The Lady's museum: By the author of The Female Quixote. [pt.2]

Table of contents

- [titlepage]

- The TRIFLER. [NUMBER VI.]

- THE HISTORY OF HARRIOT AND SOPHIA CONTINUED.

- ESSAY ON THE Original Inhabitants of GREAT BRITAIN, CONTINUED.

- THE HISTORY OF THE COUNT DE COMMINGE CONTINUED.

- THE HISTORY OF BIANCA CAPELLO CONTINUED.

- TREATISE ON THE EDUCATION of DAUGHTERS CONTINUED.

- CHAP. IV. Cautions concerning Imitation.

- PHILOSOPHY FOR THE LADIES CONTINUED.

- The natural History of the Swallow-tail'd Butterfly, and its Ichneumon.

- Description of the copper plate contained in our last Number.

- THE LADY's GEOGRAPHY.

- The MANNERS and CUSTOMS of the Inhabitants of AMBOYNA concluded.

- DESCRIPTION of the Island of CEYLON.

- THE LADY's MUSEUM. The TRIFLER. [NUMBER VII.]

- THE HISTORY OF HARRIOT AND SOPHIA CONTINUED.

- ESSAY ON THE Original Inhabitants of GREAT BRITAIN, CONTINUED.

- THE HISTORY OF BIANCA CAPELLO CONCLUDED.

- THE HISTORY OF THE COUNT DE COMMINGE CONTINUED.

- TREATISE ON THE EDUCATION of DAUGHTERS CONTINUED.

- CHAP. IV. Indirect Instructions, and that Children ought not to be urged.

- THE LADY'S MUSEUM. The TRIFLER. [NUMBER VIII.]

- THE HISTORY OF HARRIOT AND SOPHIA CONTINUED.

- TO THE Author of the LADY'S MUSEUM.

- ESSAY ON THE Original Inhabitants of GREAT BRITAIN, CONTINUED.

- THE HISTORY OF THE COUNT DE COMMINGE CONTINUED.

- TREATISE ON THE EDUCATION of DAUGHTERS CONTINUED.

- Indirect Instructions, and that Children ought not to be urged.

- PHILOSOPHY FOR THE LADIES CONTINUED.

- The Natural History of the EPHEMERON, or DAY-FLY.

- THE LADY's MUSEUM. The TRIFLER. [NUMBER IX.]

- THE HISTORY OF HARRIOT AND SOPHIA CONTINUED.

- On reading HUTCHINSON on the PASSIONS.

- SHALUM, Master of MOUNT TIRZAH, to HILPA, mistress of the Valleys. An Ante-diluvian Love Letter. By a Young Lady.

- HILPA, Mistress of the Valleys, to SHALUM, Master of Mount Tirzah. By the same.

- The MORNING. By the same.

- An ODE. By a LADY.

- THE HISTORY OF THE COUNT DE COMMINGE CONCLUDED.

- TREATISE ON THE EDUCATION of DAUGHTERS CONTINUED.

- Indirect Instructions, and that Children ought not to be urged.

- ESSAY ON THE Original Inhabitants of Great Britain, CONCLUDED.

- THE HISTORY OF THE PRINCESS PADMANI.

- THE LADY's GEOGRAPHY.

- DESCRIPTION of the Island of CEYLON. [Continued from Page 480.]

- NATURAL HISTORY of CEYLON.

- THE LADY's MUSEUM. The TRIFLER. [NUMBER X.]

- THE HISTORY OF HARRIOT AND SOPHIA CONTINUED.

- THE JUDGMENT of PARIS. A POEM. Sent to the Author of the Lady's Museum, by a Friend.

- The following Life of VANDYCK is published from a Manuscript, communicated to the Author of the LADY's MUSEUM by a Person of Distinction. THE LIFE OF Sir ANTHONY VANDYCK.

- THE TALE of GENEURA. From the Italian of LODOVICO ARIOSTO, in the Fifth Book of his ORLANDO FURIOSO.

- TREATISE ON THE EDUCATION of DAUGHTERS CONTINUED.

- Of the use of History for Children.

- THE LADY's GEOGRAPHY.

- DESCRIPTION of the Island of CEYLON. [Continued from Page 720.]

- THE LADY's MUSEUM. The TRIFLER. [NUMBER XI.]

- A DIALOGUE BETWEEN SOCRATES and ARISTARCHUS.

- THE HISTORY OF HARRIOT and SOPHIA CONCLUDED.

- THE LIFE OF Sir ANTHONY VANDYCK CONCLUDED.

- TREATSE ON THE EDUCATION of DAUGHTERS CONCLUDED.

- The Vanity of Beauty and of Dress.

- A POETICAL EPISTLE From BUSY, the Lap-dog, in London, to SNOWBALL, the Buck-hound, in Wind sor Forest.

- To ISMENE playing on a Lute.

- PHILOSOPHY FOR THE LADIES CONCLUDED.

- Some reflections and deductions drawn from the works of Nature in general.

- THE LADY'S GEOGRAPHY.

- DESCRIPTION of the Island of CEYLON. CONCLUDED.

- CONTENTS.

THE LADY'S MUSEUM.

FINIS.

THE LADY'S MUSEUM.

BY THE Author of the FEMALE QUIXOTE.

VOL. II.

LONDON, Printed for J. NEWBERY, in St. Paul's Churchyard; and J. COOTE, in Pater-noster Row

The TRIFLER. [NUMBER VI.]

MADAM,

I Take up my pen once more to give you the remainder of my sad story; and am pleased to find that many of your female readers express a just abhorrence of the character of Belinda. I feel my heart too much affected with the remembrance of the sorrows she occasioned me, to enter into a detail of all her little artifices to ensnare the heart of my husband: there was an endless variety in her temper, which kept his attention perpetually awake, and prevended all satiety; and she had so perfect a command of her features, that whatever disposition she pleased to assume, her countenance expressed it as naturally as if she really felt it.

My husband grew every day more fond of the company of one who always presented a new face to him, sometimes airy and sparkling, sometimes tender and melancholy, now haughty and imperious, then softened into a gentle languishment. While I was ignorant of her insidious design, I diverted myself with her fantastic behaviour; but Alcander now discovered such an extreme attachment to her, that I began to grow uneasy. I was afraid of examining into the nature of my own doubts and fears; the suspicion that my Alcander was grown indifferent to me, and loved another, was something so new, so strange, so shocking to my heart, that I rejected it with horror; yet spite of myself I sought the melancholy conviction, and found it in his looks, his words, and every circumstance of his behaviour.

My first thought was to expostulate with him upon his change; but my pride opposed this, and reason told me that upbraidings would not recal his affections: I resolved, therefore to seem ignorant of my misfortune, and flattering myself that when my dangerous guest had left me, the impression she had made would be removed, I patiently waited for her departure.

