Rowson, Mrs., 1762-1824 [1793], The inquisitor, or, Invisible rambler, volume 3 (William Gibbons, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf324v3].
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Front matter
Covers, Edges and Spine
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Preliminaries
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Title Page
THE
INQUISITOR;
OR,
INVISIBLE RAMBLER.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
By Mrs. ROWSON, author of Victoria.
THE FIRST AMERICAN EDITION.
VOLUME III.
PHILADELPHIA —PRINTED
AND SOLD BY WILLIAM GIBBONS, NO. 144,
NORTH THIRD-STREET.
1793.
Preliminaries
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Main text
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THE INQUISITOR; OR, INVISIBLE RAMBLER. IN THREE VOLUMES.
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It was on a fine evening, the latter end of May,
when tired with the fatigues of the day, for &longs;he was
a milliner's apprentice, Annie obtained leave of her
mi&longs;tre&longs;s to walk out for a little air.—Her mi&longs;tre&longs;s
had a &longs;hop which &longs;he occupied, and frequently visited
during the &longs;ummer &longs;ea&longs;on, &longs;ituated on the banks
of the Thames.
Annie &longs;trayed toward the water &longs;ide. Some venerable
trees grew on the banks, forming a covert
from the &longs;un at noon; and, by their interwoven
branches, in&longs;piring a &longs;ort of plea&longs;ing melancholy in
the gray twilight of the evening.
Annie was a &longs;entimental girl—&longs;he loved &longs;olitude,
poetry, and mu&longs;ic.—With a mind &longs;oftened by the
remembrance of &longs;ome former occurrences of her life,
and &longs;pirits calmed, but not depre&longs;&longs;ed, by the &longs;olemn
&longs;ilence and &longs;erenity of every thing around her, &longs;he
wandered on, meditating on the happy &longs;tate of tho&longs;e
who were in a &longs;ituation to enjoy unmole&longs;ted the
darling plea&longs;ures of reading, meditation, and friendship.
Whether love had any &longs;hare in her thoughts at
that moment, I never could get her to con&longs;e&longs;s—but,
whether a &longs;entimental young woman, wandering in
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a &longs;olitary walk, and contemplating the works of nature,
might not naturally enough wi&longs;h for a bo&longs;om
friend to participate in her plea&longs;ures, and join in an
innocent conver&longs;ation, I leave to my fair readers to
determine—to be &longs;ure, &longs;he might wi&longs;h for a female
companion; very likely &longs;he did; but it is a point I
never could determine.
In this &longs;hady walk Annie was acco&longs;ted by Mr.
Winlove.
Mr. Winlove was a gentleman of fortune, to
who&longs;e family Annie had been recommended by a
particular friend as an innocent, well-di&longs;po&longs;ed girl.—
She frequently vi&longs;ited Mrs. Winlove—&longs;he had received
numberle&longs;s civilities from her hu&longs;band—
there could be no harm in walking two or three turns
with a married man—&longs;he accepted his proferred
arm, and they proceeded together.
I had been wi&longs;hing for an agreeable companion
in this walk, Annie, &longs;aid he.
Why did you not bring Mrs. Winlove with you?
'Tis a natural que&longs;tion; Annie, but a wife is not
always the mo&longs;t agreeable companion. I am much
better plea&longs;ed with your company than I &longs;hould be
with hers
Annie had been brought up in the &longs;tricte&longs;t principles
of virtue; &longs;he had likewi&longs;e imbibed &longs;ome
&longs;trange, ob&longs;olete notions concerning honor, piety,
integrity, and the like. She, therefore, thought it
&longs;trange that a man &longs;hould prefer the company of an
indifferent per&longs;on, to that of the woman to whom he
had vowed eternal love and con&longs;tancy.
How can you talk &longs;o incon&longs;i&longs;tently, Mr. Winlove?
&longs;aid &longs;he; &longs;urely my company cannot be preferable
to that of the woman of your choice.
Do people never marry from any other motives
than inclination?
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I have heard, indeed, &longs;aid Annie, of marriages
of intere&longs;t, where avarice, not love, lighted the hymeneal
torch; but I have too good an opinion of
Mr. Winlove to think he could be bia&longs;&longs;ed by &longs;o
&longs;ordid a motive.
How I am delighted to find that you entertain
&longs;o high an opinion of me, my dear creature; and
yet it pains me.
Oh, why am I denied the power of be&longs;towing myself
and fortune on a woman every way &longs;o amiable.
Annie was going to interrupt him, but he stopped
her, and proceeded.—
Be not offended, my &longs;weet angel, you have no
idea of the mi&longs;eries of my &longs;ituation; drawn into a
cur&longs;ed connection with a woman who has neither
beauty, merit, nor accompli&longs;hments to render her
a de&longs;irable companion—a woman for whom I have
not the lea&longs;t tenderne&longs;s, and whom I married from
a mi&longs;taken point of honor—unhappy wretch that I
am, I mu&longs;t now daily &longs;ee you, charming Annie,
lovely, amiable, accompli&longs;hed, yet obliged to earn
a &longs;ub&longs;i&longs;tence, when nature formed you to move in a
&longs;phere more exalted, more &longs;uited to your gentle
di&longs;po&longs;ition.—The&longs;e hands, dear girl, were not formed
for labour—he took one hand and pre&longs;&longs;ed it tenderly
to his lips.
Now, however Annie might be inclined to reprove
Mr. Winlove in the beginning of this address,
the latter part of it was &longs;o prettily mixed
with prai&longs;es of her&longs;elf, that &longs;he could not well determine
whether to be plea&longs;ed or offended—&longs;he
therefore continued &longs;ilent.
Annie was the daughter of a merchant; had
been well educated; and being &longs;uppo&longs;ed to have a
large fortune, was early introduced into the &longs;chool
of gallantry, and her ears invaded by the voice of
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adulation—&longs;he was pretty—how could &longs;he avoid
knowing it? &longs;he had heard an hundred different
men &longs;wear it; her gla&longs;s confirmed their oaths.—
She was naturally &longs;en&longs;ible; but &longs;he was vain, and a
little inclined to cequetry.—Her father died insolvent—
&longs;he was taken from a &longs;cene of grandeur, and
apprenticed to a milliner.—She was good-natured;
every body loved her—&longs;he &longs;ubmitted to her fate
without repining, and endeavoured to render herself
u&longs;eful in her new occupation.—But, alas! poor
Annie, &longs;he loved the &longs;oft numbers of a Dryden or
a Pope, much better than the &longs;tudy of the fa&longs;hions;
and would prefer &longs;pending an hour at her pen, before
the formation of the mo&longs;t elegant ornament for
the per&longs;on.
It is not to be wondered at that &longs;he was delighted
by the voice of flattery, &longs;ince &longs;he had &longs;eldom,
from her cradle, been accu&longs;tomed to any other.
Mr. Winlove was artful; he ea&longs;ily di&longs;covered
the method by which he might gain the good will
of this &longs;imple girl; and imperceptibly changed the
&longs;ubject, from admiring the beauties of her per&longs;on,
to commend the graces of her mind.—He then inquired
into the nature of her &longs;tudies; commended
her ta&longs;te in the &longs;election of authors; ventured gently
to laugh at her ideas of religion; called them
&longs;uper&longs;titious; &longs;aid &longs;he was a novice in the ways of
the world, and openly avowed a pa&longs;&longs;ion for her.
At fir&longs;t her looks plainly indicated her horror and
amazement—She trembled—&longs;hrunk from him,
and telling him &longs;he was &longs;hocked to find the per&longs;on
&longs;he had &longs;uppo&longs;ed her friend, was her bittere&longs;t enemy,
bur&longs;t into tears.
Had Annie acted with propriety &longs;he would have
in&longs;tantly left him; but he attempted to palliate his
offence—&longs;he &longs;taid to hear him.
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How can you call me your enemy, dear Annie,
&longs;aid he—though I doat on you almo&longs;t to madne&longs;s,
I would not injure you to obtain an empire. I
will curb my pa&longs;&longs;ion; it &longs;hall be pure, exalted
friend&longs;hip that warms our bo&longs;oms; we may be
friends, my &longs;weet girl; you cannot re&longs;u&longs;e me that
token of your e&longs;teem.
Let your actions teach me to e&longs;teem you, Mr.
Winlove—I will be the friend of no man who pretends
to laugh at all obligations moral and religious.
Mr. Winlove by degrees led her into a di&longs;pute—
Annie was not a match in argument with this insidious
friend; he was a &longs;ophi&longs;t; he preferred the
laws of nature; called religion prie&longs;tcraft; brought
innumerable proofs to convince her that her opinion
was fallacious, and that &longs;he was entirely ignorant
of the road to happine&longs;s, if &longs;he &longs;uppo&longs;ed it was
to be found by &longs;trictly adhering to the mu&longs;ty rules
pre&longs;cribed by the aged and captious, who, unable
any longer to enjoy the plea&longs;ures of youth, would
deprive others of their &longs;hare.
Take example, dear Annie, &longs;aid he, from the excellent
Eloi&longs;e of Rouffeau.
She had never read it.
He recommended it very &longs;trongly for her perusal.
As &longs;he returned home, pa&longs;&longs;ing a library, Mr.
Winlove purcha&longs;ed the pernicious novel, and gave
it to Annie.
She took it home—&longs;he read it—her judgment
was perverted—&longs;he believed in the reality of a platonic
pa&longs;&longs;ion—&longs;he thought &longs;he had the virtue of
an Eloi&longs;e, and Mr. Winlove the honor of a St.
Preux.
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Churchill was the next author that was recommended.
She read—&longs;he li&longs;tened to the &longs;oft language of
love, and imbibed pernicious poi&longs;on from every
page &longs;he read, and every word &longs;he heard.
Tru&longs;ting to her own &longs;trength and virtue, &longs;he
made a private a&longs;&longs;ingnation—met him—confe&longs;&longs;ed &longs;he
loved him—and was lo&longs;t.
But little now remains to be told.
A few months convinced her, that when honor
is forfeited, love cannot exi&longs;t.
Mr. Winlove for&longs;ook her.
Her reputation &longs;tained—without friends—without
peace—de&longs;pi&longs;ed and in&longs;ulted by her own &longs;ex,
pitied by the other, and renounced by her uncle,
who had bound her apprentice, &longs;he became the
a&longs;&longs;ociate of the abandoned and profligate; and reduced
to chu&longs;e the dreadful alternative of death or
infamy, became a partner in vices which once &longs;he
would have &longs;huddered but to think on.
LOVE.
And this man pleaded love as an incitement to
the ruin of the poor, &longs;imple Annie.
What is love?
It is a que&longs;tion which would be an&longs;wered different
ways, according to the age and &longs;ituation of the
per&longs;on to whom it is addre&longs;&longs;ed—Love! cries the
lively girl, who&longs;e imagination is warmed by the
peru&longs;al of a &longs;entimental novel—love is the cordial
drop Heaven has thrown in, to &longs;weeten the bitter
draught of life—without love we can only exi&longs;t—
&longs;weet &longs;oother of our cares! that can &longs;trew ro&longs;es on.
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the coar&longs;e&longs;t bed, and make the mo&longs;t homely fair
delicious.—Give me love and Strephon, an humble
cottage &longs;haded with woodbine; for love will
render the retreat delightful!
Charmed with the enchanting &longs;cene her bu&longs;y fancy
draws, &longs;he imagines happine&longs;s exi&longs;ts only in a
cottage; and that for the love of her dear Strephon,
&longs;he could ea&longs;ily, and without regret, forego
all the indulgencies of her father's hou&longs;e; all the
advantages of wealth, and &longs;olace her&longs;elf with a
brown cru&longs;t and a pitcher of milk. But then her
Strephon will always be near her, ever whi&longs;pering
his love, and &longs;tudying to promote her felicity: fired
with the&longs;e romantic ideas, &longs;he takes the fir&longs;t opportunity
of quitting her home; and without a
moment's deliberation, throws her&longs;el&longs; upon the honor
of a man, who, perhaps, had no further regard
for her than the hope of &longs;haring her fortune might
excite.
A&longs;k this &longs;ame woman, &longs;ome few months after,
when poverty has vi&longs;ited her dwelling, and umasked
the real de&longs;igns of her hu&longs;band, a&longs;k her then
what love is—her an&longs;wer will be, it is a fooli&longs;h,
head&longs;trong pa&longs;&longs;ion, who&longs;e plea&longs;ures exi&longs;t merely in
imagination; a blind hood-winked deity, who
leads on his votaries by promi&longs;es of everla&longs;ting felicity;
and when too late for retreat, di&longs;covers his
real a&longs;pect, and plunges them into inevitable misery.—
Yet this woman's ideas of love were both
erroneous—the rea&longs;on of which was, &longs;he had never
really felt the effects of that exalted pa&longs;&longs;ion.
A&longs;k the libertine what is love?
Innocence trembles at his an&longs;wer; religion and
virtue replies, it is ruin, infamy and &longs;hame.
The old, avaricious, captious wretch will tell
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you, there is no &longs;uch thing as love; that it never
exi&longs;ted but in romances, plays, and novels.
Then pray, Mr. Inqui&longs;itor, what is your opinion
of love?
The ANSWER.
Real love was born of Beauty, nur&longs;ed by Innocence,
and its life prolonged by good &longs;en&longs;e, affability
and prudence—it con&longs;i&longs;ts of a &longs;trict union of
&longs;oul and parity of &longs;entiment between two per&longs;ons
of different &longs;exes—its con&longs;tant attendants are honor,
integrity, candour, humility, good nature, and
chearfulne&longs;s.
A pa&longs;&longs;ion of this kind elevates the &longs;oul, and inspires
it with fortitude to bear the various vicissitudes
of life without complaining—from &longs;uch a
pa&longs;&longs;ion proceeds all the endearing ties of nature—
Father, brother, hu&longs;band, wife, mother, daughter;
names, the very &longs;ound of which will make every
fibre of the heart vibrate with plea&longs;ure.
What noble, prai&longs;e-worthy actions have men
performed when animated by the e&longs;teem and love
of a de&longs;erving object; even women have forgot the
weakne&longs;s of their &longs;ex, and &longs;uffered hard&longs;hips, combated
perils, and braved even the threats of war, for
the &longs;ake of a beloved hu&longs;band.—It opens the heart
to all the gentle virtues which ornament &longs;ociety—
the heart &longs;u&longs;ceptible of love is never callous to the
feelings of humanity; he never beholds a di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed
object but he immediately wi&longs;hes to relieve it, not
that he feels &longs;o much for the per&longs;on's &longs;uffering as
for tho&longs;e who may &longs;uffer with or for their di&longs;tre&longs;s,
&longs;uch as a wife, hu&longs;band, or parent.—It is a pa&longs;&longs;ion
which, when in&longs;pired by virtue, and guided by
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religion and rea&longs;on, dignifies mankind—a pa&longs;&longs;ion
which ornaments the highe&longs;t &longs;tation, and adds new
lu&longs;tre even to the Briti&longs;h diadem.
