and industrious life; neither to turn night into day, by keeping late hours, nor to enter into gaming, which keeps the passions constantly irritated; not to indulge in eating or drinking to excess, nor to give myself up to sloth and indolence, which would unnerve every faculty of the mind, and prevent my making a progress in any virtuous or laudable pursuits. I further learn from the religion of my country, that my body is the temple of the Holy Spirit: consequently it is my duty to live according to the strictest rules of chastity and virtue; a violation of which is not only injuring myself, but also sinning against my great Creator.

"But I have a mind also capable of great improvement by culture, or of becoming vain, foolish, and stupid, by neglect. I will not lose any of the advantages of my education. I will not waste my time in reading novels, which serve either to corrupt the mind, or to convey false ideas of life and manners. But I will devote my leisure hours to reading books of real instruction, and to reflection; for whatever tends to improve the mind, tends also to sweeten the temper and refine the manners.

"My mind as well as my body is concerned in avoid|ing every kind of intemperance. Sensual indulgencies debase and corrupt the mind. Their delights are tran|sient, their pains severe, and of long duration.

"Inexperienced youth is surrounded with temptations. I will fly from the conflict in which my own passions would fight against me, and perhaps betray me to the enemy. I will pray to be delivered from temptation; for alas! I am too much inclined to vice, from the im|perfection of my nature, and the violence of my passions. But I will not be a recluse. The world abounds in in|nocent enjoyments, and the kind God of nature intended I should taste them; but moderation is essential to true pleasure. My own experience, and the experience of mankind from their origin, has declared, that whenever pleasure exceeds the bounds of moderation, it is not only highly injurious, but disgustful. In order to enjoy pleasure, I see the necessity of devoting part of my time

to useful employments, becoming my sex and situation. The vicissitude is necessary to excite an appetite and give a relish. Nay, the very performance of necessary duties, is attended with a delightful satisfaction, which few of the most boasted amusements are able to confer.

"While I take care of myself, of my health, of my improvement in morals and understanding, I will not harbour pride, or look down with superciliousness or ill-nature on those who live, as it were, at random, and who acknowledge no other guide of their conduct but the sudden impulse of a temporary inclination. With all my improvements and endeavours, I shall still feel imperfections enough to humble me. Candour and humility are some of the least fallible marks of sound sense and sincere virtue. I shall have sufficient employ|ment in correcting myself; nor shall I presume to cen|sure others, unless my duty renders it necessary. My duty to myself is, indeed, intimately connected with my duty to others. By preserving the faculties of the mind and body, and by improving them to the utmost, I am enabled to exert them with effect in the service of those around me.

"I am connected with others by the ties of consanguin|ity and friendship, and by the common bond of partak|ing in the same humanity. As a daughter, I shall be tender and dutiful; as a sister, uniformly affectionate; as a wife, faithful and friendly; as a mother, kind and attentive; as one of the human kind, benevolent to all persons in whatever circumstances, and however sepa|rated from me by country or religion.

"But universal benevolence must not be an inactive principle. If it proceed not to real beneficence, I fear it will have more in it of ostentation than of sincerity. I will then prove its sincerity by doing good, and remov|ing evil of every kind, as far as my abilities allow me, and my influence extends.

"But before I pretend to generosity, I will be strictly just. Truth shall regulate my words, and equity my actions. In all my intercourse with society, I will rec|ollect that heavenly precept, of doing to others as I wish they should do to me, and will endeavour to obey it.

I may, I certainly shall offend from the violence of my passions, the weakness of my judgment, the perverseness of my will, and from mistake and misapprehension. But while I keep the evangelical rule in view, and sin|cerely labour to conform to it, I shall seldom commit such offences against others, as will be either perma|nently or deeply injurious.

"With respect to my duty to my Creator, I derive an argument in favour of religion, from the feelings of my own bosom, superior to the most elaborate subtilties of human ingenuity. In the hour of distress, my heart as naturally flies for succour to the Deity, as when hungry and thirsty I seek food and water; or when weary, repose. In religion I look for comfort, and in religion I always find it. Devotion supplies me with a pure and exalted pleasure. It elevates my soul, and teaches me to look down with a proper contempt upon many objects which are eagerly sought, but which end in misery. In this respect, and in many others, it effects, in the best and most compendious method, what has been in vain pretended to by proud philosophy.

"And in selecting a mode or peculiar system of relig|ion, I shall consider what that was in which my ancestors lived and died. I find it to have been the religion of Christ. I examine it with reverence. I feel within me an internal evidence, which, uniting its force with the exter|nal, forbids me to disbelieve. When involuntary doubts arise, I immediately silence their importunity by recol|lecting the weakness of my judgment, and the vain pre|sumption of hastily deciding on the most important of all subjects, against such powerful evidence, and against the major part of the civilized world.

"I will learn humility of the humble Jesus, and grate|fully accept the beneficial doctrines, and glorious offers which his benign religion reaches out to all who sincerely seek him by prayer and penitence.

"Human life abounds with evil. I will seek balsams for the wounds of the heart, in the sweets of innocence and in the consolations of religion. Virtue, I am con|vinced, is the noblest ornament of humanity, and the source of the sublimest and the sweetest pleasure; and

piety leads to that peace, which the world, and all it pos|sesses cannot bestow. When the gaudy glories of fashion and of vain philosophy shall have withered like a short-lived flower, sincere piety and true virtue shall flourish like the cedar of Lebanon. But I repress my triumphs. After all my improvements, and all my desires of per|fection, I shall still be greatly defective. Therefore, to whatever degree of excellence I advance, let me never forget to shew to others that indulgence which my in|firmities, my errors, and my voluntary misconduct will require both from them, and from mine and their al|mighty and most merciful Father."

THE END.