When she told me of her intention to return to London in a day or two, my heart bounded with joy, and I scorned to dissemble so far as to desire her to stay any longer; but what became of me! when turning my eyes upon Alcander, I saw him pale as death, and unable to utter a word, so greatly was he affected with the thoughts of parting. At length recovering himself, he solicited her to stay some time longer, with such beseeching looks, and such earnestness of intreaty, that finding myself unable to support this scene, I rose up, and complaining of a sudden indisposition, retired to my chamber.

My husband followed me immediately; and I, eager to admit every thought that could give me comfort, considered this as an effect of his tenderness and concern for me; but I was soon undeceived: he came only to reprove me for my incivility to my guest, in not pressing her to stay longer; and he had the cruelty to desire I would use my undeavours to keep her with us.

I answered nothing, but burst into tears. Alcander, who doubtless knew the cause, and dreaded an explanation, left the room without taking any notice of my disorder. Oh, how unlike was this to his former behaviour! I thought I should have died with grief; but pride and resentment came to my aid: I resolved not to add to Belinda's triumph, by suffering my uneasiness to appear. I therefore composed my looks; and when she came with an affected solicitude to enquire after my health, she found me in appearance easy and tranquil.

My husband finding me fully determined not to hinder Belinda from leaving us, declared his intention to go to London, and coldly asked me if it would be agreeable to me? I replied, that I would certainly accompany him; so we all set out together. Belinda and I parted with great indifference on both sides. I dropt all intercourse with her; and this put my husband into so bad a humour, that he treated me with the most mortifying neglect.

My father was dead: my mother, who loved me tenderly, and was attentive to the behaviour of my husband, soon perceived the estrangement of his affections. In her bosom I poured out all my sorrows, and regulated my conduct by her prudence: she recommended to me patience and silence; and above all, conjured me to keep the fatal secret from my brother; his temper was rash and impetuous; he was extremely fond of me, and every thing was to be dreaded from his resentment, if my husband's injurious treatment ever came to his knowledge. This however it was impossible to prevent; my unhappy situation became generally known, so open was Alcander in his neglect of me, and his gallantries to Belinda.

My brother expostulated with him upon his behaviour: the event was what my mother and I had often apprehended; they fought, Alcander was wounded; he was brought home in a chair, in a very weak condition. I swooned at the sight of him, and when I recovered I found myself in my mother's arms: she informed me my brother was not hurt, and that Alcander's surgeons had assured her he was not in the least danger. The horrors I had laboured under were relieved by this news, but my peace was lost for ever. I attended my husband constantly during his illness, which was but of short continuance; he received my cares with a coldness that pierced me to the heart; and when he was so far recovered as to be able to go into the country, he gave me to understand that he would dispense with my company there.

I was beginning to expostulate with him; but he stopped my mouth, by telling me with a determined air, that he never could pardon me for having exposed him to the insult he had received from my brother; that I had made it impossible for him to alter his conduct, since the world would construe it into a base fear of my brother: he concluded, with advising me to go and reside with my mother, and without waiting for my answer, left me.

I will not attempt to describe the various passions which tortured me by turns; but fond as I still was of my faithless husband, the indignation I felt for his unworthy usage of me, helped to support my spirits, and hindered me from yielding to the violence of my grief. I put myself under my mother's protection, and resigned myself quietly to my fate.

My husband a few months afterwards went to Italy, disgusted, as I have heard, with the behaviour of Belinda; who, to recover her reputation, which this affair had greatly sullied, sacrificed him to her mirth upon all occasions, and made her contempt of him as public as his attachment to her had been. Her triumph however was short: she experienced the greatest misfortune that could happen to a woman who thought beauty the supremest good: she was seized with the small-pox, which made such ravage in her face that she was hardly to be known: her passion for admiration still remains, though the power of exciting it is gone. Hence arises her punishment; and she who delighted in giving pain to others, finds in herself a perpetual source of vexation. I am,

Madam,
Your Obliged Humble Servant, PERDITA.

TO THE AUTHOR of the TRIFLER.

MADAM,

AS you confess that you are not superior to trifles, will you accept of a trifling criticism, which if honoured with a place in your Museum, may, for the future, perhaps occasion a different manner of reading and acting one particular passage in Macbeth, that hitherto has been generally, if not always, misunderstood and misapplied.

In the sixth scene of the fourth act, a messenger of some rank, Rosse, comes to let Macduff know that his castle has been surprised, and his wife and children savagely slaughtered. The young king of Scotland, Malcolm, who had been some time at the English court, solliciting troops and assistance from Edward the Confessor, undertakes to comfort his friend and subject Macduff, who had attended him to England, and was deeply involved in his cause. Macduff, for some moments, remains thunder-struck and silent. Malcolm, by way of consolation, says,

What, man, ne'er pull your hat upon your brows. Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak, whispers the o'er fraught heart, and bids it break.

Macduff pays no regard or attention to Malcolm, but turning to Rosse, says, My children too! Rosse replies, Wife, children, servants, all that could be found. Macduff. And I must be from thence: my wife killed too? Rosse. I've said. Macduff makes no immediate answer; but enfolding his arms, and hanging down his head, in all the melancholy silence of inexpressible grief, stands fixed like a statue on the farther side of the stage. Malcolm, endeavouring to awaken Macduff from this lethargy of woe, approaches near to him, and says, Be comforted, let's make us medicines of our griefs revenge, to cure this deadly grief. Macduff still remains motionless and unmoved; but when he looks up, and sees his royal friend Malcolm returned to Rosse, on the other side of the stage, he sighs deeply, and in a low voice expresses himself thus: He has no children. What all my pretty ones? did you say all? what all? The expression, He has no children, is supposed and understood to refer to Macbeth, who having no children, could not afford to Macduff an adequate revenge. The supposition undoubtedly is natural. In cases of injury, the law of retaliation never fails to occur to our minds, and to be the object of our passions: but the fact is not true. Macbeth had a son, his name was Luthlac. After the death of his father he was extremely troublesome to Malcolm: he claimed the crown; and though a very weak deficient young man, he answered the intentions of a rebellious party, consisting of such followers as had been attached to the late Macbeth. They carried him to Scone, and he was there saluted king. The competition was short, nor had it any very dangerous or extraordinary circumstances. In less than three months the usurper Luthlac was slain by Malcolm: then, and not till then, ended the race of Macbeth.

From hence it evidently appears that the sentence, He has no children, cannot refer to Macbeth. At whom then is it pointed? At Malcolm. The heart-struck Macduff heard with patience the consolatory advice, administred by his royal master; but well knew, and could not avoid expressing to himself, that as Malcolm had no children he could little judge of that torrent of grief with which Macduff must naturally be overwhelmed, at the loss of a wife, and all his pretty ones.