Illu&longs;trious pair! who&longs;e every action tends to
point the way to real happine&longs;s; long, long may
you reign the pride and ble&longs;&longs;ing of your people—
May your bright example &longs;pread throughout the
kingdom, till Hymen, led by Love and Honor,
&longs;hall reign triumphant o'er the Briti&longs;h nation.
It is very extraordinary, but I never can fini&longs;h
with the &longs;ubject I begin upon—I began a definition
of Love, and I ramble immediately to the King
and Queen; and how was it po&longs;&longs;ible I could do
otherwise when love and harmony was the theme.
My fair country-women, you who&longs;e hearts are
formed by nature open to every gentle, generous
&longs;entiment, beware of Love—there are many deceivers
who a&longs;&longs;ume his appearance, and &longs;teal unsuspected
into the heart; but of all the various
&longs;hapes it a&longs;&longs;umes, none is &longs;o much to be dreaded as
the &longs;pecious ma&longs;k of friend&longs;hip.—There has been
more women lo&longs;t through platonic love than any
other; and the rea&longs;on is, they are thrown entirely
off their guard, and have not the lea&longs;t doubt of the
&longs;trength of their own virtue, or their lover's honor,
till both are forfeited pa&longs;t redemption.
But all this is digre&longs;&longs;ing from Annie's &longs;tory.
The SEQUEL.
When &longs;he had fini&longs;hed her relation I took her
into a hackney coach, and conveyed her home—
candidly told my dear Emma the circum&longs;tance of
our meeting, and a&longs;ked her advice in what manner
to di&longs;po&longs;e of the poor girl.
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We tried her penitence; found it &longs;incere; and
willing to encourage her in virtue, recommended
her to the &longs;ervice of a lady who&longs;e example confirmed
tho&longs;e &longs;entiments which were newly returning to be
inmates of Annie's bo&longs;om.
I have frequently &longs;een her &longs;ince, and experience
a thou&longs;and times more &longs;atisfaction in the reflection
that I have &longs;natched her from infamy, than the man
of plea&longs;ure can feel who rai&longs;es the object of his
guilty pur&longs;uit from the lowe&longs;t &longs;tation, to affluence
and grandeur.
That is but a bad compari&longs;on neither; the two
actions cannot come in competition with each
other, &longs;ince the fir&longs;t elevates human nature, the latter
deba&longs;es it.
The JOURNEY.
I have often been &longs;urpri&longs;ed to find that per&longs;ons
who are po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed of elegant villas, and are at liberty
to di&longs;po&longs;e of their time as they think proper,
&longs;hould prefer &longs;pending it in London. For my own
part I &longs;hould hardly pa&longs;s one month of the twelve
in that &longs;eat of commerce and bu&longs;tle, were it not for
unavoidable obligations.
I find the pure&longs;t plea&longs;ures ari&longs;e from a walk in a
plea&longs;ant meadow, hedged round with hawthorn, in
a &longs;weet May morning, when the lark attunes her
early &longs;ong, and chants forth the prai&longs;es of her Creator;
to &longs;ee bright Phœbus leave his watery bed
and ki&longs;s away Aurora's pearly tears which hang
upon the opening flowers.
Drive on, &longs;aid I to the po&longs;tillion, I long to be at
my journey's end, and I mu&longs;t po&longs;itively dine at
Friendly Hall to-day.
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Pray, your honor, give me &longs;ome halfpence, &longs;aid
a boy that ran out of a cottage as the carriage passed.
He was an arch-looking boy, with curly hair,
very decently dre&longs;&longs;ed, and ran along by the &longs;ide of
the carriage with &longs;urpri&longs;ing agility.—I threw him
out &longs;ome halfpence; and looking out of the window
to ob&longs;erve him pick them up, I &longs;aw a young
man who had greatly the appearance of a gentleman,
eagerly take the money from the child,
and go into the cottage.
I had &longs;carcely mentioned the circum&longs;tance to my
Emma, before the po&longs;tillion driving carele&longs;sly over
a heap of &longs;tones, one of the wheels gave way, and
down came the coach.
At another time I &longs;hould undoubtedly have
&longs;worn at the po&longs;tillion, and thrown my&longs;elf into a
violent pa&longs;&longs;ion from which I might not have recovered
the whole day.—At pre&longs;ent, as there was no
harm done, the accident only coincided with my
wi&longs;hes, which led me towards the cottage; &longs;o
helping my Emma out, and taking Harriet in one
hand and Lucy in the other, we walked into the
humble habitation.
The COTTAGERS.
The young man was &longs;eated by a woman who&longs;e
face had never been remarkable for beauty, but was
irre&longs;i&longs;tibly charming, over &longs;hadowed by melancholy,
and adorned by &longs;en&longs;ibility.—Her fine auburn
hair &longs;he had endeavoured to confine under a
&longs;mall lawn cap, but it had broke from its bandage,
and played in wanton ringlets round her face.
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A child about three months old was at her brea&longs;t,
and the boy to whom I had given the halfpence,
was making boats with bits of wood, and swimming
them in a pail of water that &longs;tood in a corner
of the room.
As we entered, the young man glanced his eyes
upon his cloaths; his cheeks a&longs;&longs;umed a &longs;anguine
hue.—They certainly were thread-bare; but what
of that? they had once been new, and from what
remained we could &longs;ee they had once been elegant;
perhaps it was that very circum&longs;tance which distressed
him.
Whatever circum&longs;tances a per&longs;on is in, you may
always di&longs;cover by their behaviour whether they
have been innured to their &longs;ituation from childhood.—
A per&longs;on who has never known any thing
but poverty, &longs;hews no other mark of chagrin at the
entrance of a &longs;tranger than what proceeds from an
aukwardne&longs;s of manner which they ever betray
when in the company of their &longs;uperiors—and rai&longs;e
that per&longs;on to the mo&longs;t exalted &longs;tation, and you
will &longs;till perceive the &longs;ame di&longs;gu&longs;ting aukwardne&longs;s
and ru&longs;ticity.—So, place a man of education in ever
&longs;o ob&longs;cure a &longs;ituation, you will always discover
the manners of the gentleman, though ob&longs;cured
by the garb of the beggar.
I, therefore, no &longs;ooner beheld the young man
than I di&longs;covered that he had not always worn a
thread-bare coat, or lived from his childhood in a
cottage.
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The EMBARRASSMENT.
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I am hungry, mamma, &longs;aid Harriet.
Could you procure us a little bread and milk,
&longs;aid I, to the young woman.
We have none in the hou&longs;e, Sir, &longs;he replied,
vi&longs;ibly embarra&longs;&longs;ed; and it is above two miles to
another cottage.
The young man turned pale as a&longs;hes.
Give me my money, mother, &longs;aid the boy, and
I will go and buy &longs;ome.
She he&longs;itated, and the boy proceeded.
I think it is time we had &longs;ome breakfa&longs;t—I am
&longs;ure I am hungry—and &longs;o are you—I heard you
&longs;ay &longs;o, or I &longs;hould not have begged of the gentlefolks.
He will di&longs;cover our poverty, &longs;aid the father,
forcing a &longs;mile.—The mother turned from us
and wept.
Pardon me, Madam, &longs;aid Emma, if I a&longs;k the
cau&longs;e of your tears—it is not curio&longs;ity, but a wi&longs;h
to &longs;erve you occa&longs;ions the que&longs;tion.
Pride and poverty, replied the young man, struggling
to &longs;uppre&longs;s his emotions.
Will this relieve you, &longs;aid I, offering him a few
guineas.—
Though I am almo&longs;t &longs;tarving, &longs;aid he, I feel
more angui&longs;h than &longs;atisfaction at the offer; nor
would I accept it but for my wife and children.
It is extraordinary that there is &longs;uch an innate
pride implanted in the mind of &longs;ome men that they
are a&longs;hamed of poverty, though it was entailed
upon them by unavoidable misfortunes; and I am
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certain that people of this ca&longs;t, in receiving favours,
though perhaps tho&longs;e favours rai&longs;e them from
a &longs;tate of penury to plenty, feel a larger &longs;hare of
pain than plea&longs;ure—the noble mind is always
pained when labouring under the weight of obligations.
Now, &longs;hame upon the world for occa&longs;ioning
this—were it not that there is greater re&longs;pect paid
to the gilded equipage, glaring liveries, and embroidered
cloaths, than to the poor atom of clay
that is attended by all this pomp, a man would never
blu&longs;h at poverty when it was attended by honor
and virtue.
I do not mean hereditary honor, I mean a nobleness
of &longs;oul, an elevation of &longs;entiment, an integrity
of heart, that would rather bear the laugh of the
world for keeping within the &longs;trict rules of oeconomy
than &longs;uffer a trade&longs;man's bill to go unpaid, or
a fellow creature to want &longs;u&longs;tenance.
A man of real honor will not always draw his
&longs;word at every trivial offence; but he ever &longs;tands
forth the undaunted champion of innocence and
virtue—he al&longs;o holds his friend's wife or daughter
as &longs;acred, regards them with e&longs;teem, and treats
them with re&longs;pect.
The modern man of honor is quite a different
creature; he mu&longs;t have his plea&longs;ures whether he
can afford to pay for them or not; he will &longs;teal his
friend's fortune at the gaming table; debauch his
wife, or en&longs;nare his daughter, and then run him
through the body by way of reparation.
And, what is hereditary, honor?—A word of
pompous &longs;ound—a toy—a plaything—a pretty bauble
for children of twenty, thirty, aye, up to an
hundred years of age.
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I have &longs;een tho&longs;e great babies as plea&longs;ed with enumerating
the titles of their ance&longs;tors, as an infant
has been with a new rattle, or a jack in the box.
Sir, my forefathers were Earls, or Dukes, or
Princes.—Sir, I have noble blood in my veins,
which has flowed uncontaminated through twenty
generations.
Yes, Sir, but your ance&longs;tors were cruel, or unju&longs;t,
or ambitious, or avaricious, or proud, or revengeful.—
But they were Earls, or Dukes, or Princes.—
That is the convincing argument; and my Lord
&longs;its down perfectly contented with the reflection
that he is right honorable by birth, and never gives
him&longs;elf the trouble to perform one honorable action
during the whole cour&longs;e of his life.
And, pray what has this to do with the cottagers.
Faith I don't know that it has the lea&longs;t connection
with them; but I never can pre&longs;cribe rules for
my pen, any more than I can confine my thoughts
to one &longs;ingle object.—To write &longs;traight forward, is
like an hackney hor&longs;e that, &longs;etting out from the fir&longs;t
&longs;tage, continues in the beaten track till he arrives
at the end of his journey—for my part I hate &longs;uch
in&longs;ipid travelling; mine is a journey of plea&longs;ure,
and I will turn out of the road as often as I plea&longs;e
totake a view of any thing amu&longs;ing or entertaining.
The STEWARD.
The young man went out and procured &longs;ome
refre&longs;hment, of which we partook, and, after the
repa&longs;t was fini&longs;hed, the wife prepared to give us her
own and hu&longs;band's hi&longs;tory.—
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She laid her infant to &longs;leep, &longs;et her apartment in
proper order; and, having &longs;et a mug of cyder (which
her hu&longs;band had brought in) upon the table, &longs;at
down to gratify the curio&longs;ity &longs;he had &longs;o &longs;trongly
excited.—
At that in&longs;tant a fat old man rode up to the door,
di&longs;mounted, fa&longs;tened his hor&longs;e to a tree, and entered.
I never ca&longs;t my eye upon a &longs;tranger but I immediately
form &longs;ome idea of his or her di&longs;po&longs;itions by
the turn of their eyes and ca&longs;t of their features; and
though my &longs;kill in phy&longs;iognomy is not infallible, I
&longs;eldom find my&longs;elf deceived.
The old man had a &longs;ort of haughtine&longs;s in his
carriage, which &longs;eemed the re&longs;ult of mean pride and
&longs;elf-&longs;ufficiency; his per&longs;on was coar&longs;e, his manner
rude, his language almo&longs;t in&longs;ulting.
I am &longs;urpri&longs;ed, &longs;aid he, to the young man, that
you have not brought me your la&longs;t half year's rent—
I have repeatedly &longs;ent, and will no longer be put
off by your trifling excu&longs;es—I am now come for
the money, and will not depart without it.
Sir, &longs;aid the young man, we have it not; and to
add to our misfortunes, two days &longs;ince our cattle
was &longs;eized for a &longs;mall &longs;um which we owed in the
neighbourhood.—
Money I want, and money I will have, &longs;aid the
man—a large &longs;um is to be made up this week, and
I will not wait any longer—if you do not &longs;end me
the rent within two days, I will turn you out of the
cottage, fir&longs;t &longs;eizing what &longs;tock you have.
Confound this money, &longs;aid I; it is the occa&longs;ion
of more ill will and diffention than any thing el&longs;e
in the world.
Why, pray, young man, &longs;aid he, what would
you do without money?
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I was dre&longs;&longs;ed very plainly—&longs;o was Emma and
the children—he had not &longs;een the carriage that was
repairing; or if he had, he could never have supposed
it was mine.
He addre&longs;&longs;ed me, therefore, by this familiar epithet,
on account of his &longs;uppo&longs;ed &longs;uperiority; and
as he pronounced the words young man, he a&longs;&longs;umed
&longs;uch an air of &longs;elf-&longs;ufficiency, and &longs;at him&longs;elf back
in the chair with &longs;uch an in&longs;ulting a&longs;&longs;urance, that
I had hardly patience to an&longs;wer him calmly.
If there was no money in the world, &longs;aid I, there
would be no extortion: and, I fancy then, you, my
good friend, would find but little employment.
One of my &longs;ervants then informed me that the
carriage was ready—I enquired of my young ho&longs;t
if this was his landlord, and was informed he was
only &longs;teward to Lord M—: I became answerable
for the rent, and determined, on my return to
town, to pay a vi&longs;it to his Lord&longs;hip, and inform him
of the nece&longs;&longs;itous &longs;ituation of his tenants.
The AUTHOR.
One evening as I was rambling out, I observed
a man &longs;itting on the trunk of an old tree, with a
paper and pencil in his hand; at fir&longs;t I &longs;uppo&longs;ed
him to be drawing, but, on a nearer approach, I
found him to be writing.
Pray, Sir, &longs;aid I, advancing, and paying him the
compliments of the evening, what may be the subject
which &longs;o agreeably engages your attention?
I pre&longs;ume you are &longs;acrificing at the &longs;hrine of the
Mu&longs;es—I am, Sir, &longs;aid he, ri&longs;ing and putting the
paper in his pocket—I have been writing all this
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&longs;ummer, and in the winter I hope to have my
works in print—It is a novel, Sir, entirely calculated
to amu&longs;e—
In how many volumes?
Two.
And are you &longs;ure of &longs;elling them?
I am engaged, Sir, to write for a per&longs;on who
&longs;carcely ever publi&longs;hes any thing but novels.
What may be the plot or foundation of your novel?
It is called Annabella; or Suffering Innocence—
my heroine is beautiful, accompli&longs;hed, and rich;
an only child, and &longs;urrounded by admirers—&longs;he
contracts an attachment for a man, her inferior in
point of birth and fortune; but honorable, handsome,
&c.—She has a female friend to whom &longs;he
relates all that pa&longs;&longs;es in her brea&longs;t—her hopes, fears,
meetings, partings, &c.—She is treated hardly by
her friends—combats innumerable difficulties in
the &longs;entimental way, but at la&longs;t overcomes them all,
and is made the bride of the man of her heart.
P&longs;haw, &longs;aid I, that is &longs;tale; there are at this
pre&longs;ent day above two thou&longs;and novels in exi&longs;tence
which begin and end exactly in the &longs;ame way—
the novel writers have now taken another road;
and, if you will give me leave, I will ju&longs;t give you
a few hints which may, perhaps, be of &longs;ome service
to you in writing a novel in future.
Sketch of a Modern Novel.
In the fir&longs;t place, your heroine mu&longs;t fall violently
in love with an all-accompli&longs;hed youth at a very
early age—keep her pa&longs;&longs;ion concealed from her
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parents or guardians; but bind her&longs;elf in her own
mind to wed no other than this dear, fir&longs;t conqueror
of her heart—ill-natured, proud, ambitious fathers
are very nece&longs;&longs;ary to be introduced—kind, affectionate,
amiable mothers. The &longs;uperlative
beauty and accompli&longs;hments of your heroine, or
perhaps the &longs;plendor of her fortune, mu&longs;t attract
the attention of a man diametrically oppo&longs;ite in person
and di&longs;po&longs;ition to her fir&longs;t lover—the father mu&longs;t
threaten—the mother entreat—and the lover be very
urgent for the completion of his felicity—remember
to mix a &longs;ufficient quantity of &longs;ighs, tears,
&longs;wooning, hy&longs;terics, and all the moving expre&longs;&longs;ions
of heart-rending woe—her filial duty mu&longs;t triumph
over inclination; and &longs;he mu&longs;t be led like a victim
to the altar.—
So much for the fir&longs;t part.
The &longs;econd volume di&longs;plays her angelic, her exemplary
conduct in the character of a wife—the
hu&longs;band mu&longs;t be jealous, brutal, fond of gaming,
keep a mi&longs;tre&longs;s, lavi&longs;h all his fortune on &longs;harpers
and lewd women—the wife pious, gentle, obedient
and re&longs;igned—
Be &longs;ure you contrive a duel; and, if convenient,
a &longs;uicide might not be ami&longs;s—lead your heroine
through wonderful trials—let her have the fortitude
of an anchorite; the patience of an angel—but in
the end, &longs;end her fir&longs;t hu&longs;band to the other world,
and unite her to the fir&longs;t po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;or of her heart—
join a few other incidents; &longs;uch as the hi&longs;tory of
her bo&longs;om friend, and a confidant—Manage your
plot in &longs;uch a manner as to have &longs;ome &longs;urpri&longs;ing
di&longs;covery made—wind up with two or three marriages;
and the &longs;uperlative felicity of all the dramatics
per&longs;onœ.
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There, Sir, &longs;aid I, there you have the &longs;ub&longs;tance
of a narrative which might be &longs;pun out to two or
three volumes—there has been many novels introduced
to the public built on as &longs;lender a foundation
as that — The Modern Fine Gentleman, De&longs;erted
Bride, Clara and—
The INTERRUPTION.
I have often been &longs;urpri&longs;ed, &longs;aid the author,
taking the &longs;ketch (for I had wrote it down) and giving
me a bow of thanks — It has often &longs;urpri&longs;ed me,
&longs;aid he, to find that all the di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;es of a novel proceeds
from a pa&longs;&longs;ion which is in general &longs;uppo&longs;ed to
contribute to our chief happine&longs;s — All writers of
that &longs;ort of production, from the time of romance
and enchanted tales, to the pre&longs;ent tribe of scribblers,
could find no other &longs;ubject to employ their
pons but love — I wonder that the novel readers are
not tired of reading one &longs;tory &longs;o my times, with
only the variation of its being told different ways.
When I fir&longs;t commenced Author, continued he,
I wrote on religion and philo&longs;ophy; but I found in
the fir&longs;t I could gain no reputation unle&longs;s I wrote
in the enthu&longs;ia&longs;tic &longs;tile of a Methodi&longs;t; and the
latter was too ob&longs;tru&longs;e a &longs;tudy for the young and gay,
required too much time for the old, and was totally
improper for the ignorant and illiterate — My books
would not fell — I had frequently applied to a per&longs;on
eminent for his numerous publications. He told
me if I wi&longs;hed to get a living I mu&longs;t write to amu&longs;e
rather than in&longs;truct the world; and that if I would
write him a good novel in two volumes, he would
give me ten guineas for it.
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He thought, no doubt, ten guineas was a very
large &longs;um to be put into the hands of a poor author:
to deal candidly, I &longs;hould have been very glad at
that time of a fifth part of the &longs;um—but to proceed—
I was not at all conver&longs;ant in that &longs;ort of reading;
but finding it ab&longs;olutely nece&longs;&longs;ary, I borrowed
&longs;ome of the be&longs;t e&longs;teemed modern novels from a library,
and began to peru&longs;e them with great attention,
but there was a &longs;amene&longs;s in the generality of
them that di&longs;gu&longs;ted, and a loo&longs;ene&longs;s in the language
of others that &longs;hocked me.
It is indeed &longs;hocking, &longs;aid I, to &longs;ee &longs;o many reams
of paper expended in u&longs;hering to the world pernicious
pages, which tend to vitiate the ta&longs;te and corrupt
the heart. When the heroine of a novel is
repre&longs;ented as flying in the face of filial duty, eloping,
running into the very lap of danger, braving
the authority of her parents, and forgetting the decorum
and delicacy which ought to be the characteristic
of the female &longs;ex, and yet, in the end meets
with every ble&longs;&longs;ing, every comfort, &longs;he can wi&longs;h;
is it not enough to ruin the weak head and unwary
heart, by leading them to think true felicity is to
be found by following the bent of their own inclinations,
though never &longs;o wayward and oppo&longs;ite to
the advice of their friends or the dictates of rea&longs;on?
Nor can I think that the more modern productions
contain a better moral, &longs;ince the whole merit of
the filial obedience is cancelled by the retaining an
affection for one man after they have vowed eternal
fidelity to another.
I would wi&longs;h the authors of tho&longs;e works to reflect,
that it is the inclinations of the heart that renders
us guilty as much as the actual commi&longs;&longs;ion of
a crime; and a woman who &longs;trays from her
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husband only in wi&longs;hes and thoughts, is in reality as
culpable as &longs;he who actually wounds his honor.
I have very nice notions of conjugal fidelity and
filial duty, and earne&longs;tly wi&longs;h that no writings might
ever be made public which tend to injure either:
they are the foundation on which we may always
rai&longs;e the temple of happine&longs;s; they are a crown of
glory for the head, a cordial and comforter even to
the &longs;orrow-wounded heart.
The&longs;e virtues are the brighte&longs;t ornaments the
female &longs;ex can wear, they make the plaine&longs;t woman
lovely; and, when di&longs;played in an eminent degree,
elevate the human &longs;oul, and make it little inferior
to angels.
The FAIR MANIAC.
I was proceeding in this manner, when a lovely
young creature darted out of a little cottage, as
we were pa&longs;&longs;ing, and &longs;eized me by the arm, eagerly
de&longs;ired I would convey her back to her friends.
They &longs;ay I am mad, &longs;aid &longs;he: but I am not, I
have my rea&longs;on as well as they have; I know I am
mi&longs;erable, and have been &longs;o ever &longs;ince they took
my brother from me.—Oh! cruel to tear him
from my arms, to break my very heart &longs;trings, and
&longs;end him away, never, never to return—he went on
the treacherous ocean—Yes, yes, the &longs;ea, the &longs;ky,
all, all combined with my inhuman guardian to take
him from me—hark! hark! do you not hear the
wind?—See the blue lightning—the raging waves—
the thunder—I hear it—I &longs;ee the ve&longs;&longs;el beat the
foaming &longs;ea—I &longs;ee my brother—&longs;ee him wave his
hand—I cannot come—I cannot &longs;ave thee—the
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ve&longs;&longs;el parts—&longs;he &longs;inks—he's gone, he's gone—
Oh! mercile&longs;s.—
Alas! my drooping lily, &longs;aid I, you &longs;ee nothing;
there is no &longs;ea near you; this is merely the effect
of fancy; your brother, no doubt, is &longs;afe, and will
one day return to make you happy.
Oh no! &longs;aid &longs;he, cro&longs;&longs;ing her hands upon her
bo&longs;om, and &longs;itting down upon the ground.—Oh
no! he will never return to me; he will never
more &longs;ooth and chear his unhappy &longs;i&longs;ter—but here
will I &longs;it on this lone bank and mourn the heavy
hour in which he left me—I'll build a tomb of &longs;ea
&longs;hells, weeds, and corals—I'll plant around it pale
primro&longs;es and &longs;ickly daffodils, and every day I'll
wa&longs;h it with my tears, and count the hours, and
chide dull lagging Time, till his &longs;harp &longs;cythe &longs;hall
cut life's fine-drawn thread, and I may lay me
down and &longs;leep with my dear Horace—
Horace! &longs;aid I, looking more intently at her—
It was poor Julietta—then Vellum was a villain.
At the name of Vellum &longs;he &longs;tarted from the
ground, appeared terrified, looked wildly round
her, and uttering a feint exclamation, ran ha&longs;tily
into the cottage.
I bade the author a good night and followed her—
but an old woman, who I found was her only
attendant, could give me no information concerning
her; only that &longs;he had lo&longs;t her &longs;en&longs;es ever
&longs;ince the death of her brother, who was shipwrecked
as he was going abroad to fini&longs;h his education,
and that &longs;he had been &longs;ent into the
country in hopes that the air would be of &longs;ervice to
her.
I found my heart &longs;o deeply engaged by the miserable
&longs;ituation of this lovely orphan, that it was
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with difficulty I re&longs;trained my tears when I pressed
her cold hand and bade her good night.
The MENDICANT.
Though it was near three years &longs;ince I had
been a witne&longs;s to the &longs;orrow of Julietta, on the
death of her father, yet the &longs;cene &longs;till remained
&longs;re&longs;h in my memory—I remembered the doubts I
then entertained of Vellum's integrity, and was
determined immediately to return to town and
&longs;earch into the my&longs;tery of Horace's death, and the
&longs;hocking privation of Julietta's &longs;en&longs;es.
When I have once formed a re&longs;olution, I am
not long in putting it in execution.
The morning after my arrival tn town, I determined
to pay Mr. Vellum an invi&longs;ible vi&longs;it.
As I was proceeding through a very public
&longs;treet, I &longs;aw a &longs;ervant, in livery, feeding a fine dog
with bits of roa&longs;t meat, which appeared perfectly
fre&longs;h and good.—A poor woman, who&longs;e tattered
garb &longs;poke extremity of poverty, who&longs;e emaciated
frame &longs;eemed tottering on the verge of eternity,
and who&longs;e head was &longs;prinkled over with hoary
fro&longs;t, approached the man, and in the humble&longs;t
manner intreated him to let her pick up a little of
the victuals which he had thrown to the animal—
only one bit, Sir, &longs;aid &longs;he, to &longs;ave me from starving—
The &longs;ervant was &longs;ilent—&longs;he took it for consent,
and bent forward to pick up what the dog
&longs;eemed to refu&longs;e.
The &longs;ervant, who, unmoved, had heard her request,
no &longs;ooner &longs;aw her attempt to gather up the
broken &longs;craps, than he &longs;tepped eagerly to hen,
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Inatched them from her, and with &longs;acrilegious
hand &longs;truck the wretched mortal, who&longs;e &longs;ex, age,
and poverty, &longs;hould have kept her &longs;acred from insult.
Good Heavens! &longs;aid I, that a man &longs;hould &longs;o
far forgot him&longs;elf.—What! mu&longs;t the brute creation
enjoy ea&longs;e and plenty, while an unhappy human
being wanders through the &longs;treets peri&longs;hing
with hunger!—and what mu&longs;t this poor woman
&longs;uffer at &longs;eeing her&longs;elf denied the fragments that
are rejected by a brute? for the dog had ab&longs;olutely
left a large part of the food that had been given
him.
Who does that dog belong to? &longs;aid I to the
&longs;ervant?
Lord M—, &longs;aid he.
Lord M—, &longs;aid I, at that in&longs;tant recollecting
the unhappy cottagers—then why not pay Lord
M—a vi&longs;it now, as well as at any other time;
it will only defer my intended inquiry at Mr.
Vellum's a few hours longer.
It was no &longs;ooner thought on than determined;
and having inquired of the &longs;ervant in which hou&longs;e
his Lord&longs;hip re&longs;ided, I put on my ring, a&longs;cended
the &longs;teps, and patiently waited the opening of the
door.
The PEOPLE of FASHION.
I chose to make this vi&longs;it invi&longs;ible, that I
might be the better able to judge of the &longs;entiments
and di&longs;po&longs;ition of his Lord&longs;hip.
Having got admittance into the hou&longs;e unperceived,
I followed a &longs;ervant who was going up
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&longs;lairs with the breakfa&longs;t apparatus, though it was
then 1 o'clock.
On entering a room, I &longs;aw a woman in an elegant
di&longs;habille, lolling on a &longs;opha, and turning over
an enormous heap of complimentary cards—She
was between forty and fifty—was finely formed,
and had once been hand&longs;ome, if one might judge
from a regular &longs;et of features; but at pre&longs;ent her
&longs;kin was &longs;hrivelled and yellow, her eyes &longs;unk and
languid.
Thomas, &longs;aid &longs;he to the &longs;ervant, is my Lord
&longs;tirring?
Yes, my Lady.
Go with my compliments, and I &longs;hould be glad
of his company to breakfa&longs;t.
In a few moments my Lord entered, threw himself
into an ea&longs;y chair, yawned, and drawled out
the compliments of the morning.
Where were you, my Lord, la&longs;t night? I was
quite &longs;urpri&longs;ed at not &longs;eeing you at Lady Blackace's—
all the world was there.
It is quite a bore, my Lady, to &longs;ee a man and
his wife at the &longs;ame place.
Very true, my Lord; but had your Lord&longs;hip
appeared I &longs;hould certainly have been &longs;o polite as
to have made my exit.—A propos, my Lord—I
wonder what has become of that fond fool, Charles
Howard, and how he and I &longs;abella like matrimony
with the &longs;our &longs;auce of poverty—Good God!
continued &longs;he, I wonder how any body can think
of &longs;wallowing that bitter pill without having it sufficiently
gilded over.
A &longs;ervant entered, and announced Mr. Howard.
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Mr. Howard! cried my Lady, &longs;taring up with
a&longs;toni&longs;hment, &longs;urely you mi&longs;take; my brother has
been dead above the&longs;e &longs;even years; and Charles
cannot think of coming.