Malcolm was not married; he could not feel the throbs of a parent's heart, or the anguish of an husband's love. To him the sweet and inexpressible sensations of nuptial happiness were unknown: he was ignorant of the decent pride, the rising hopes, the alluring prospects, that occupy, and swell alternately a father's breast. Young and unexperienced, he had not felt those thilling nerves of nature, which are never strung but by virtuous love and parental palpitations. The good natured Malcolm offered his advice unseasonably: he broke prematurely in upon sorrow that must require time and reason to sink itself into the gulph of satiety. The intention of Malcolm was kind to the highest degree. The effect of that intention was exerted in too hasty and too improper a manner, for Malcolm had no children.

This construction seems supported by a sentence which soon follows, where Malcolm again comes to the friendly charge of consolation, and says, Support it like a man. I shall, says Macduff; but I must also feel it as a man; that is, ‘I must feel it as an husband and as a parent:’ or to expatiate upon the thought, Macduff in those few words means thus to express himself: ‘I must in the relation of father and husband, suffer the deepest sensations of grief that human nature can imbibe. Not all the world can repair my loss. By the cruel murder of my wife, I am deprived, for ever deprived, of the best of all my friends. Many are dear to me: she was the dearest. In my children, I have lost the pride of my house, the comforts of my age, the engaging amusements of my domestic hours, the future servants, subjects, and defenders of my king and country. You must be a father and a husband, Malcolm, 'ere you can measure my grief; for I cannot but remember such things were, that were most precious to me. ’

According to this interpretation, the actor must shew by some gesture, some motion either of his head or hand, that Malcolm is the person in his thoughts, when he says, He has no children. After staying some time in the place where he was first struck motionless, he is rouzed at once by indignation and crossing the stage, says to Rosse, What, all my pretty ones?

In this view, I think, Shakespear displays his own character, and reveals his own sentiments as a parent. If the sentence had referred solely to Macbeth (supposing he had no children) it carries with it rage, fury, and revenge? If to Malcolm, it is the reflection of a wise considerate man, who is thankful to his friend for his advice, but conscious that that advice is, for the present, to no purpose,

Buchanan in his History of Scotland evidently proves, that Macbeth had a son at the time when Macduff's wife and children were slain. Shakespear, the most exact of all dramatic historians, could never intend that he should appear he had none. The following quotation [*] will support me in my assertion.

‘Whilst these things were transacted at Forfar, they who remained of the faction of Macbeth, carried his son Luthlac to Scone (who was sirnamed Fatuus from his want of wit) and there he was saluted king. Malcolm assaulted him in the valley Bogian, where he was slain three months after he had usurped the name of king; out of respect to the kingly race, his, and his father's bodies were buried in the royal sepulchres in Ionia.’ I am,

Madam,
Your most obedient Humble Servant, C. D.

Notes

*
Buchanan, Book VII. the reign of Malcolm III. the eighty-sixth king of Scotland.
↵

THE HISTORY OF HARRIOT AND SOPHIA CONTINUED.

IT was not long before Sophia had an account of Sir Charles's visit from her mother, who, forgetting the part she had acted before, wrote her a letter full of invectives against her obstinacy and disobedience, and bitter upbraidings of her folly, for losing by her ill-timed pride, the heart of such a man as Sir Charles.

She told her, with a kind of exultation, that he had utterly forgot her, and repeated every circumstance of his behaviour while he was with her, and every word he had spoke, as all tending to shew his indifference; but though this was done to mortify Sophia, and make her repent of her precipitate departure, yet her discernment, and that facility which lovers have, in flattering their own wishes, pointed out to her many things in this minute relation, which served rather to nourish hope than destroy it.

Mrs. Darnley added, as the finishing stroke, that Sir Charles looked pale and thin; she attributed this alteration in his health to the efforts he had made to banish her from his heart, and thence inferred that a resolution which had cost him so much trouble to confirm, would not be easily broke through; and that she had no reason to expect he would ever desire to see her more.

Sophia could not read this part of the letter without tears, tears that flowed from tender sensibility, accompanied with a sensation which was neither grief nor joy, but composed of both: that Sir Charles should resolve to forget her was indeed afflicting, but that this resolution should cost him struggles so painful as to affect his health, could not but raise her depressed hopes, since it shewed the difficulty of the attempt, and consequently that the success was doubtful.

This letter gave so much employment to her thoughts, that to be at liberty to indulge them she took her evening walk without soliciting the company of her beloved Dolly, and wandered far into the wood, attracted by those romantic shades which afford such soothing pleasure to a love-sick mind. Here, while she meditated on her mother's letter, and read it over and over, still seeking, and still finding something new in it to engage her attention, she heard the voices of some persons talking behind her, and suddenly recollecting Dolly's adventure, she began to be alarmed at the distance to which she had unwarily strayed, and turned her steps hastily towards home.

Mean time a sudden gust of wind blew off her hat, and carried it several paces back: she turned, in order to recover it, and saw it taken up by a genteel young man, who on a nearer approach she knew to be the lover of her young friend. Pleased at this encounter, she advanced to receive her hat from him, which he gave her with a blushing grace, awed by the dignity of her mein, and that sparkling intelligence which beamed in her eyes, and seemed to penetrate into his inmost soul; for Sophia, who was deeply interested for her innocent and unhappy friend, considered him attentively, and was desirous of entering into some conversation with him, that she might be enabled to form a more exact judgment of his understanding and manners than she could from the accounts of the partial Dolly.

While she was talking to him they were joined by an ancient gentlewoman, who accosting Sophia, told her in an affected style and formal accent, that her nephew was very happy in having had an opportunity to do her this little piece of service.

Sophia, who saw an old woman, apparently opprest with the infirmities of years, drest in all the ridiculous foppery of the last age, was so little pleased with her, that she would have answered this compliment with great coldness, had not the desire and hope of being serviceable to her friend made her conquer her growing disgust; she therefore resolved to improve this opportunity of commencing an acquaintance with the aunt of young William, and met her advances with her usual sweetness and affability, so that the old woman was quite charmed with her; and being very desirous to gain her good opinion, and to shew her breeding, of which she was extremely vain, overwhelmed her with troublesome ceremony; and, to display her understanding, of which she was equally proud, murdered so many hard words, that her discourse was scarcely intelligible.

Sophia would fain have drawn in the youth to partake of their conversation, but his aunt's volubility left him very little to say; yet in that little Sophia thought she discovered both good sense and politeness.

The evening being now pretty far advanced, Sophia thought it time to separate, and took leave of her new acquaintance. Their parting was protracted by so many courtesies and compliments from the old lady, that her patience was almost wearied out; at last she get free from her, and quickened her pace towards home, when on a sudden she heard her in a tremulous voice calling out, "Madam, madam, pray stop one moment." Sophia looked back, and seeing Mrs. Gibbons come tottering up to her with mere speed than was consistent with her weakness, she met her half way, and smiling, asked her why she had turned back?

‘Oh, madam, replied she, I am ready to sink with confusion! what a solsim in good breeding have I committed! to be sure you will think I have been used to converse with savages only.’ Sophia, not able to guess what this speech tended to, looked at Mr. Gibbons as if she wished for an explanation.

‘My aunt, madam, said the youth, (blushing a little at the old woman's affectation,) is concerned that you should walk home alone, and that I can't offer my service to attend you, being obliged to lead her, as you see.’

‘That is not all, nephew, said the ceremonious gentlewoman: you do not tell the young lady the true cause of the dilemnia I am in: I would not leave you, madam, pursued she, till I saw you safe home, but you live with a family who has affronted me, and I cannot endure to come within sight of the house. I never can forgive an affront, that would be to shew I do not understand the laws of good breeding: but I thank heaven no body can charge me with that, I was very early instituted into polite life; but some people are not to be assessed with.’

‘I hope, said Sophia, (scarce able to compose her countenance to any tolerable degree of seriousness) that none of Mr. Lawson's family have given you cause of complaint: they seem to me incapable of affronting any one, much more a person that.’ —

‘Oh, dear madam, interrupted the old lady, courtesying low, you do me a great deal of honour; but you will find, nay you must have observed already, that Mrs. Lawson is vulgar, very vulgar, she knows nothing of decorums.’

‘I am very sorry for this misunderstanding between you, said Sophia, and I should think it a very great happiness if I could be any way useful in renewing your friendship.’

‘Oh, cried Mrs. Gibbons, you might as well think of joining the Antipoles, madam, as of bringing us together again; and I am grieved beyond measure when I think that it is impossible for me to wait on you.’

‘However, answered Sophia, you will have no objection, I hope, to my coming to see you.’

‘By no means, madam, replied Mrs. Gibbons, you came last into the country, and you are entitled to the first visit; I would not for the world break through the laws of politeness; I am sorry you have so indifferent an opinion of my breeding.’

Sophia perceiving that the old gentlewoman was a little discomposed, for this article of good breeding was a tender point with her, endeavoured to bring her into good humour, by some well-timed compliments, and once more took leave of her; but Mrs. Gibbons now insisted upon her nephew's seeing her safe home, saying, ‘She would rest herself under a tree till he came back.’

Sophia but faintly declined this civility, for she feared to offend her again; and the joy that sparkled in William's eyes when his aunt made this offer of his attendance, made her unwilling to disappoint him of the hope of seeing his mistress; so after much ceremony on the part of Mrs. Gibbons, they separated.

As they walked, Sophia took occasion to express her concern for the violent resentment his aunt had entertained against Mr. Lawson's family, and which seemed to make a reconciliation hopeless.

The youth told her, that nothing could be more trivial than the accident that had occasioned it; and yet, pursued he, sighing deeply, ‘slight as it is, the consequences are likely to be fatal enough.’

During their conversation Sophia discovered so much good sense and delicacy of sentiment in the young William, that she more than ever pitied the fate of these poor lovers, whose happiness was sacrificed to the capricious temper of an affected old woman: she assured him she would neglect no opportunity to improve her acquaintance with his aunt: ‘And perhaps, said she, with an inchanting smile, that expressed the benevolence of her heart, I may be so fortunate as to effect a reconciliation between her and my Dolly's family.’

Mr. Gibbons thanked her in transports of joy and gratitude; and now Dolly and her sister, who had walked out in search of Sophia, appearing in sight, she mended her pace, in order to come up with them soon; for in the ardent glances that William sent towards his mistress, she read his impatience to speak to her.

Dolly, who was in the utmost surprise, to see Sophia thus accompanied, took no notice of William; but avoiding, with a sweet bashfulness, his earnest and passionate looks: she fixed her eyes on Miss Darnley, as if she wished to hear from her by what chance they had met.

‘I know, said Sophia to her smiling, that you did not expect to see me so agreeably engaged; but Mr. Gibbons can inform you how his aunt, whom we left in the forest yonder, and I became acquainted.’ She then addressed some discourse to Fanny, to give the lovers an opportunity of talking to each other.

Dolly asked a thousand questions concerning their meeting, and his aunt's behaviour to Miss Darnley; but the passionate youth leaving it to Sophia to satisfy her curiosity, employed the few moments he had to stay with her in tender assurances of his own unaltered affection, and complaints of her indifference.

‘Surely, said Dolly, with tears in her eyes, I ought not to be blamed for obeying my father.’

‘Ah, my dear Dolly, replied William, our affections are not in the power of our fathers; and if you hate me now because your father commands you to do so, you never loved me.’

‘Hate you, cried Dolly; no, Mr. William, my father never bid me hate you; and if he had I am sure I could not have obeyed him: he only commanded me to forget you.’

‘Only to forget me, repeated William, in a melancholy tone: then you think that little, Dolly; and perhaps you will be able to obey him; but be assured I would rather be hated by you than forgotten.’

"That is strange, indeed," said Dolly, smiling through her tears.

‘You would not think it strange, replied the youth, in an accent that expressed at once grief and resentment, if you had ever loved. Ah Dolly, are all your tender promises come to this! little did I imagine I should ever see you altered thus! but I will trouble you no more, added he, sighing, as if his heart would break; I will endeavour to follow your example: perhaps it is not so difficult a thing as I imagined to cure one's self of love; you have shewn me it is possible, and if I fail in the attempt I can be but miserable, and that you have made me now.’ As he spoke these words, he turned half from her, and let fall some tears.

Dolly, who had no intention to make him uneasy, was excessively affected with this sight, and not a little alarmed at what he had said: ‘And will you try to forget me, said she, in the most moving tone imaginable; then indeed you will be false and perjured too, for you have sworn a thousand times that you would love me for ever.’

‘Why should you wish to see me wretched, said he; you have resolved to love me no longer, and it is but reasonable that I should try to forget you.’

He would have proceeded in this strain; but turning to look on her, he saw her sweet face overspread with tears. ‘Oh my Dolly, cried he, we are very cruel to each other; but I am most to blame: can you pardon me, my dearest: say you can; alas, I know I do not deserve it.’

Dolly's heart was so opprest that she was not able to speak; but she held out her hand to her young lover, who seizing it eagerly, prest it to his lips, ‘Yes, I will love you, said he, though you should hate me; I will love you to my latest breath.’

Dolly perceiving Sophia and her sister coming up to them, drew away her hand hastily; but looked on him at the same time, with inexpressible tenderness: Sophia told him with a smile, that she was afraid his aunt would be impatient: upon which he made his bow, and hastened back to her.

Fanny now left her sister alone with Miss Darnley, who perceiving that she had been weeping, asked her tenderly the cause. ‘Oh my dear miss, said the poor girl, blushing and pressing her hand, if I had but a little of your prudence and good sense, I should obey my father better; but when one has once given one's heart, it is very difficult to recal it.’

‘Very true, my dear, said Sophia; therefore one ought not to be in haste to give it.’

‘I hope, interupted Dolly with an anxious look, you have observed nothing in Mr. William to make you change your good opinion of him.’