The gentleman certainly &longs;ent up the name of
Howard, &longs;aid the &longs;ervant.
He was bid to &longs;hew him up.
The FATHER.
An elegant, elderly gentleman &longs;oon entered the
room, dre&longs;&longs;ed in the military habit—he paid his
re&longs;pects politely to my Lord—advanced to the Lady
with a look of tenderne&longs;s, and embraced her.
You are, no doubt, &longs;urpri&longs;ed to &longs;ee me, &longs;i&longs;ter,
&longs;aid he, after having &longs;uppo&longs;ed me dead &longs;o many
years; but your &longs;urpri&longs;e will be converted into
joy when I inform you during the la&longs;t &longs;even years
of my ab&longs;ence I have accumulated a large &longs;ortune,
and am now come to reclaim my &longs;on, and return
the kindne&longs;s and genero&longs;ity with which you stepped
forward, and offered him your favour and protection
during the time when my duty forced me
to be ab&longs;ent from my native country—You, my
dear Lord and Lady M—, took my poor boy
when he had no inheritance but poverty.
During the time the old gentleman was delivering
the&longs;e words Lady M—'s countenance underwent
&longs;everal changes, and at la&longs;t &longs;ettled in a deadly
pale—the fond father in&longs;tantly &longs;aw the change, and
a&longs;ked in a voice &longs;carcely audible, whether his child
was dead?
No, Captain Howard, &longs;aid my Lord, he is not
dead, but he has behaved &longs;o ill of late, that he has
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entirely forfeited my favour; he has voluntarily absented
him&longs;elf from my hou&longs;e; and to confe&longs;s the
truth, I have not &longs;een him the&longs;e &longs;ix years, nor do I
know where he is.
And what has he done? a&longs;ked the di&longs;tracted father.
He has behaved like a poor, mean &longs;pirited
wretch, &longs;aid my Lady—he has degraded the family
my marrying a low, vulgar creature, in direct opposition
to the advice, nay ab&longs;olute commands, of
my Lord and my&longs;elf.
Upon my honor, Mr. Howard, &longs;aid my Lord,
I had contracted &longs;uch an e&longs;teem for the lad, that I
had po&longs;itively determined to adopt him; but on
his ab&longs;olutely per&longs;i&longs;ting in his de&longs;ign of marrying
the low creature my Lady mentions, I forbid him
my hou&longs;e:—I had no intention to adopt a beggar's
brat.
The conver&longs;ation was now interrupted by a servant,
who informed my Lady there was company
in the drawing room—&longs;he begged leave of her brother
to go and receive them; and my Lord, having
rung for his valet, retired to adju&longs;t his dre&longs;s.
The ECLAIRCISSEMENT.
Captain Howard had been abruptly informed
that his &longs;on had forfeited his uncle's favour; had
been informed of it in a manner incon&longs;iderate and
unfeeling, and then left to him&longs;elf to reflect at leisure
on his misfortune.
He &longs;at with one hand re&longs;ting on the breakfa&longs;t
table, and the other in his bo&longs;om, his brow contracted,
and his eyes fixed on the floor—there was
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&longs;uch a dignity in his per&longs;on, and yet &longs;uch an apparent
concern upon his countenance, that my affections
were drawn towards him by an irre&longs;i&longs;tible impulse—
I longed to call him brother and friend—
my heart was wrung with &longs;en&longs;ibility.
And what avails it, &longs;aid I, that this man has accumulated
a large fortune?—of what benefit is
wealth to him?—he had looked upon his &longs;on as his
greate&longs;t trea&longs;ure—for the&longs;e many years has his delighted
imagination drawn a mo&longs;t perfect picture of
felicity in the idea of beholding this beloved &longs;on,
and &longs;eeing him enjoying the favour of his uncle,
and perhaps wedded to &longs;ome amiable woman, who,
to the gifts of birth and fortune, added the gifts of
nature, who&longs;e beauty created love, and her virtue
e&longs;teem.
Behold him now in one moment bereaved of
this darling hope, his heart aching with paternal
love and fear—oh! would children but reflect how
greatly the happine&longs;s of a parent depends on their
well doing; could they have the lea&longs;t idea of the
mighty pangs which tear the parental bo&longs;om when
they &longs;tray from their duty, they would &longs;urely avoid
every action which might tend to di&longs;turb the peace
or wound the minds of their parents; for &longs;ure I am,
that not the &longs;harpe&longs;t torture enthu&longs;ia&longs;tic zeal could
invent, can equal the torments that rend the heart
of a fondly-doating di&longs;appointed parent.
My meditations were interrupted by a decent,
elderly woman, who opened the door, and, advancing
to Captain Howard, welcomed him cordially
to England.
My good Mrs. Wat&longs;on, &longs;aid he, taking her by
her hand, can you tell me where Charles is, and to
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whom he has united him&longs;elf &longs;o contrary to the desire
of his uncle and aunt?
It was for that purpo&longs;e, &longs;aid Mrs. Wat&longs;on, that
I took the liberty of coming into the room to &longs;peak
to you—but this room, Sir, is not a proper place
to conver&longs;e in; I mu&longs;t beg you to come into my
apartment, and I will then inform you of &longs;ome circumstances
which will fill you with a&longs;toni&longs;hment.
I felt a curio&longs;ity which I could not with&longs;tand,
and, anxious for the fate of Charles, I followed
Captain Howard and Mrs. Wat&longs;on into another
apartment. Mrs. Wat&longs;on I found was Lady
M—'s hou&longs;ekeeper, and had formerly lived in that
capacity with her Lady&longs;hip's mother—When
Captain Howard was &longs;eated, &longs;he related the following
circum&longs;tances:
You know, Sir, &longs;aid &longs;he, ju&longs;t before you left England,
my Lady, at my Lord's reque&longs;t, had taken
Mi&longs;s I&longs;abella Beauchamp to be her companion—
you had not been gone many years before Mr.
Beauchamp died in&longs;olvent, and the poor young Lady
had no dependance but on my Lord, who was a
di&longs;tant relation of her father's. From the time of
Mr. Beauchamp's death, Lady M— altered in her
behaviour to Mi&longs;s Bella; treated her often with
di&longs;re&longs;pect; and in general, with cold contempt—
My Lord, on the contrary, behaved with the greatest
politene&longs;s, affiduity, and attention; made her
elegant pre&longs;ents, in&longs;i&longs;ted on her joining all parties,
public or private, in which Lady M— was included—
young Mr. Howard &longs;hewed the attention
of a brother; and, I mu&longs;t own, this conduct rai&longs;ed
both the gentlemen highly in my opinion. It was
with great concern that I noticed a &longs;ettled melancholy
on Mi&longs;s Bella's countenance, and often would
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&longs;he retire from a crowded a&longs;&longs;embly to her own
apartment and give a loo&longs;e to her tears—&longs;he had always
conducted her&longs;elf in &longs;uch a manner as to gain
the love of all the dome&longs;tics, and &longs;he had favoured
me with many &longs;ingular marks of friend&longs;hip—I
therefore took the liberty one day to enquire into
the cau&longs;e of her melancholy; when bur&longs;ting into a
flood of grief, &longs;he cried, oh! Mrs. Wat&longs;on, what
will become of me? Lord M— pur&longs;ues me with
a criminal pa&longs;&longs;ion—I cannot &longs;tay in this family to
be &longs;ubject to his in&longs;ults; and if I leave it, how &longs;hall
I guard my&longs;elf from the &longs;nares and in&longs;ults of the
unfeeling part of mankind, who know not how to
pity poverty? or how &longs;hall I provide for the necessaries
of life? I endeavoured all in my power to console
her, and told her I would certainly look out for
&longs;ome reputable family where &longs;he might be boarded
on moderate terms, and that I would advi&longs;e her to
&longs;ell a few of her jewels to provide for the pre&longs;ent,
and tru&longs;t in Providence that her future life may be
more fortunate—&longs;he gave me a pair of diamond
earings, which were her mother's, to di&longs;po&longs;e of;
but as I was returning to my own apartment I met
Mr. Howard, and knowing he was always plentifully
&longs;upplied with money by his aunt, I determined
to make him acquainted with Mi&longs;s Bella's situation,
and engage him to a&longs;&longs;i&longs;t her—but judge my
&longs;urpri&longs;e, when I had informed him of my Lord's
de&longs;igns, to hear him fly into a violent rage, and
&longs;wear &longs;he &longs;hould not &longs;tay another hour in the hou&longs;e,
called her his wife, his adored Bella, and was
ha&longs;tening to her apartment, when he was &longs;topped
by his aunt, who had overheard our conver&longs;ation,
and peremptorily demanded whether he had been
&longs;o mean &longs;pirited as to marry Mi&longs;s Beauchamp?—
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he an&longs;wered with warmth, he was not married to
her; but &longs;ince there was no other way to &longs;hield her
from the contempt of pride and the in&longs;ults of libertinism,
he would marry her the next morning.
Lady M— was greatly irritated, and &longs;ent a message
to Mi&longs;s Beauchamp, commanding her to quit
her hou&longs;e in&longs;tantly—Charles followed the poor distressed
girl; and before my Lord returned, who
was then in the country, prevailed on her to give
him a lawful right to protect her.
However ill Mi&longs;s Beauchamp had been treated,
Mr. Howard thought it was his duty to vi&longs;it his uncle,
and &longs;ue for his pardon, for the precipitate &longs;tep
he had taken.
They made their appearance the morning after
my Lord came to town—it is unnece&longs;&longs;ary, and
would only be &longs;hocking your feelings, to give you
an account of the reception they met with; &longs;uffice
it to &longs;ay, they were &longs;purned by the haughty pair,
and turned with indignity out of the hou&longs;e.
Lord M— &longs;wearing by all that was holy he would
not give them a &longs;ingle farthing to keep them from
&longs;tarving—they left the hou&longs;e, and I never heard
where they were till la&longs;t &longs;ummer, when I accidentally
found them in a mean cottage, which they
rented of Lord M—'s &longs;teward—they went by an
a&longs;&longs;umed name, and Mrs. Howard having bred very
fa&longs;t, and being very weakly, they were reduced to
the mo&longs;t abject &longs;tate of penury.
Then the&longs;e are my poor cottagers, &longs;aid I.
—Mr. Howard, when he had heard the conclusion
of her relation, aro&longs;e from his &longs;eat and looking at
once joy and indignation, &longs;wore he would never
re&longs;t till he had found his dear injured Charles.
I will find him, &longs;aid he; and his lovely I&longs;abella
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&longs;hall be rewarded for all her love and patient sufferings—
he gave the hou&longs;ekeeper &longs;omething by way
of gratuity, and immediately departed—when I,
having no farther bu&longs;ine&longs;s there, followed his example.
NATURAL REFLECTION.
It has often &longs;urpri&longs;ed me to find that people who
have, with unbounded genero&longs;ity, educated, cloathed,
and fo&longs;tered an infant in childhood, indulging
it to an extravagant degree, never &longs;uffering it to be
contradicted, but bringing it up in ea&longs;e aud luxury,
&longs;hall, when that infant arrives at years of maturity,
when it has attained &longs;en&longs;e and rea&longs;on &longs;ufficient to
enable it to judge what will mo&longs;t conduce to its
own happine&longs;s, for the mo&longs;t trifling mi&longs;demeanor,
nay, for only daring to think contrary to its benefactors,
or pre&longs;uming to choo&longs;e a companion for
it&longs;elf, &longs;purn from them, with indignity, the object
they once cheri&longs;hed, and drive it out defencele&longs;s to
brave tho&longs;e &longs;torms of adver&longs;ity which the education
they have be&longs;towed on it renders it totally unable to
combat with—it has often puzzled me to determine
whether &longs;uch people have ever been actuated by true
genero&longs;ity. Pure philanthropy will lead us rather
to &longs;tudy the happine&longs;s of a human being, when it
is capable of receiving real &longs;atisfaction from our
kindne&longs;s. So far from evincing our affection to
children by unlimited indulgencies, we are acting
with cruelty toward them, &longs;ince we are laying up
a fund of di&longs;content and unea&longs;ine&longs;s for hereafter.
How hard is it for tho&longs;e darlings of families, who&longs;e
every de&longs;ire has been complied with, who never
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wi&longs;hed for a toy or bauble but it was procured,
though at the mo&longs;t exorbitant price, who was always
fed with the greate&longs;t dainties, to find, when
arrived at maturity, that they are journeying thro'
a world where they will unavoidably meet with
di&longs;appointments, vexation, and trouble—for my
part, I would never indulge my children in a wi&longs;h
which I thought might tend hereafter to render
them unhappy; I would teach them to confine
their de&longs;ires within the bounds of moderation, not
by moro&longs;ely oppo&longs;ing all their little fancies, but by
in&longs;en&longs;ibly drawing off their attention to any other
objects.
As they advanced in years, I would, by example,
teach them that forbearance and &longs;elf-denial,
which precept alone will ever fail to effect. If
they have affluence, let them enjoy every rea&longs;onable
wi&longs;h of their hearts; and no one need inquire what
is to be done with the overplus.
Oh! ye &longs;ons and daughters of pro&longs;perity, look
around you; &longs;ee, in you little man&longs;ion lies a mother;
a few hours &longs;ince made her the parent of her
&longs;eventh child; &longs;he is in a &longs;ituation, of all others
the mo&longs;t de&longs;erving pity; &longs;he has &longs;carcely the means
to &longs;upport life; &longs;he is on a bed of pain and weakness;
pain, my lovely country women, from which
none of you are exempt, and which, no doubt, you
think almo&longs;t in&longs;ufferable, though you are surrounded
with all the comforts and ble&longs;&longs;ings of life—that
poor woman has no comfort—her hu&longs;band is at
&longs;ea, labouring, watching, toiling for a &longs;mall pittance,
which he hopes to bring home to his wife
and children—&longs;he has angui&longs;h of mind added to
the &longs;ickne&longs;s of her frame—have you no trifle to
&longs;pare, Madam, which might, in &longs;ome mea&longs;ure,
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alleviate that poor creature's &longs;ufferings? Two or
three of tho&longs;e guineas will never be mi&longs;&longs;ed by you,
and they will be a trea&longs;ure to her.—You cannot
&longs;pare them—you had rather lay them out in an hobby
hor&longs;e for ma&longs;ter, or a wax baby for mi&longs;s—if
the dear creatures are di&longs;appointed, they will fret
and &longs;poil their pretty faces with crying; and what
mother can refu&longs;e her little darlings any thing they
a&longs;k for?
Oh! &longs;hame on thee, woman; thou ha&longs;t not one
&longs;park of genuine maternal tenderne&longs;s in thy composition,
or thou woulde&longs;t prefer ea&longs;ing the pangs
of a wretched mother who&longs;e heart is pierced by the
cries of her children wanting bread, rather than by
gratifying the caprice of thy own children—lead
them to &longs;et no farther value on the wealth which
Providence has entru&longs;ted to their care, than as it
may &longs;erve to purcha&longs;e plea&longs;ure, di&longs;&longs;ipation, and folly.