‘Quite the contrary, said Sophia, I believe him to be a good, and I am sure he is a sensible youth: nay more, I believe he has a sincere regard for you; and that, pursued she, sighing, is saying a great deal, considering what reason I have to judge unfavourably of men: but, my dear, I would have you keep your passion so far subjected to your reason, as to make it not too difficult for you to obey your father, if he is fully determined to refuse his content.’ I know, added she, with a gentle smile, ‘That it is easier to be wise for others than for ourselves; but I know it is not impossible for a heart in love to follow the dictates of reason: I think so highly of Mr. Lawson's understanding and goodness, that I am persuaded he would not lay an unreasonable command upon you, and by what I could collect from some hints dropt by Mrs. Gibbons, and the little discourse I had with your lover, the old gentlewoman is wholly to blame.’

‘Did Mr. William tell you, said Dolly, what was the occasion of their quarrel?’

‘No, replied Sophia: I should be glad to hear it from yourself.’

‘Well, resumed Dolly, taking her under the arm, let us go to our dear oak then, and there we shall be out of sight; but I am impatient to know how you met, and what conversation you had.’ Sophia satisfied her curiosity, diverting herself a little with the old lady's hard words, and her strict regard to ceremony.

‘Ah, said Dolly, it was those hard words, and the clutter she made about ceremony and decorum, that occasioned all our unhappiness; for as I told you, miss, she was well enough pleased with her nephew's choice, saying, that he was in the right to marry like a gentleman, and prefer person and breeding to money: however, soon after she came into the country, she shewed herself a little dissatisfied with my education, and said, that as my father was a gentleman and a scholar, he ought to have taught his daughters a little Greek and Latin, to have distinguished them from meer country girls.’

‘Your mother, I suppose, said Sophia, laughed at this notion.’

‘It does not become me, said Dolly, to blame my mother; but to be sure she took great delight in ridiculing Mrs. Gibbons: indeed it was scarce possible to help smiling now and then at her hard words, and her formal politeness; but my mother, as Mr. William often told me with great concern, carried her raillery so far that his aunt would certainly be offended with it at last; and so indeed she was, and grew every day cooler, with regard to the marriage. This disgusted my mother more, so every thing wore a melancholy appearance: at length Mrs. Gibbons broke out one day violently, upon my mother's sending a dish of tea to another gentlewoman before her. I saw a storm in her countenance, and dreading the consequence, I made haste to carry her, her dish myself, but she refused it scornfully, and then began to attack my mother in her strange language, upon her want of breeding, and ignorance of the rules of precendency, that was her word. My mother at first only laughed, and rallied; but when the rest of our visitors was gone, and Mrs. Gibbons only remained, the quarrel grew serious. My mother, who was out of patience with her folly, said some severe things, which provoked Mrs. Gibbons so much, that she rose up in a fury, and declared she would never more have any collection with such vulgar creatures. At that moment my father and Mr. William, who had been walking together, came into the room: they both were excessively surprised at the disorder that appeared among us; and poor Mr. William, who was most apprehensive, turned as pale as death: he gave me a melancholy look, as fearing what had happened, and had scarce courage enough to ask his aunt what was the matter? Mean time, my mother, in a laughing way gave my father an account of what had happened, repeating some of Mrs. Gibbons's strange words, and made the whole affair appear so ridiculous, that Mrs. Gibbons in a great fury, flung out of the house, declaring that from that moment she broke off any treatise of marriage between her nephew and me; and that, if he continued to make his addresses to me, she would make a will and leave all her money to a distant relation. Mr. William was obliged to follow his aunt; but he begged my father's leave to return as soon as he had seen her safe home. When he came back, he implor'd my father, with tears in his eyes, not to forbid his seeing me: he said the loss of his aunt's fortune would give him no concern if he durst hope that it would make no alteration in my father's resolutions, since his own little inheritance was sufficient to maintain us comfortably. My father was pleased with his generous affection for me, and said a great many obliging things to him, as did my mother likewise, so that we thought our misfortune not so bad; but the next day old Mr. Gibbons came plodding to our house, and with a great deal of confusion and aukwardness, told my father that he was very sorry for what had happened; but sister had changed her mind, and would not let her nephew marry, and he was afraid if he disobliged her she would leave all her money to strangers; so he begged him to give his son no encouragement, but to tell him plainly he must obey his aunt and his father; and he said he was sure his son would mind what my father said to him more than any body else.’

‘I am in pain for poor Mr. Lawson, said Sophia. What a boorish speech was this!’

‘My father, resum'd Dolly, said afterwards, that if it had not been for the concern he felt for me and Mr. William, he would have been excessively diverted with the old man's simplicity; but he answered him gravely and with great civility: he promised him that the affair should go no farther; that I should receive no more visits from his son; and that he would talk with him, and endeavour to make him submit patiently to what his father and his aunt had determined for him. The old man thanked my father a thousand times over for his kindness, and after a great many bows and scrapes he went away. My father was as good as his word: he laid his commands on me to think no more of Mr. William, and forbad me to see or speak to him; and when Mr. William came next, he took him with him into his study and talked to him a long time. He acknowledged that Mr. William had oftener than once moved him even to tears; but for all that he did not relent, and we were not allowed so much as to speak to each other alone, for fear we should take any measures to meet in private. This I thought very severe, pursued Dolly, sighing, we might at least have been indulged in taking leave, since we were to be separated for ever.’

‘I cannot blame your father, said Sophia, he was indispensably obliged to act as he did: it is to be wished indeed that Mrs. Lawson had passed over the poor woman's follies with more temper; but this cannot be helped now: perhaps I may be able to serve you. The old gentlewoman seems to have taken a liking to me; I shall endeavour to improve it, that I may have an opportunity to soften her: it is not impossible but this matter may end well yet.’

‘Poor Dolly was ready enough to admit a hope so pleasing, and felt her heart more at ease than it had been a long time. As for William, his aunt's extravagant praises of Sophia, and some expressions which she dropped, intimating that she should be pleased if he could make himself acceptable to so fine a lady, hinted to him a scheme which might afford him the means of seeing his mistress sometimes: he seemed therefore to listen with satisfaction to these dark overtures made by his aunt, and upon her speaking still plainer, he said it would be presumption in him to think that a young lady so accomplished as Miss Darnley would look down upon him; and besides, he had no opportunity of improving an acquaintance with her, being forbid Mr. Lawson's house, at her request.’

The old woman, pleased to find he made so little opposition to her desire, told him, ‘That he would have opportunities enough of seeing and conversing with the lady; she often walks out, said she, either in the forest or the fields about the house: cannot you throw yourself in her way, and accost her politely, as you very well know how; and, to felicitate your success, I will let her know that I am willing to receive the honour of a visit from her, though this is against all the rules of decorum, for it is my part to visit her first, she being the greatest stranger here: you shall deliver my message to her to-morrow yourself.’

‘The youth replied, coldly, that it was possible he might not meet with her to-morrow: nevertheless he would go every day to the forest, and wherever it was likely she would walk, in hopes of seeing her.’