Your wealth was certainly given you to purcha&longs;e
plea&longs;ure; but plea&longs;ures far, very far different from
tho&longs;e you are &longs;o eager in the pur&longs;uit of—Go wipe
the tear from the eye of affliction; cloathe the
poor naked wretch who, nightly unhou&longs;ed in &longs;ome
&longs;ad lonely place, braves &longs;torms and tempe&longs;ts, heats
and pinching cold—go relea&longs;e the unfortunate
trade&longs;man, who through the inattention, folly, or
villainy of others, has lo&longs;t his property, and now
&longs;ighs out his long, long hours in a pri&longs;on—Go &longs;eek
the wretched mortals, who, by dire misfortune reduced,
oppre&longs;&longs;ed by the iron hand of affliction, &longs;it
&longs;tarving in ob&longs;curity, and, rather than a&longs;k the cruel
world for a&longs;&longs;i&longs;tance, or blazon forth their heart-felt
&longs;orrows, would &longs;ink to the &longs;ilent grave, victims to
famine in the land of plenty.
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I know, Madam, you will &longs;ay I am very dull,
that I have given you the vapours, that the&longs;e are
phantoms of my own creating—would to Heaven
they were! but, alas! the&longs;e things I have &longs;een, and
my heart has bled, that I had not power to relieve
them.
Oh! I could tell &longs;uch tales of woe, drag forth
&longs;uch vile ingratitude to light, that human nature
would di&longs;claim the being who could practi&longs;e it.
The INGRATE.
Do you &longs;ee that beautiful woman in that splendid
equipage, &longs;urrounded by a train of &longs;ervants?
'tis the thoughtle&longs;s, ungrateful Amelia.
Behold that poor old woman who toils through
the dirt unattended by any but her two lovely
daughters, &longs;weet as opening flowers, and innocent
as new-born infants; &longs;ee on her venerable countenance
what grief and de&longs;pondency is imprinted!
&longs;ee the big tears roll down her &longs;urrowed cheeks!
&longs;ee &longs;he enters an ob&longs;cure apartment, and a &longs;canty
meal is divided between her children and her&longs;elf.
She looks at them by turns with &longs;uch maternal
tenderne&longs;s, &longs;uch angui&longs;h of heart, that &longs;he &longs;eems to
&longs;ay, what will become of you, my &longs;weet children;
how will you pa&longs;s through life when I am
gone.
That poor old woman was Amelia's benefactress—
but it is fit I &longs;hould tell my tale methodically.
Amelia was the daughter of a gentleman of &longs;mall
fortune, who, be&longs;ides her, had nine other children:
Mrs. Ellwin was a di&longs;tant relation of the family;
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&longs;he was the wife of an opulent merchant, and
their habitation was the habitation of philanthropy.
Amelia had received a tolerable education—&longs;he
was pretty in her per&longs;on, chearful in her disposition,
and had a good &longs;hare of under&longs;tanding; with
the&longs;e accompli&longs;hments, Mrs. Ellwin thought it
would be a pity for Amelia to be buried in obscurity;
&longs;he gave her an invitation to her hou&longs;e,
cloathed her genteelly, and introduced her into &longs;uch
company as &longs;he thought would be mo&longs;t conducive
to her future advancement in life. It was not long
before Amelia's charms made a conque&longs;t of a gentleman
of large fortune—he loved her; and her
virtues were &longs;o kindly brought forward by Mrs.
Ellwin, and her little faults buried in oblivion, that
he overlooked her want of fortune, made her his
wife, and &longs;ettled upon her 5001. per annum jointure.
Amelia had not long enjoyed this advancement,
before Mr. Ellwin, having placed too great
a dependance on the honor of a friend, lo&longs;t a large
&longs;um of money; of con&longs;equence his payments were
not punctual, and he became a bankrupt.
He &longs;truggled for &longs;ome time again&longs;t his adver&longs;e
fate, but at length died of a broken heart, and left
his wife and lovely daughters no inheritance but
poverty.
About this time Amelia became a widow:—but
Amelia was now a fine lady—&longs;he had no time to
&longs;pend with poor relations, no money to &longs;pare to relieve
the di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;es of Mrs. Ellwin; though her
wedding cloaths were purcha&longs;ed by that generous
friend, and co&longs;t near five hundred pounds, and that
&longs;um had never been repaid.
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Amelia is now ju&longs;t married again, and flying about
in all the gaiety of heart which wealth and
&longs;plendor can in&longs;pire in a giddy mortal; while poor
Mrs. Ellwin is &longs;inking under a load of angui&longs;h,
unpitied and unthought of. Her once blooming,
amiable daughters drooping like fro&longs;t-nipped blossoms,
and neither Friend&longs;hip, Humanity, nor Gratitude
will reach forth a hand to cheer, revive, or
&longs;ave them.
But I am wandering from my intended route.
The SUICIDES.
As I approached Mr. Vellum's hou&longs;e an hear&longs;e
and &longs;ix mourning coaches drove from the door.
Perhaps, &longs;aid I, the guardian is gone to give an
account of his guardian&longs;hip—and a very black account
I fear it will be—however I will go in;
perhaps I may learn &longs;omething concerning the
death of Horace, or gain &longs;ome intelligence which
may be &longs;erviceable to the haple&longs;s Julietta.
I put on my ring, and a &longs;ervant opening the door
&longs;oon afterwards, I entered unperceived.
I went into &longs;everal rooms before I found any body
likely to give me any &longs;atisfaction by their conversation.
At length I entered a chamber, where,
on an embroidered &longs;opha, lay Mr. Vellum, surrounded
by magnificence—but, good Heavens!
how changed from the man he once was—his face
was gha&longs;tly pale, his eyes &longs;unk, yet their motion
was &longs;o quick and fiery that they gave him the appearance
of a fiend rather than an human being.
Oppo&longs;ite to him, in a pen&longs;ive po&longs;ture, &longs;at a young
woman in a deep mourning habit; her face was
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partly concealed with her handkerchief, but the
part that appeared bore &longs;uch evident marks of sorrow,
that a &longs;avage mu&longs;t have felt his heart moved
with pity at the &longs;ight.
He is gone, gone for ever, cried Vellum, &longs;tarting
from the &longs;opha, and catching hold of the young
lady's hand—he is gone, He&longs;ter, and you know not
half the angui&longs;h of my &longs;oul.
My dear father, &longs;aid &longs;he, why will you give way
to unavailing &longs;orrow? the kind Power who lent
him to you has but re-called his own—it is the lot
of mortality—then, why my father, why will you
offend your Creator by repining at his divine will?
O, He&longs;ter, you do not know the dreadful circumstances
of your brother's death—alas! my
child, he ru&longs;hed unbidden into the prefence of his
Maker with multitudes of unrepented crimes upon
his head.
Did he de&longs;troy him&longs;elf? cried He&longs;tor, the look
of woe changing into that of inexpre&longs;&longs;ible horror.—
Oh! what could tempt him to the dreadful deed?
He&longs;ter, my beloved daughter, I was his murderer,
I was the cau&longs;e of the horrid act.
Forbid it, gracious God, &longs;he cried, cla&longs;ping her
hands and &longs;inking upon her knees—Oh! my father,
recall tho&longs;e &longs;hocking words; you was not,
could not be, &longs;o inhuman.
He&longs;ter, &longs;aid he, with a look of horrid firmne&longs;s,
I will unfold to you a tale which it is proper you
&longs;hould know; I may not long continue with you.—
I have been guilty of deeds which will make
your tender heart &longs;hudder to acknowledge me as a
parent—Oh! cur&longs;ed avarice, it was that which
led me to &longs;tain my &longs;oul with murder, and to ruin
my child, my darling &longs;on.—For him and for thee
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I would have gained an empire, though I had waded
to it through oceans of human blood: but to lead
him by vile per&longs;ua&longs;ions to agree to, and execute the
accur&longs;ed plot, and plunge him&longs;elf, for &longs;ordid ore, to
the lowe&longs;t aby&longs;s of hell.—Oh! it is more than I
can bear to think of—my &longs;oul is at this moment
&longs;uffering all the tortures of the damned—&longs;corpions,
flames, and furies hang about me—Horace, dear
murdered youth, well may you &longs;mile to &longs;ee my tortures.
Was Horace murdered! Oh! inhuman wretch,
cried He&longs;ter—then where is my &longs;weet Julietta?
have you murdered her too?
I hope &longs;he &longs;till lives, &longs;aid Vellum; and may
your gentle friend&longs;hip recall her wandering rea&longs;on,
for my cruelty has bereaved her of her &longs;en&longs;es; and
if &longs;he is alive, &longs;he is a poor, di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed lunatic.
Gracious Heaven! cried He&longs;ter, bur&longs;ting into a
flood of tears, and leaning her head upon the elbow
of the &longs;opha.
The lovely girl, continued her father, is in a miserable
cottage, on one of her own e&longs;tates, in Wiltshire,
where I have employed an old woman to
watch her, and, by har&longs;h treatment, prevent her returning
to rea&longs;on.
As to Horace he is no more.—When I &longs;ent him
abroad, as I &longs;aid, for education, your brother went
with him—we laid the &longs;hocking plot before the
ve&longs;&longs;el &longs;ailed; and one night as they were walking
the deck together, your brother pu&longs;hed Horace into
the &longs;ea—the ve&longs;&longs;el was &longs;ailing before the wind,
and he was lo&longs;t in a moment.
You, my dear He&longs;ter, I knew would be an obstacle
to the&longs;e helli&longs;h &longs;chemes, and for that rea&longs;on I
&longs;ent you to France.—About three weeks &longs;ince your
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brother had a thou&longs;and pounds of me; and in a few
days after, applied for more; it was then I discovered
he had a propen&longs;ity for gaming—I remonstrated
with him on the folly of &longs;uch a pur&longs;uit, and
refu&longs;ed him a &longs;upply—high words en&longs;ued—he accused
me of being a murderer; of drawing him
in to participate the crime, and then refu&longs;ing him
a participation of the wealth I had by that means
gained.—It is impo&longs;&longs;ible for you to conceive the
terrors that &longs;eized my mind during this conversation;
I actually formed the re&longs;olution of giving this
darling of my &longs;oul into the hands of ju&longs;tice, and
thereby &longs;aving my own wretched life—but before
I could execute my intention, I was alarmed by
the di&longs;charge of a pi&longs;tol—I ran to your brother's
room, and &longs;aw him weltering in his blood, a pi&longs;tol
clenched in his hand.
Go, leave me, &longs;aid he, as I approached him;
add not, by thy hateful pre&longs;ence, to the horror of
this moment—I thought, by dying, to &longs;hut out life
and mi&longs;ery together, to fly from the terrors of a
reproaching con&longs;cience; but, alas! my mi&longs;eries
are but ju&longs;t beginning.
Oh! thou dete&longs;ted, wretched old man, continued
he, drawing me forcibly towards him, thou art ignorant
what a ta&longs;k thou ha&longs;t yet to perform: Go,
lo&longs;e not a moment, but u&longs;e every method to re&longs;tore
that injured angel Julietta to her &longs;en&longs;es—give her
back her fortune—and do thou retire to &longs;ome desert—
fa&longs;t, pray, and lay upon the cold ground—
years and years &longs;pent in &longs;upplication will hardly
gain that pardon you &longs;o much need.—There is!
there is! an hereafter—I feel it now ru&longs;h on my
guilty &longs;oul.—You do not know how hard it is to
die, to plunge at once into eternity.—Oh! murder,
murder cannot be forgiven.
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At that in&longs;tant he expired with a groan, &longs;o hollow,
that it &longs;till vibrates in my ears.
I hear thee, Oh! thou guilty &longs;hade—I will obey
thee.
He&longs;ter, continued Vellum, I have &longs;ent for you
home, that you may admini&longs;ter comfort to Julietta—
here, take this paper, and go prepare for your
journey; when you are &longs;eparated from me, open
it; you will there find full in&longs;tructions how to act—
leave me, my child; I am now more compo&longs;ed,
I may perhaps take &longs;ome re&longs;t.
He&longs;ter gladly retired.
I &longs;aw from the agitation of her features, though
&longs;he could not but pity the di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;es of her father's
mind, it was impo&longs;&longs;ible for her any longer to love
him.
That ta&longs;k is over, &longs;aid Vellum, as &longs;he &longs;hut the
door—now, what remains?—to pray for pardon.—
Pardon for what?—Murder. Ah! that is not all;
my &longs;oul is loaded with crimes.—Fraud, perjury,
oppre&longs;&longs;ion, are in the horrid catalogue!—the widows,
the fatherle&longs;s children whom I have oppressed,
will ri&longs;e up in judgment again&longs;t me.—Mercy—
Oh! mercy ju&longs;t God!—but wretch that I am,
did I ever &longs;hew mercy—will that ju&longs;t Creator then
&longs;hew mercy to me?—No—for I mu&longs;t appear at a
tribunal where every one will be rewarded according
to his works.
Oh that I was annihilated!—that I had never
lived—for the di&longs;traction of my mind is too mighty
to be borne—I will not bear it—I will end
my tortures—my life is in my own power; and it
is but to plunge at once into evils which cannot be
more dreadful than this con&longs;tant terror.—This is
the in&longs;trument, &longs;aid he, taking a pi&longs;tol from his
pocket.
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I &longs;tepped forward, in order to prevent his fatal
intention.
It &longs;hall be done quick, &longs;aid he—I will not languish—
I caught hold of his arm; but it was too late;
he had pointed the pi&longs;tol to his temple—it went off,
and he plunged in one moment into a dreadful eternity.
Oh! &longs;ave him! &longs;ave him! cried He&longs;ter, bursting
into the room; he is not fit to die.
When &longs;he &longs;aw the &longs;hocking cata&longs;trophe, &longs;he uttered
a &longs;cream of terror, and &longs;unk down upon the
floor—the &longs;ervants entered, and all was in an instant
a &longs;cene of confu&longs;ion.
I thought I could gain no farther intelligence—
and my &longs;pirits being greatly depre&longs;&longs;ed by the occurrences
of the day, I departed, determining in a few
days to pay the gentle, unfortunate He&longs;ter another
vi&longs;it.
The WIFE.
I wish to go to Mrs. Melbourne's a&longs;&longs;embly,
next week, if agreeable to you, my dear, &longs;aid a woman,
who was walking through the park with a
man who&longs;e appearance &longs;poke him the gentleman.
She was a pretty-looking per&longs;on; her countenance
was open and engaging, and there was a mild
air of tender melancholy diffu&longs;ed over it.
She led by the hand a beautiful girl, about four
or five years old; and a &longs;miling boy, &longs;eemingly a
year or two older, was &longs;kipping, with &longs;teps as light
as his own innocent heart, before them —that man,
&longs;aid I, mu&longs;t &longs;urely be happy.
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I examined his countenance with a &longs;crutinizing
eye, and methought I read in it indifference and inattention;
nay, he even &longs;eemed unea&longs;y in the company
of his wife and lovely children.