Mrs. Gibbons, exulting in the hope of mortifying Mrs. Lawson, told her nephew, ‘That if he could succeed in his addresses to miss Darnley, and give her so fine a lady for a niece, she would settle the best part of her fortune on him immediately.’

William suffered her to please herself with these imaginations, having secured the liberty of going unsuspected, and as often as he pleased, to those places where he could see his beloved Dolly; hitherto he had not dared to indulge himself frequently in these stolen interviews, lest his aunt being informed of them, should take measures to engage Mr. Lawson to keep his daughter under a greater restraint; but now he continually haunted the park, the wood, and the fields about Mr. Lawson's house: here he could not fail of often seeing his mistress, and sometimes of speaking to her unobserved by any one.

Dolly never failed to chide him as often as this happened, for thus laying her under a necessity of disobeying her father's injunctions; but she took no pains to shun those places where she was almost sure of meeting him; and her chiding was so gentle, that he was convinced she was not greatly offended.

Sophia happening to meet him one morning, while he was thus sauntering about, she enquired for his aunt, and hearing from him how desirous the old gentlewoman was of seeing her, she who was full of her benevolent scheme, and eager to put it in execution, delayed her visit no longer than till the afternoon.

Mrs. Gibbons considered this as a proof of her nephew's sincerity, and was in so good a humour, that she listened without any signs of displeasure, to the praises which Sophia artfully introduced of Dolly; and even sometimes joined in them: Sophia thought this a very favourable beginning, and went away full of hope that she should succed in her design: but while she was thus endeavouring to make others happy, her sister was preparing a new mortification for her.

Sir Charles continued to visit Mrs. Darnley as usual: he passed some hours every day at her house, and while he applauded himself for the steadiness of his resolution, not to follow his mistress, he perceived not his own weakness in seeking every alleviation of her absence. He went to the house where she had formerly dwelt, because every object he saw in it brought her dear idea to his mind: he loved to turn over the books he had seen her read, to sit in those places where she used to sit: he was transported when he saw any thing that belonged to her; and when he was not observed by the inquisitive eyes of Harriot, he indulged his own in gazing upon Sophia's picture, faintly as it expressed the attractive graces of the original: he endured the trifling discourse of Mrs, Darnley and the insipid gaiety of Harriot, and left all other company and amusements to converse with them, that he might hear something concerning Sophia; for he had the art, without seeming to design it, to turn the discourse frequently upon her, and thus drew from the loquacious mother all he desired to know, without appearing to be interested in it.

Mrs. Darnley knew not what judgment to form of his assiduity in visiting her, and vainly endeavoured to penetrate into his views. As for Harriot, who had no idea of those refinements of tenderness which influenced Sir Charles's conduct on this occasion, she concluded that her charms had once more enslaved him, and exulted in her fancied conquest the more, as it was a triumph over her sister, who had been the occasion of so many mortifications to her.

Nothing is so easy or so fallacious as the belief that we are beloved and admired; our own vanity helps the deceit, where a deceit is intended: and a coquet who has a double portion of it, willingly deceives herself.

Harriot was now fully persuaded that Sir Charles had forgot Sophia, and was wholly devoted to her. Impatient to insult her with the news of his change, she proposed to her mother to make her a visit: Mrs. Darnley immediately consented, not because she was very desirous to see her daughter, but because every thing that wore the face of amusement was always acceptable to her. Sir Charles, upon being made acquainted with their intention, offered to accommodate them with his chariot; and although he only desired them coldly to present his compliments to Sophia, yet when he reflected that they would soon see and converse with her, he could not help envying their happiness; and it was with great difficulty he conquered himself so far as to forbear going with them.

[To be continued.]

ESSAY ON THE Original Inhabitants of GREAT BRITAIN, CONTINUED.

THE tranquility of Britain perished with Constantine the Great. He was survived by three of his sons[*], all men of worthless, or of infamous characters. It would be time very, ill employed to notify any particulars of their reigns: let the imperial savages, and one or two of their successors pass by nameless and forgotten. Be it sufficient to say, that the ministers and officers whom they appointed, were their exact representatives; haughty tyrants, bloody inquisitors, and rapacious governors. Britain bore the share of burdens imposed upon her by these task-masters; and her inhabitants, like the Israelites, were fruitful, increased abundantly, and waxed exceedingly mighty: otherwise how could they have withstood the inundation of Picts, Scots, Saxons, and Attacotti[†], who, in the first year of Valentinian, broke in at once, though in different places, upon the Roman territories in Britain.

Historians have not told us in what manner the Britains sustained themselves against such numbers of invaders, till Severus was sent to their relief in the year 368. But neither Severus, nor his successor Jovinus were able to vye with the barbarians, who were now dispersed throughout the whole kingdom, and had made great devastations in the city of London. Valentinian saw an immediate necessity for a reinforcement of troops under the conduct of a veteran and experienced commander: he chose Theodosius, as a man of great experience, and of a most martial character. Theodosius lost no time in executing his commission: he set sail from Boulogne, and landed at Sandwich, with the choicest troops that could be gathered throughout the continent. He marched directly to London, and found the city in the greatest distress. He immediately relieved the metropolis; and, by a division of his army into different parties, surprised the lawless freebooters in several places, and divested them of their plunder, which consisted of captives and herds of cattle. For some time afterwards he chose rather to observe than to molest his adversaries. His caution and sagacity, joined to the force of his arms, at length entirely effected the purposes for which he was deputed into the kingdom. By degrees he drove back the Picts, the Scots, and all the invaders into their own territories: he replaced garrisons to defend the boundaries; he repaired walls, and restored cities; and, at his return to Rome, he left the island in a state of security and peace. He was attended to the shore by vast numbers of Romans and Britons, all full of expressions of regret and sorrow at his departure. He was received by his imperial master with the most public demonstrations of friendship, gratitude, and affection: honours which he most justly deserved.

The emperor Valentinian died in the year 375. He was succeeded in the western empire by his son Gratianus, a young man addicted to pleasures, resigned to favourites, and in every respect unfit for his dignity. As only chance of birth had made him an emperor, and as nature had given him abilities only for a huntsman, he soon found himself under a necessity of summoning a coadjutor to his assistance. He chose Flavius Magnus Theodosius [*], the son of the Roman general, who, not many years before, had made so considerable a figure in Britain.

At the time when the emperor Gratianus made this choice, Maximus, a Spaniard by birth, of a very noble family, and an officer of great merit and distinction, was at the head of the Roman army in Britain. He was personally beloved by the soldiers, and had rendered himself much esteemed and revered among the Britons. All his military actions had been planned upon the model of that great general Theodosius, by whom he had been left in Britain, in a high post of command. Soon afterwards, probably in the order of succession, he became the captain-general of the Roman and British forces. Maximus was of an ambitious temper, and he was much disgusted at the sudden rise of the younger Theodosius. He complained loudly of the injustice which he suffered by the election of any other emperor than himself: he drew his pretensions from his near degree of affinity to Constantine the Great: and his army, without an examination into the truth or falshood of those pretensions, immediately saluted him Caesar, and offered to him their service and obedience.

In what a state of confusion were the Romans and the Britons at this period? little able to help themselves, much less to assist their allies: two emperors in Italy, and one [*] risen up on a sudden in Britain. The account of these times is very elaborately, although in many points very differently, set forth by the Scotch and English historians. But the prospect we receive from all those commentaries are only melancholy, and various views of rage and bloodshed. Revolutions upon revolutions. Gratianus killed by the troops of Maximus; Maximus put to death by Theodosius; Britain invaded by the Scots and Picts; the Scots extirpated by the Picts from Scotland, and driven into Ireland; in the continent, a declining empire; in our own island, a perpetual civil war; throughout the world, an iron age.

Insidiae{que} et vis, et amor sceleratus habendi.

‘Mix'd with curs'd avarice falshood and rapine shone.’

Such was the dismal scene, some little intervals excepted, during the whole reign of Theodosius, who died in the beginning of the year 395. He left two sons, Arcadius and Honorius. The western empire fell to the lot of Honorius, who was only ten years of age at the death of his father: he was committed to the tuition and conduct of Stilico. Under his government the Saxons, Scots, and Picts, those perpetual invaders of the British territories, were effectually suppressed and repulsed.

But Stilico was called off from his attention to the affairs of Britain, by the appearance of Alaric [*] in Italy at the head of a most numerous army of Goths. The Roman troops were immediately summoned to the continent; as not only the empire, but the whole world seemed to be in danger of ruin, and was afterwards over run by this set of barbarians.

Here, I think, may be dated the end of the Roman government in Britain. Some assistance, some legions were sent now and then, upon the supplication of the Britons in the southern parts of the island, to relieve them from immediate destruction; but such succours were few, uncertain, and at last absolutely withdrawn.

At this particular period, let us endeavour to take a general retrospect of the Britons; their manners, their laws, and their government, as far as the obscurity, and the many chasms of our history will allow the search.

Caesar and many other authors describe the original Britons appearing in the wildest state of nature: savages living upon plunder, inhabiting woods and mountains, and ignorant of all laws and order. The description, I am afraid, is in many instances too true; but however licentious and untamed these barbarians may have been, some form of government certainly subsisted amongst them, especially, as Caesar himself says, that the customs of the Britons were almost the same as the customs of the Gauls. But he speaks indeed there only of the Cantii [*], who, living nearest to the Gallic shores, were most humanized.

In his account of the Gauls, he tells us in how great a degree of obedience the lower classes of people were held by the nobility; an obedience which could not have been formed or regulated without a complete and acknowledged system of laws. The particulars of those laws are not perfectly ascertained: they were always composed by the Druids, who never suffered any of their institutions to be committed to writing.

Some of them, however, have been handed down to us, and are sufficiently curious to be inserted. They are these:

I. None must be instructed but in the sacred groves.

II. Misletoe must be gathered with reverence, and, if possible, in the sixth moon. It must be cut with a golden bill.

III. Every thing derives its origin from heaven.

IV. The arcana of the sciences must not be committed to writing, but to the memory.

V. Great care is to be taken of the education of children.

VI. The powder of misletoe makes women fruitful.

VII. The disobedient[*] are to be shut out from the sacrifices.

VIII. Souls are immortal.

IX. The soul after death goes into other bodies.

X. If the world is destroyed, it will be by fire and water.

XI. Upon extraordinary emergencies a man must be sacrificed. According as the body falls, or moves after it is fallen: according as the blood flows, or the wound opens, future events are foretold.

XII. Prisoners are to be slain upon the altars, or burnt alive, inclosed in wicker, in honour of the Gods.

XIII. All commerce with strangers must be prohibited.

XIV. He that comes last to the assembly of the states ought to be punished with death.

XV. Children are to be brought up apart from their parents, till they are fourteen years of age.

XVI. Money lent in this world will be repaid in the next.

XVII. There is another world, and they who kill themselves to accompany their friends thither, will live with them there.

XVIII. Letters given to dying persons, or thrown on the funeral piles of the dead, will faithfully be delivered in the other world.

XIX. The moon is a sovereign remedy for all things, as its name in Celtic implies.

XX. Let the disobedient be excommunicated; let him be deprived of the benefit of the law; let him be avoided, and rendered incapable of any employ.

XXI. All masters of families are kings in their own houses: they have a power of life and death over their wives, children, and slaves.

The learning, and the religious tenets of the Druids are specified in various authors. Diogenes Laertius assures us, that their chief precepts were ‘the worship of the Gods; an abstinence from all kinds of evil; and a constant exercise of manly fortitude.’

Pomponius Mela informs us, that the Druids were remarkably expert in geography and astronomy[*]: and Caesar says, that they taught the transmigration of souls, and by that means inspired their disciples with an absolute contempt of death, which, in their articles of faith, was looked upon only as a passage from one body to another; or, as Mr. Rowe expresses it from Lucan's description of the Druids,

"A stop, which can but for a moment last,

"A point between the present and the past."

The character of these priests must have appeared extremely venerable, had not their doctrines been attended by the most sanguinary acts of superstition, which certainly augmented, or at least never could suppress the natural savageness and barbarity of the natives. The Bards were a lower order of the Druids: their sacerdotal employments were the celebration of the British heroes in verses, which they sung to the harp; and which were probably composed to excite emulation in the hearers of their poetry. Such a design had an a•• of policy, and might, in some measure, be conducive to tame the ferocious natures of those who listened, either from piety or curiosity, to their songs. There were still a third and inferior o•••• of Druids called Eubates: and there were also Druids (not many I presume) of the female 〈◊〉

The original constitution of Britain was 〈…〉 monarchical. All authors agree that 〈…〉 island was divided into colonies, each of 〈…〉 subject to a particular sovereign. U••• 〈…〉 and dangerous emergencies, the Britons▪ 〈◊〉 general assembly of their princes, unanimo•••• 〈◊〉 one superior chieftain, to whom they 〈◊〉 the command of the army, and the govern•••• •f the state: such were Cassivelaunus, 〈◊〉, Boudicea, Carausius, and Galga•us. 〈…〉 these royal magistrates were temporary or 〈◊〉 dictators, is a point that does not seem perfec••y cleared up by any of the historians: when they had the power, it is probable they kept it: most, if not all of them, came to sudden and fatal catastrophes. The Britons were subdued by Julius Caesar, and they were treated with great tyranny and oppression by all succeeding Roman empe•o•s, governors, legates, and pro-praetors, till Agricola lightened and diversified, if he did not remove the oppression. In the reigns of Nerva and Trajan, the Caledonians and the Britons were most firmly united, and the consequence of their union had almost produced a total extirpation of the Romans. Adrian [†], probably with a design to sow the seeds of disagreement between the two nations, enlarged the frontiers of the Scots, permitted them to come forwarder towards the south, and resigned to them that portion of lands, which, in the time of the elder Theodosius, was distinguished as a fifth province, and was called Valentia. The Meatae and the Picti settled themselves in this district.