—I &longs;hould like to go to Mrs. Melbourne's assembly,
&longs;aid &longs;he, putting her hand under his arm,
and giving him a look of tenderne&longs;s—it was a look
I know not well how to de&longs;cribe; it was a mixture
of affection and gentle &longs;olicitude; it was that
kind of look my Emma ever a&longs;&longs;umes when &longs;he has
any little favour to a&longs;k, and it always carries with
it &longs;uch per&longs;ua&longs;ive eloquence, that for my &longs;oul I
could not refu&longs;e, though &longs;he were to reque&longs;t the
half of my fortune.
You want new cloaths too, I &longs;uppo&longs;e, &longs;aid he,
rather &longs;urlily.
I thought you might make it convenient to let
me have my half-years &longs;tipend, &longs;aid &longs;he, mildly;
and you know, my dear, I never exceed it.
Very well, Madam, I hear enough of your œconomy,
&longs;aid he, withdrawing his arm in anger; but
I tell you I have no money for my&longs;elf, and therefore
cannot let you have any.—I do not &longs;ee why
you &longs;hould go to Mrs. Melbourne's; you may find
employment and amu&longs;ement too in nur&longs;ing your
brats; home is the fitte&longs;t place for women.
I will not go, Mr. Selby, if you de&longs;ire I &longs;hould
not.
There, now, make a merit of &longs;taying at home to
oblige me, when you cannot go becau&longs;e I will not
give you money to lavi&longs;h in finery. The education
of your children co&longs;ts me &longs;o much that I intend
for the future to reduce your allowance to half what
it u&longs;ed to be.
Very well, my dear, you are the be&longs;t judge of
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what you can afford; I &longs;hall always have your interest
too much at heart to repine at being deprived
of a few &longs;uperfluities which I can ea&longs;ily do without.
By this time they were arrived at Spring Gardens,
where an hand&longs;ome chariot was waiting.
I am engaged out this evening, &longs;aid he, handing
her into the carriage.
Shall I &longs;ee you at &longs;upper? &longs;aid &longs;he, again assuming
the look of &longs;olicitude; but it was far more anxious
than the former.
No—perhaps I &longs;hall not return all night, &longs;aid
he; and immediately left her without even the
common form of civility.
Drive on, &longs;aid &longs;he, to the coachman; and as the
carriage moved, I &longs;aw her apply her handkerchief
to her eyes.
Poor woman! &longs;aid I; at that in&longs;tant feeling the
drop of pity &longs;tart into my own.—Poor woman!
thou art &longs;urrounded with wealth, have a number of
&longs;ervants, and, no doubt, for the&longs;e advantages, are
the object of envy in the eyes of many; but, alas!
the poor cottager, who&longs;e man&longs;ion appears the habitation
of poverty, who has ju&longs;t &longs;et by her wheel,
and is feeding a number of cherry-cheeked, curlypated,
ragged children, who&longs;e hu&longs;band, returning
from the labours of the field, acco&longs;ts her with words
of kindne&longs;s, ki&longs;&longs;es all his little prattlers round, and
takes the younge&longs;t on his knee to &longs;hare his homely
&longs;upper, that humble cottager is happier far than
you.
The&longs;e reflections had pa&longs;&longs;ed with &longs;uch rapidity
through my brain, that Mr. Selby was &longs;till in &longs;ight.—
I will follow thee, &longs;aid I, and &longs;ee what has
had power to charm thee from &longs;o &longs;weet, &longs;o gentle a
companion.
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Having got my ring on, I quickened my pace,
and &longs;oon overtook him.
He proceeded to May Fair; when knocking at
the door of a large hou&longs;e, a &longs;ervant in a &longs;howey livery
opened it; when, taking the advantage of my
invi&longs;ibility, I entered, and followed him through
a magnificent &longs;uite of rooms into a drawing room.
The MISTRESS.
She was an elegant-formed woman, rather above
the middle &longs;ize; her features were regular,
and her complexion would have been dazzling, had
it not been for an immoderate quantity of rouge
which &longs;he had laid on her face, which, in reality,
required no art to make it lovely; her eyes were
dark, lively, and piercing; and her hair, which was
bright as golden thread, hung in wanton ringlets
round her face and neck; her dre&longs;s was &longs;tudiedly
negligent, being only a white mu&longs;lin robe with
&longs;mall &longs;ilver &longs;prigs; it was fa&longs;tened round her slender
wai&longs;t with a velvet zone, ornamented with
pearl; &longs;he was &longs;eated by a table on which &longs;at a little
French dog, which &longs;he was care&longs;&longs;ing as we entered.
My charming La&longs;&longs;onia, &longs;aid he, running to her
with eagerne&longs;s, how tedious have the hours pa&longs;&longs;ed
that kept me from you!
No doubt they have, &longs;aid &longs;he, coldly evading his
offered embrace; when you have made it two hours
later than you promi&longs;ed.
My deare&longs;t love, I could not avoid it, &longs;aid he,
bu&longs;ine&longs;s of importance—
Oh you are a very prudent man, &longs;aid &longs;he; scornfully;
by all means bu&longs;ine&longs;s &longs;hould be attended to
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before plea&longs;ure; but it is very well, Mr. Selby. I
have waited at home to hear your paltry excu&longs;e for
breaking your word; but I have made an engagement
which I cannot po&longs;&longs;ibly break; my chair is
waiting:—
She aro&longs;e to leave the room.
My Angel, my dear La&longs;&longs;onia, &longs;aid he, catching
her hands, you &longs;urely do not mean to leave me;
hear me but one word; I &longs;hould have been here
much &longs;ooner had I not overtaken my wife and
children in the park, and &longs;he begun teazing me for
money.
And you gave it her? &longs;aid &longs;he, with precipitation.
No, my charmer, I have not given it to her, I
have re&longs;erved it for you; there is not a wi&longs;h my
La&longs;&longs;onia can form but &longs;hall be immediately complied
with—Emily had &longs;et her heart upon going to
Mrs. Melbourne's a&longs;&longs;embly; but I knew my adored
girl intended to be there, and did not wi&longs;h to
meet her; &longs;o I have de&longs;ired her not to go.
And have you brought me your wife's diamonds?
&longs;aid &longs;he.
No —but you &longs;hall have &longs;ome, more valuable
than tho&longs;e—we will go out now, and you &longs;hall
chu&longs;e them at any price you plea&longs;e.
What, I &longs;uppo&longs;e, &longs;aid &longs;he, with a look of contempt,
your wife refu&longs;ed to part with them; and
you, a poor, tame-&longs;pirited hu&longs;band, dared not contradict
her; but I will have her jewels or none, &longs;o
take your choice, Sir, either bring me the meek, dutiful
Emily's diamonds, or never &longs;ee me more.
What a pity it is, &longs;aid I, as I &longs;tood contemplating
this &longs;cene, what a pity &longs;o lovely a form &longs;hould
conceal &longs;o vile a heart; that woman appears a
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masterpiece of nature, and yet draw a&longs;ide that beauteous
veil, and there is &longs;uch &longs;oul deformity within,
that we &longs;hrink with horror and di&longs;gu&longs;t from the
very object which at fir&longs;t view filled us with admiration.
I am unwilling to refu&longs;e you any thing, my
&longs;weet girl, &longs;aid he; but indeed I do not know how
to get the jewels; I have no plau&longs;ible pretext to a&longs;k
for them.
And is this your boa&longs;ted love? &longs;aid &longs;he, this the
fidelity, the &longs;ervent pa&longs;&longs;ion you have &longs;o repeatedly
&longs;worn? am I to be denied &longs;o trifling a gratification
becau&longs;e you cannot bear a few tears from that
proud minx your wife? have I not &longs;acrificed every
thing for you? relinqui&longs;hed reputation, honor,
friends; and is this the return? this the gratitude
I am to meet with? you would &longs;ooner break my
heart than comply with the &longs;malle&longs;t of my wi&longs;hes.
During the&longs;e reproaches &longs;he had vented her passion
by tears.
Do not thus di&longs;tre&longs;s your&longs;elf, my deare&longs;t creature,
&longs;aid Selby; you cut me to the &longs;oul by your
reproaches; come, dry up your tears, and tell me
in what can I oblige you?
Go and bring me Emily's diamonds this evening,
&longs;aid &longs;he.
I came to &longs;pend the night with you, my love,
then do not &longs;end me from you; let us go out and
purcha&longs;e &longs;ome other trinkets.
I will have nothing but the diamonds! exclaimed
&longs;he, in an agony of pa&longs;&longs;ion; which reminded
me of Othello in his jealous fury raving for the fatal
handkerchief.
At length the infatuated Selby, finding it was in
vain to attempt to &longs;ooth her, and being, as he &longs;aid,
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unable to live without her, actually promi&longs;ed to go
home and fetch the jewels for which &longs;he expre&longs;&longs;ed
&longs;uch a de&longs;ire.
I was determined to go with him, and ha&longs;tily
&longs;tepping down &longs;tairs before him, &longs;tepped unperceived
into a hackney coach which he had &longs;ent for,
and was waiting for him at the door—a &longs;hort time
brought us to Gower &longs;treet.
The RECEPTION.
This is kind indeed, my love, &longs;aid Mrs. Selby,
meeting him with a &longs;mile as he entered the
parlour; I was afraid you would not have returned
&longs;o &longs;oon.
P&longs;haw, &longs;aid he, throwing him&longs;elf into a chair;
I do not &longs;uppo&longs;e you will be &longs;o plea&longs;ed when I tell
you the bu&longs;ine&longs;s which brought me home.
If it is any thing which will make you unea&longs;y,
my dear, &longs;aid &longs;he, I &longs;hall certainly regret it; but
if it only concerns my&longs;elf I &longs;hall regret nothing
which gives me the extatic plea&longs;ure of your company.
You are a good girl, Emily, &longs;aid he, taking her
hand—and methought at that in&longs;tant he repented
the ta&longs;k he had undertaken—but it was a momentary
reflection.
I have occa&longs;ion for a large &longs;um of money, &longs;aid
he, to make up a payment, and I have no po&longs;&longs;ible
means of rai&longs;ing it.
Good God! cried &longs;he, turning pale with apprehension,
are your circum&longs;tances really &longs;o bad
then?
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Make no inquiries, &longs;aid he, but con&longs;ider if you
can form any plan to relieve me.
How much do you want my love?
About two thou&longs;and pounds.
I dare &longs;ay my father will lend you &longs;uch a trifle,
rather than you &longs;hould be di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed.
So, Madam, &longs;aid he, you would advi&longs;e me
to apply to your father, and make my misfortunes
the talk of the town.—You &longs;ay you love me,
Emily.
Heaven knows I do mo&longs;t &longs;ervently.
Then to prove it, bring me your jewels, they
will procure me the money I want.
You cannot rai&longs;e &longs;o large a &longs;um without my
mother's al&longs;o; and I &longs;hould not wi&longs;h to part with
them.
A very pretty declaration indeed, Madam; you
value your mother's memory more than your husband's
peace of mind.
Oh! do not &longs;ay &longs;o har&longs;h a word, &longs;aid &longs;he; I
will bring the jewels—had I the univer&longs;e at my
command it would be of no value to me when put
in competition with your happine&longs;s.
She left the room, and &longs;oon returned with the
jewels.
Here they are, &longs;aid &longs;he; would to Heaven every
de&longs;ire which you form may be as ea&longs;ily obtained.
He looked them over.
The&longs;e are not all, &longs;aid he—
A blu&longs;h of confu&longs;ion pa&longs;&longs;ed over the pale face of
the trembling Emily.
I have indeed re&longs;erved &longs;ome, &longs;aid &longs;he; but do
not be angry, I cannot part with the fir&longs;t
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tokens of your love; I cannot part with your picture.
I mu&longs;t have all, &longs;aid he, impatiently.
The afflicted wife drew from her throbbing bosom
a miniature picture &longs;et with diamonds, and a
&longs;mall, but valuable locket, emblamatical of love and
peace; he took them from her—
Leave me the picture, &longs;aid &longs;he—take the diamonds;
but, for pity's &longs;ake, take not that dear, fir&longs;t
pledge of your love.—The picture will not enhance
the value to any but me.
I cannot &longs;tay to take it out, &longs;aid he, putting the
jewels into his pocket, and giving the poor, weeping
Emily a &longs;light ki&longs;s; he &longs;natched up his hat and
in&longs;tantly returned to the vile La&longs;&longs;onia.
I had been too much di&longs;gu&longs;ted with that woman's
behaviour to entertain a thought of returning
with him, therefore, taking off my ring, when I
left the hou&longs;e, I walked toward home.
The INFORMATION.
Being at the play with a friend &longs;ome months
after, I ob&longs;erved La&longs;&longs;onia in a box oppo&longs;ite to that
in which I &longs;at, adorned with the very jewels which
Selby had obtained from his affectionate wife.
Who that &longs;ees that woman, &longs;aid I to my friend,
but would think her the lovelie&longs;t work of creation.
I have been admiring her for &longs;ome time, &longs;aid he;
can you give me any information concerning her?
I have &longs;een her once before, and am quite captivated
with her beauty; if her mind is equal to her
per&longs;on, I could freely devote my life to &longs;uch a woman.
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There is no more compari&longs;on between her mind
and her form, &longs;aid an old gentleman, in a black coat
and a &longs;nug round wig, who &longs;at ju&longs;t behind us—
there is no more compari&longs;on between them, &longs;aid he,
than there is between an angel of Light and a dæ
mon of Hell.
Do you know her, Sir, &longs;aid my friend, turning
ha&longs;tily round.
I do, young man, &longs;aid he; and to guard you
from the effects of her pernicious charms, if you
will &longs;up with me after the play, I will tell you a tale
that &longs;hall make you hate her.
When the play was over we adjourned to a tavern,
and after &longs;upper our new friend gave us the
hi&longs;tory of La&longs;&longs;onia.
Mi&longs;s Freeman and Mi&longs;s Eldridge, &longs;aid, he, were
the daughters of two opulent trade&longs;men; their fathers
were united in the clo&longs;e&longs;t bonds of amity.
Emily Freeman and La&longs;&longs;onia Eldridge were playmates
in infancy, educated at the &longs;ame &longs;chool, and
contracted for each other the affection of &longs;i&longs;ter. —
Emily had ju&longs;t entered her &longs;ixteenth year, when &longs;he
was called from &longs;chool to attend an excellent mother,
who was ha&longs;tily advancing to that “bourne
from whence no traveller returns.” La&longs;&longs;onia would
not be &longs;eparated from her friend on this trying occasion,
and Mrs. Freeman &longs;oon after paying the
debt of nature, &longs;he was retained by Mr. Freeman
as a companion, who&longs;e vivacity would prevent
Emily from too frequently mu&longs;ing on her recent
lo&longs;s.
Mr. Selby became acquainted with the lovely
friends before Emily had attained her eighteenth
year—her &longs;en&longs;e and penetration charmed him; and
her per&longs;on, having then all the attractions of
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blooming youth, he declared him&longs;elf her lover—he frequently
laughed and romped with La&longs;&longs;onia, but never
entertained a thought of love, as her conduct
in general was &longs;o &longs;lighty, and her conver&longs;ation &longs;o
trifling, that though it was impo&longs;&longs;ible to avoid admiring
her beauty, &longs;he had not one requi&longs;ite calculation
to create e&longs;teem.
About this time Mr. Eldridge was taken ill—
the phy&longs;icians feared a con&longs;umption, and advi&longs;ed a
journey to Montpelier—La&longs;&longs;onia accompanied her
father, and during their ab&longs;ence Emily gave her
hand to Mr. Selby. Mr. Eldridge recovered his
health, and they revi&longs;ited England; when, no mention
being made of La&longs;&longs;onia's returning to Mrs.
Selby, &longs;he continued with her father to &longs;uperintend
his family. Two years pa&longs;&longs;ed on in delightful
harmony between Mr. and Mrs. Selby, in which
time &longs;he pre&longs;ented him with a boy and a girl.
During that period the father of La&longs;&longs;onia died insolvent,
and &longs;he was reduced to the nece&longs;&longs;ity of going
to &longs;ervice, as there was not the lea&longs;t provi&longs;ion
for her future &longs;ub&longs;i&longs;tence.
It was then the generous, di&longs;intere&longs;ted Emily offered
her an a&longs;ylum in her hou&longs;e, appointed her an
apartment, a &longs;ervant to attend her, and &longs;upplied her
with cloaths and money from her own private
pur&longs;e.
La&longs;&longs;onia had not long been an inmate in the
hou&longs;e of her friend, before, envious of her felicity,
&longs;he determined to imbitter it by alienating the affection
of Selby from his truly amiable wife—Selby
was young, and fond of variety; his pa&longs;&longs;ion for
Emily was greatly abated by po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion, and though
he almo&longs;t venerated her for her virtues, the charms
of her faithle&longs;s friend enflamed his heart, and he
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eagerly caught at the frequent opportunities which
&longs;he intentionally gave him to plead his pa&longs;&longs;ion.
La&longs;&longs;onia is a proud woman; her &longs;ituation was
irk&longs;ome, though every favour from Emily was conferred
in &longs;o delicate a manner that an indifferent
&longs;pectator would have imagined her the per&longs;on
obliged.
She was likewi&longs;e an artful woman; &longs;he &longs;oon
gained &longs;uch an a&longs;cendancy over Selby, that while
Emily &longs;carcely dared to hint her wi&longs;hes, La&longs;&longs;onia
demanded with authority, and gained every de&longs;ire.
Yet of &longs;o gentle, un&longs;u&longs;picious, a temper was Mrs.
Selby, and &longs;o great a confidence did &longs;he place in the
honor of her friend and her hu&longs;band, that though
La&longs;&longs;onia remained in the family near a twelve-month
after her connection with Selby, &longs;he never
once thought &longs;uch a thing could happen. She frequently
lamented to her treacherous friend the alteration
in her hu&longs;band's behaviour, but &longs;he never
&longs;u&longs;pected her as the cau&longs;e of her unea&longs;ine&longs;s.
But La&longs;&longs;onia now found it nece&longs;&longs;ary to remove
from Mrs. Selby's, to prevent her &longs;hame from becoming
public; &longs;he told Emily that &longs;he was distressed
at being &longs;o great an incumbrance to her, and
that having an opportunity of going abroad with a
lady, who wanted a companion, &longs;he would embrace
it, and endeavour to contribute to her own
&longs;upport. By this conduct &longs;he laid a plan to prevent
returning to the family, which &longs;he predetermined
not to do before &longs;he left it.
Mrs. Selby loaded her with obligations at parting.
She retired to a &longs;mall hou&longs;e about twenty
miles from town which Selby had provided for her
reception, and where &longs;he remained three years,
Selby &longs;pending great part of his time with her.
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About &longs;ix months &longs;ince &longs;he came to town, assumed
the name of Green, took an elegant hou&longs;e,
and &longs;et up a carriage. Mrs. Selby hearing of her
arrival, and &longs;uppo&longs;ing &longs;he was married, reque&longs;ted
me, who at that time was ignorant of the circumstances
I have now related, to go with her and
pay La&longs;&longs;onia a morning vi&longs;it.
We were &longs;hewn into the drawing room by a
&longs;ervant, who informed us his mi&longs;ter&longs;s would be
down in a few minutes, but that &longs;he was then dressing.
How agreeably &longs;urpri&longs;ed my dear La&longs;&longs;onia will
be, &longs;aid Emily, to find I am the lady who wanted
to &longs;peak with her—for &longs;he had &longs;ent up no
name.
We were chatting on indifferent &longs;ubjects, when
a child ran into the room, crying, I will have papa's
picture; I won't break it indeed; a maid following
him in; he ran to Emily, who&longs;e arms were
extended to receive him, and throwing the picture
into her lap, judge her feelings when &longs;he &longs;aw the
portrait of Mr. Selby, which &longs;he had given him
but two days before with the greate&longs;t regret, imagining
him in want of money. Her feelings over-powered
her, and &longs;he fell lifele&longs;s on the floor. The
cries of the &longs;ervant alarmed the family, and Lassonia,
thinking &longs;ome misfortune had happened to
her child, ru&longs;hed into the room followed by Selby
him&longs;elf.
It is impo&longs;&longs;ible to de&longs;cribe the &longs;cene that en&longs;ued
on the recovery of Emily—La&longs;&longs;onia raved, Mrs.
Selby wept, and Selby appeared motionle&longs;s as a
&longs;tatue.
As &longs;oon as Emily was able to walk, I took her
hand and led her to the carriage. Upon her
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return home, her fainting fits returned; &longs;he pa&longs;&longs;ed a
night of inconceivable di&longs;tre&longs;s, for Selby never
came near her; and in the morning &longs;he was in a
violent fever. I then went in pur&longs;uit of the perfidious
hu&longs;band; but as the &longs;uffering faint de&longs;ired,
forbore to reproach him.
I found him, and he returned with me to
her.
She beheld him approach with a faint &longs;mile—It
is kind, my Selby, &longs;aid &longs;he, to come and receive the
parting &longs;igh of her who has &longs;o long been a barrier to
your happine&longs;s; indeed I did not know, or I never
would have vi&longs;ited my happy rival—I never thought
your love was divided, and the certainty of it came
&longs;o &longs;udden upon my heart, that weak and unprepared
as it was, it could not bear the &longs;hock—take
care of my children, &longs;aid &longs;he, adieu my love; my
heart may break, but my tongue will never reproach
you.
Her di&longs;order hourly increa&longs;ed; a delirium ensued;
and before the next morning &longs;he breathed
her la&longs;t, invoking ble&longs;&longs;ings on the head of her
faithle&longs;s hu&longs;band and treacherous friend.
The DISSERTATION.
It is &longs;uch women as La&longs;&longs;onia who ca&longs;t an odium
on the whole &longs;ex; and &longs;uch women are not
only objects of contempt but dete&longs;tation. I am
not of opinion that women would never degenerate
into vice, were they not at fir&longs;t &longs;educed by
man; certain I am, though my heart achs at the
idea, that there are many women who are abandoned
to all manner of wickedne&longs;s entirely through
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the depravity of their inclinations.—Oh! how my
&longs;oul ri&longs;es with indignation to &longs;ee the faire&longs;t works
of the Creator's hand &longs;o far forget their native
dignity as to glory in actions which deba&longs;e them
beneath the lowe&longs;t reptile that crawls upon the
earth! To &longs;ee a woman loaded with ornaments
which are the wages of guilt, and exulting in the
badges of her di&longs;honor; to &longs;ee her admitted into
all public places, and rudely pre&longs;&longs;ing before the
meek and virtuous—I could &longs;trip her of her gaudy
trappings, and, to bring her to a ju&longs;t &longs;en&longs;e of her
infamous conduct, feed her upon bread and water,
till convinced of the nece&longs;&longs;ity of repentance, &longs;he
&longs;hould gladly embrace the mo&longs;t &longs;ervile employment,
and accept the meane&longs;t apparel, rather than
return to her former life of vice and di&longs;&longs;ipation.
How many families have been ruined by licentious
women! How many virtuous wives have
&longs;unk, broken-hearted to the grave! how many innocent
orphans have been &longs;ent portionle&longs;s into the
world, through their diabolical machinations! and,
alas! (I &longs;hudder as the thought occurs) how many
wretched women, forgetful of their marriage vows,
have relinqui&longs;hed a tender hu&longs;band, a family of
children, who&longs;e innocent care&longs;&longs;es &longs;hould have linked
her heart in&longs;eparably to their father, and thrown
her&longs;elf into the arms of an abandoned libertine!—
let not &longs;uch a woman plead &longs;eduction—a married
woman mu&longs;t, by her conduct give &longs;ome encouragement
before the mo&longs;t profligate man would dare
offend her ear with a declaration of love; and weak,
very weak, mu&longs;t be her repul&longs;es, if he ventures to
per&longs;evere in his impious pur&longs;uit.
From the inmo&longs;t rece&longs;&longs;es of my &longs;oul do I pity
the unhappy girl who, betrayed by the impul&longs;e of
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affection, falls a prey to an in&longs;idious villain, and,
abandoned by her &longs;educer, is expo&longs;ed to the &longs;corn
and contempt of the world—Oh! how my heart
has been wrung to &longs;ee poor girls who are &longs;carcely
pa&longs;t their childhood, who&longs;e misfortune it has been
to have wicked advi&longs;ers, &longs;o early initiated into the
&longs;chool of vice. Their tender frames, which once
perhaps, by kind, paternal care, were &longs;hielded from
the winds of Heaven—now defencele&longs;s, in the mo&longs;t
inclement &longs;ea&longs;on expo&longs;ed to noxious damps and
pinching cold, and when they mo&longs;t &longs;tand in need
of con&longs;olation, when bowed almo&longs;t to the grave
with want, di&longs;ea&longs;e, and &longs;hame, to &longs;ee them re&longs;t
their wearied bones upon the cold damp pavement,
and lay their aching heads upon the &longs;teps of
an hou&longs;e where a woman dwells, who&longs;e heart is a
thou&longs;and times more guilty than theirs, who &longs;ins
without remor&longs;e, and riots in wealth and luxury.
I never &longs;ee the poor nightly wanderers that infest
our &longs;treets, but, &longs;pite of my endeavours to the
contrary, the tear of angui&longs;h will &longs;teal unbidden to
my eye.
Poor &longs;ouls! I often &longs;ay, poor unhappy creatures,
would to Heaven I had a fortune capacious as my
heart, that I might &longs;natch you from perdition, and
teach you the road to everla&longs;ting felicity. I would
guard you from the in&longs;ults of the world; I would
cheri&longs;h you, li&longs;ten to all your tales of &longs;orrow, and
join my tears with yours, till we had wa&longs;hed away
the &longs;tains of guilt, and taught you “that to be happy,
is to be happy.”
Oh! my fair countrywomen, turn not away from
the plaints of mi&longs;ery; &longs;corn not the daughters of
affliction; for, if by clemency and humanity you
could draw one mi&longs;erable object from the thorny
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paths of vice, and re&longs;tore her to peace with her own
&longs;oul, you would do an act more acceptable in the
&longs;ight of your Creator, than the man who be&longs;tows
thou&longs;ands for the endowment of an ho&longs;pital—the
fir&longs;t action mu&longs;t proceed from innate goodne&longs;s of
the heart; the la&longs;t may from &longs;elf-love—a man may
do a public act of benevolence to perpetuate his
name, and dignify him&longs;elf with the title of generous;
but that pure charity which leads us to forgive
the &longs;ailing of our fellow creatures, chear the
de&longs;ponding heart, and wipe the grief-&longs;woln eye of
an ob&longs;cure individual, mu&longs;t be the re&longs;ult of religion;
it is a &longs;ort of benevolence which gratifies the
heart in performing good deeds, but blu&longs;hes whenever
tho&longs;e actions are repeated—It feels the mo&longs;t
exalted plea&longs;ure in relieving a di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed fellow
creature, but it is pained to receive acknowledgements.
The ARREST.
I WILL go and pay the di&longs;con&longs;olate He&longs;ter a visit,
&longs;aid I, one morning as I was rambling near
Chel&longs;ea. I bent my &longs;teps toward her habitation;
but had not proceeded far before I ob&longs;erved a young
man, who&longs;e dre&longs;s had formerly been genteel, but
was now &longs;habby in the extreme; his hair had once
been dre&longs;&longs;ed, but it might have been &longs;ome three
weeks or a month &longs;ince; his coat was de couleur de
puce, but much the wor&longs;e for wear, as the elbows
di&longs;covered a very fine, but dirty, &longs;hirt; his once
&longs;atin wai&longs;tcoat was threadbare and grea&longs;y, his
breeches loo&longs;e and ragged at the knees; a pair of
dirty &longs;ilk &longs;tockings, ornamented with here and there
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a hole, hung in a &longs;lovenly manner about his legs;
and the &longs;able fril of his &longs;hirt, that peeped from his
brea&longs;t, was trimmed with the fine&longs;t edging—That
man has once been a coxcomb, &longs;aid; for I always
judge when I &longs;ee the remains of finery put on
carele&longs;sly or disfigured with dirt, that the wearer
has formerly been extravagant in his dre&longs;s.
I approached the tattered beau in order to take a
view of his per&longs;on, when I di&longs;covered the features
of my old acquaintance Mr. Woudbe.
And this is the end of ignorant pride, ostentation,
and folly, &longs;aid I—no doubt you would now be
glad of a friend to admini&longs;ter to tho&longs;e wants which
henceforth you will learn to pity in others—but I
fear your conduct has been &longs;uch that you have no
friends to apply to.
The thought was &longs;carcely pa&longs;&longs;ed before two disagreeable
looking fellows came up, and &longs;hewing
the trembling Woudbe a bit of parchment, he was
forced to &longs;urrender him&longs;elf their pri&longs;oner.
Ju&longs;t at that time a young man of fa&longs;hion pa&longs;&longs;ing,
and recollecting Woudbe, acco&longs;ted him with heigh!
Jack, what! come to this already! I thought you
would have held it out a little longer—ha! ha!
what a rueful figure!—all out at the elbows eh!
A truce with your &longs;neers, Sir, &longs;aid Woudbe, assuming
an air of importance, I &longs;tand in need of
twenty pounds immediately—you have frequently
made me offers of &longs;ervice; lend me that &longs;um, and
I &longs;hall be obliged to you.
Ah! Jack, &longs;aid the other, that air and manner
won't do now, it did very well while the l'argent
la&longs;ted, and you was a gentleman at large; but now
you are again plain Jack Woudbe, the Cabinet-maker;
you mu&longs;t learn to bow, cringe, and mind
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your bu&longs;ine&longs;s—I am &longs;orry it goes &longs;o hard with you;
but depend upon it, this will always be the ca&longs;e
with young men of trifling fortunes, who ape the
manners, and launch into extravagancies, which
are only becoming their &longs;uperiors—I would lend
you the money with all my heart, but I know you
have no way to repay it, and are too proud to go
to work; therefore you had better &longs;ubmit to your
fate with a good grace.
The poor cre&longs;t fallen Woudbe walked away with
his di&longs;agreeable companions, and the &longs;tranger addressed
him&longs;elf to me—that young man, Sir, &longs;aid
he, was the &longs;on of an indu&longs;trious trade&longs;man, who
by &longs;trict attention to bu&longs;ine&longs;s, &longs;craped together about
three or four thou&longs;and pounds; at his death
this money was left for his only &longs;on, who was then
getting a little education at a cheap &longs;chool in the
country.
When fifteen years old, he was apprenticed to a
capital Cabinet-maker; a very hand&longs;ome premium
was given with him; but he was too much of the
gentleman to attend to bu&longs;ine&longs;s, and when he came
of age he a&longs;&longs;umed the dre&longs;s and manners of a man
of fa&longs;hion; expen&longs;ive amu&longs;ements, treats, balls,
and the retinue of di&longs;&longs;ipation and folly were eagerly
attended to—but this would not la&longs;t long; it is now
over; and even if he makes friends to get from his
pre&longs;ent cinfinement, I know of no method he can
pur&longs;ue for future &longs;ub&longs;i&longs;tence.
Such young men as the&longs;e, &longs;aid I, by their folly
are often involved in difficulties, which, in hopes
of extricating them&longs;elves from, they hurry to the
gaming table, and finding their expectations frustrated
there al&longs;o, as the la&longs;t re&longs;ource, betake themselves
to a black crape, a good hor&longs;e, and a pi&longs;tol.
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—How careful &longs;hould parents and guardians be to
in&longs;til into the minds of youth of narrow fortunes,
meekne&longs;s, humility, and indu&longs;try! the lea&longs;t tendency
to thoughtle&longs;s extravagance, in either &longs;ex ought
to be &longs;everely cha&longs;ti&longs;ed; &longs;ince pride, and a pa&longs;&longs;ion
for expen&longs;ive plea&longs;ures, which they have no laudable
method to obtain, has hurried thou&longs;ands into
actions which imbitter the la&longs;t hours of life with
poverty, &longs;hame, and remor&longs;e.
As I fini&longs;hed the&longs;e remarks, I looked up, expecting
an an&longs;wer from my companion; but whether
my di&longs;cour&longs;e was too grave, or whether it
touched his feelings, or whether &longs;ome other cau&longs;e
had occa&longs;ioned him to leave me, I know not, but
he was gone; and on my turning round to look
for him, I &longs;aw he was ha&longs;tily proceeding towards
town.
How ea&longs;y it is, &longs;aid I, for a man to blame a
conduct in others which he is eagerly pur&longs;uing
him&longs;elf; perhaps a few years may reduce that
young man to the &longs;ame &longs;ituation in which he now
&longs;miles to &longs;ee Woudbe—experience is undoubtedly
be&longs;t when purcha&longs;ed; but Woudbe has, I fear,
paid an exorbitant price for his.
I was now oppo&longs;ite Vellum's hou&longs;e.
The RETRIBUTION.
Having entered, by means of my ring, I proceeded
un&longs;een to He&longs;ter's apartment—&longs;he was
greatly altered &longs;ince the death of her father; a
&longs;ickly langour had taken po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion of her features
&longs;he looked anxious and fatigued.
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I wonder Harper is not returned, &longs;aid &longs;he to a
young woman who was with her: I hope the dear
Julietta is not wor&longs;e.
She had hardly pronounced the words, before a
po&longs;t chai&longs;e &longs;topped at the door, and, in a few moments,
the injured orphan entered, leaning on the
arm of an elderly woman; an univer&longs;al trembling
&longs;eized on He&longs;ter when &longs;he beheld the ravages
which &longs;ickne&longs;s and ill u&longs;age had made on the form
of her lovely friend: &longs;he led her to a &longs;opha, dropped
on her knees before her, and, gazing at her with a
look that &longs;poke the keen angui&longs;h of her &longs;oul, took
her thin hands in hers, and bur&longs;t into tears.
Do you not know me, my &longs;weet friend? &longs;aid
&longs;he, after a long and affecting &longs;ilence; will you not
&longs;peak to me, Julietta?
He&longs;ter, &longs;aid &longs;he, bowing her head forward, and
leaning her cheek upon that of her weeping friend,
He&longs;ter, why are you &longs;o &longs;orrowful? and why are
you dre&longs;&longs;ed in black? are you an orphan, He&longs;ter?
Oh! had it plea&longs;ed Heaven I had been, cried
He&longs;ter, earne&longs;tly, rather than you, dear, injured angel,
had been reduced to this haple&longs;s &longs;tate.
Alas! &longs;aid Julietta, why would you wi&longs;h to be
an orphan, to have a cruel guardian, to lo&longs;e your
brother, to eat dry bread and drink cold water, and
lie upon a wretched bed of &longs;traw? you could not
bear it, dear He&longs;ter; you would die of a broken
heart—for my part, I am u&longs;ed to it; I can bear it
very well; then let me return to my little hut again—
if my guardian knew I had left it, he would
be very angry.
And have you &longs;uffered all this? cried He&longs;ter,
weeping bitterly. Oh! Julietta, you never &longs;hall
return to that &longs;ad place again; your cruel guardian
is dead.
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Dead! cried Julietta, rai&longs;ing her hands and eyes
in a &longs;upplicating manner; then Heaven have mercy
on him.
And what do you think of the poor girl's ca&longs;e?
&longs;aid He&longs;ter, as &longs;he re-entered the room with Dr.
M—, after they had per&longs;uaded Julietta to go to
bed.
The doctor gave her great hopes that kind and
affectionate treatment would &longs;oon entirely re&longs;tore
her rea&longs;on, which he imagined was already beginning
to return.
Could I but &longs;ee that happy day, &longs;aid &longs;he, and deliver
her fortune into her own hands, I &longs;hould have
no farther bu&longs;ine&longs;s in this world.
How &longs;o, my young friend? &longs;aid the Doctor,
with a look of &longs;urpri&longs;e; I think you have a great
deal of bu&longs;ine&longs;s in the world yet; why &longs;ure, with
all your goodne&longs;s and accompli&longs;hments, you would
not &longs;hut your&longs;elf up in a convent?
Why no, &longs;aid &longs;he; I am not a &longs;ufficient convert
to the catholic religion to imagine it ab&longs;olutely necessary
to &longs;hut our&longs;elves up within the walls of a
pri&longs;on to avoid the temptations of the world; but,
I think, a per&longs;on may in &longs;olitude better practi&longs;e
tho&longs;e virtues &longs;o nece&longs;&longs;ary to our well doing hereafter,
than in the noi&longs;e and hurry of the more bu&longs;y
&longs;cenes of life.—By &longs;olitude, I do not mean to retire
to a de&longs;ert, and &longs;hut my&longs;elf from the conver&longs;e
and &longs;ociety of my fellow creatures; I mean a calm
retirement, far from folly and di&longs;&longs;ipation, where I
may con&longs;ult my own heart on the propriety and
equity of all my actions, without incurring the
&longs;neers and ridicule of the world. As to the wealth
which my poor unhappy father hoarded, it does not
belong to me; it is the property of the widow and
the fatherle&longs;s.
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Here her tears interrupted her.
After this declaration, Doctor, &longs;he continued,
you will not be &longs;urpri&longs;ed at my re&longs;olution of retiring
from the gay &longs;cenes of life; and, I flatter myself,
I &longs;hall in time regain that &longs;erenity of mind a
&longs;eries of uncommon trials have robbed me of.
The Doctor was too much affected to reply;
he pre&longs;&longs;ed her hand, &longs;truggled hard to &longs;uppre&longs;s a rising
tear, and making a ha&longs;ty bow, left the room.
A few weeks re&longs;tored Julietta to rea&longs;on, health
and &longs;pirits; when He&longs;ter, having re&longs;igned her fortune
to her own care, and made ample retribution
of tho&longs;e &longs;ums her father had appropriated to his
own u&longs;e, during the infanity of his ward, retired to
a village, in a county far di&longs;tant from London, and
&longs;pent the remainder of her life in admini&longs;tering to
the wants of the helple&longs;s and di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed.
Her friend&longs;hip for Julietta cea&longs;ed but with her
life; and many &longs;ummers has that amiable girl
&longs;pent with her, uniting in every action of benevolence,
and &longs;hedding peace and plenty around them;
the villagers adored them while living, and mourned
with unaffected &longs;orrow when deprived by death
of their benefactre&longs;&longs;es.
The CITY HEIRESS.
I WILL have the mo&longs;t elegant that is to be had,
Mamma, cried a young lady, as &longs;he came out of a
carriage, and ran into a milliner's &longs;hop, which I
had entered to buy &longs;ome little pre&longs;ents for Harriot
and Lucy.
Do not let me detain you from waiting on the
ladies, &longs;aid I to the mi&longs;tre&longs;s of the &longs;hop, for I was
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willing to &longs;ee to what lengths this girl's extravagance
would take her.
I want a bouquet, Mrs. Frippery, &longs;aid &longs;he;
come, &longs;hew me &longs;ome of the hand&longs;ome&longs;t you have.
The counter was in an in&longs;tant over&longs;pread with
ro&longs;es, carnations, lilies, je&longs;&longs;amine, and other flowers
innumerable; it looked like the temple of Flora;
but I &longs;hould by no means have taken the young
lady for the divinity of the place, as &longs;he was a little
&longs;warthy figure, with &longs;mall black eyes, a good deal
marked with the &longs;mall pox, and &longs;omething inclined
to be crooked.—Nature might have made her really
&longs;o, but her &longs;tay-maker had found out a method,
in a great mea&longs;ure, to hide the defect; her hair
was dre&longs;&longs;ed to the extremity of the fa&longs;hion; her
bonnet, which was large, and loaded with trimming,
placed on the left &longs;ide of her head; a train
of rich &longs;atin &longs;wept the ground as &longs;he walked; the
prominence of her handkerchief almo&longs;t hid her
chin; and her cheeks wore the tints of &longs;ome of the
be&longs;t rouge.—It is a&longs;toni&longs;hing, &longs;aid I, as I &longs;at looking
at her, that a woman to whom nature has not
been lavi&longs;h in per&longs;onal attractions, &longs;hould take &longs;uch
pains by their outre manner of dre&longs;&longs;ing, entirely to
ob&longs;cure the few charms with which they are endued,
and make their defects con&longs;picuous.
I was rou&longs;ed from the&longs;e reflections by the Lady's
bidding five guineas for as many flowers.
But really, Mrs. Frippery, &longs;aid &longs;he, have you
none more elegant?
Why, my dear Mi&longs;s, &longs;aid the woman, I have
one, but it is po&longs;itively be&longs;poke by the Dutche&longs;s of
Melvin, and it likewi&longs;e comes rather high:—it
cannot go out of my &longs;hop under &longs;even guineas—
though there are not more flowers in it than in the
one you have cho&longs;en.
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The flowers were produced, the Lady in&longs;i&longs;ted on
having them, and the money was paid.
It is a doubt with me, &longs;aid I, whether the poor
mortal who&longs;e indu&longs;try and ingenuity formed tho&longs;e
pretty ornaments, &longs;carcely earns more than enough
to &longs;upport nature; and yet this thoughtle&longs;s girl has
paid &longs;even guineas for them, merely becau&longs;e they
were be&longs;poke by the Dutche&longs;s of Melvin.
Ju&longs;t as the Ladies were about leaving the &longs;hop,
a &longs;mart man, dre&longs;&longs;ed like an officer, who&longs;e language
&longs;poke him hibernian, de&longs;ired to look at &longs;ome
point ruffles; he advanced to the counter at which
the young Lady &longs;at, and while he &longs;eemed bu&longs;y at
looking at the ruffles, took an opportunity to &longs;lip a
letter into her hand unperceived by her mother.—
I &longs;hall again have recour&longs;e to my ring, &longs;aid I, for if
I am not mi&longs;taken, that man is a fortune-hunter.
That young Lady, &longs;aid Mrs. Frippery, as they
drove from the door, is the only child of Alderman
Fig—&longs;he is heire&longs;s to a va&longs;t fortune.
Two fat old gentlemen pa&longs;&longs;ing ju&longs;t then, &longs;he informed
me that one of them was Mr. Fig him&longs;elf.
I had made my purcha&longs;es, &longs;o I &longs;tepped out of the
&longs;hop and followed the Alderman.
The DISAPPOINTMENT.
I HAVE been out on purpo&longs;e to get an appetite,
&longs;aid Mr. Fig;—I think it was the large&longs;t turtle I
ever &longs;aw; and my friend Dip always has his turtles
&longs;o well dre&longs;&longs;ed, that I long for the hour of dinner.
I will ju&longs;t &longs;tep home and change my wig, and
be with you again immediately.
Then this is the time, &longs;aid I, for me to get admission.—
I put my hand in my pocket for my
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ring—but it was gone—I &longs;earched every pocket
diligently, but no ring could I find. I returned to
the milliner's &longs;hop, and from thence home—
&longs;earched my bed—had every room in the hou&longs;e
&longs;wept; but it was all to no purpo&longs;e.—I never &longs;aw
it again.
And pray, Mr. Inqui&longs;itor, what became of the
City Heire&longs;s?
Upon my word, Madam, I never heard.
FINIS.
Back matter
-- --
BOOKS lately PUBLISHED,
[figure description] Advertisement.[end figure description]
And for Sale, at William Gibbons's Printing-Office,
No. 144, North Third Street.
Lady's Magazine, fir&longs;t and &longs;econd Volumes,
containing each about 300 Pages, on a variety of
Subjects, and ornamented with Plates.—The
Third Volume will be publi&longs;hed by the 1&longs;t of January.
Rights of Woman, with Strictures on Moral
and Political Subjects. By Mary Woolstonecraft.
Lady's Literary Companion; or a collection of
E&longs;&longs;ays, adapted for the in&longs;truction and amusement
of the female &longs;ex.
Select Mi&longs;cellanies, for the u&longs;e of Schools, and
improvement of young per&longs;ons.
Fables for the Ladies, by Dr. Moore, to which
are added the Fables of Flora, by Dr. Langhorne.
Sylvan Letters; or the Plea&longs;ures of a Country
Life.
A Treati&longs;e on Marriage and Matrimony.
Divine Breathing; or a Pious Soul Thir&longs;ting
after Chri&longs;t. In One Hundred Pathetical Meditations.
Poems on &longs;everal Subjects—Written by Stephen
Duck.
The Means, Properties, and Effects of true
Faith con&longs;idered—A Di&longs;cour&longs;e. By Thomas Story.
&c. &c. &c.
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Rowson, Mrs., 1762-1824 [1793], The inquisitor, or, Invisible rambler, volume 3 (William Gibbons, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf324v3].
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