Whatever might be Adrian's motives, dissension grew up most prosperously, and rooted itself so firmly and deeply in the soil, that no association was afterwards formed between the Britons and the Caledonians. By the Caledonians, I would be understood to mean tbe inhabitants of Scotland; whether distinguished by the names of Picts, Meatae, Scots, Scythians, or any other denominations. To fix the time of their arrival, and their settlement in Great Britain, is difficult, if not impossible: the inquiry is now intirely useless. Their wars, their incursions, their depredations, and their policy are points to reflect some entertainment; their origin, and the fabulous tales that attend it, must in general be despised and forgotten.

The Caledonians, ever a crafty, and a wise nation, had tasted the sweets, and had experienced the advantages arising from frequent inroads into Britain. Their own country was barren and uncultivated: the adjoining territories were rich and fruitful: their gains, consequently, might be great; their losses could only amount to a repulse. Caesar tells us, that the Britons thought it unlawful to taste hares, hens, or geese, of which they kept great plenty for their pleasure and diversion: the Caledonians had no such scruple of taste or conscience. The British fowl, their game of all kinds, and their numerous herds of cattle, were a sort of plunder easily taken, and as easily carried away: and these tempting objects of hostility drew the Saxons and the Hibernians almost annually across the sea, in search of prizes and acquisitions from Britain. They were constantly joined and assisted by the Picts and the Meatae; so that a variety of repeated invasions totally employ the first annals of our history, and leave us scarce any other characteristical idea of our forefathers than their bravery and resistance.

Early in the fifth century, the Romans, now grown so weak as to perceive within themselves evident symptoms of dissolution, took a last farewel of our ancestors; and, like expiring friends, exerted their last efforts, amidst convulsive pangs, to assist and direct the Britons how to build a wall of stone in the same situation where the wall of Severus had formerly stood: and still, as a final instance of their friendship, they advised the natives to practise the art of war, and to become expert and regular in military discipline; but most especially to act upon one general confederate plan, by making use of their own collective strength against the Caledonians and all other invaders. The advice was excellent, and, if pursued with constancy and firmness, might have rendered the Britons for ever impregnable to their enemies. But unanimity among Britons was reserved for distant times, and the happiest age that our island has ever known.

By the departure of the Romans, the Britons looked upon themselves as delivered from their first conquerors: but they little considered that they were still subject to a worse set of tyrants, their own passions and disunion: no people upon earth are formed with more acute sensations, or deeper resentments against each other. These are the causes that fill our history with such frequent revolutions. Our climate is a representation of our nature: it is uncertain, and in the space of one week affords as much variety of weather as is known in other countries throughout a twelvemonth. A single day is often a scene of summer and of winter; and of great heat and of violent cold; of rain and snow; and of warmth and sunshine: so various is the temperature of our air. The temperature of air governs the minds of the inhabitants: we are gloomy or gay, sullen or good-humoured, and sometimes religious or immoral, according to the state and alterations of our atmosphere. What must be the effects arising from such variegated dispositions? continual changes, and continual discontent. Britons left to themselves are like horses unbridled, and let out to pasture: they wince; they roar; they kick their heels towards heaven in all the wantonness of liberty. Their freedom might be perpetual, if they knew how to direct it, or were conscious of their own strength; but they employ their time in self-destruction: they impoliticly tread down the pasture which ought to feed them, and, inconsiderately striking at each other, they become so lame, as to stand in need of assistance from the first aukward farrier who presents himself. Gildas, I think, defines our island as a land steady in nothing, and greedy of every thing new. Such, indeed, it proved after the removal of the Romans: successive royal idols were set up, worshipped, and then taken down, and trampled to pieces. The names of these molten calves are insignificant; their actions, as sovereigns, immaterial and uncertain: they were elected, adored, and destroyed. The reign of Vortigern, indeed, was of longer duration, and of more consequence: it afforded scenes of variety and importance. We are told, that while Vortigern was upon the throne, the Britons, finding themselves overpowered, and almost ruined by invasions from the Scots and Picts, sent a solemn embassy with most submissive letters to implore the assistance, and to require the immediate presence of their old enemies the Saxons. Is it possible to believe our ancestors guilty of so absurd a resolution? That they were factious, discontented, and unversed in the rules of government, is certain; but that they should imagine themselves under a necessity of seeking refuge from Charybdis, because they were close upon the rocks of Scylla, is highly improbable. How indeterminate are the historical accounts of this particular period, when the introduction of the Saxons is recorded in a manner that bears so little resemblance to truth? The Britons might not be willing, or more probably might not be capable to oppose the Saxons, when those invaders were arrived; but it is scarce credible to imagine that the Britons sollicited their arrival. However, by the generality of historians, we are to suppose that the sheep invited the wolves. A modern writer[*] differs from many of his predecessors, and tells us, from Nennius, that the arrival of the Saxons was accidental: the only fact that can be depended upon is, that they arrived. The year cannot be ascertained [†]; in that point the chronologists differ. But of what nation shall we find the chronology ascertained?

The Saxons were commanded by two brothers, Hengist and Horsa, men of judgment and penetration, who, finding their first design of plunder and devastation insupportable, tacitly changed the plan, and offered themselves as friends and confederates to the Britons. At so critical a juncture, they were joyfully received by Vortigern, and were incorporated into the British army. The island of Thanet was assigned for their settlement: their numbers did not exceed fifteen hundred: three ships transported them into Britain.

Hengist and Horsa soon distinguished themselves as allies of consequence. The Picts and Scots were driven back to their several territories; some to Caledonia, others to Ireland; and the Saxons retired to the isle of Thanet with all possible demonstrations of peace.

The articles of compact between the Saxons and the Britons were these: That the Saxons were to fight for the Britons against all foreign enemies, and were to receive the pay and maintenance from the nation for whom they fought. In the general name of Saxons were included the Jutes and the Angles, who had enlisted themselves under the banner of Hengist and Horsa. These two brothers were the direct descendants of Woden, an Asiatic king, who came from Scythia into Europe, and seized those German territories that are now distinguished as Saxony. The Angles were inhabitants of Sweden. The Jutes were a people of Denmark. Whilst the number of these Saxons did not exceed fifteen hundred, the articles of compact were not difficult to be fulfilled. But Hengist and Horsa had farther views than merely a subsistance from the Britons: the isle of Thanet was too limited a circumference for their ambition: a settlement, and some degree of power within the greater island, were the objects upon which they had fixed their eyes. Of the two brothers, Hengist seems to have been particularly vigilant and politic: he considered the fertility of the soil, the inexperience of the inhabitants, and the weak passions of the king; and, from these circumstances, he proposed to himself and to his people, all the future advantages that they could wish, riches, alliance, and a kingdom. In consequence of such a plan, he sent for fresh supplies of his countrymen: and they came over in tribes sufficiently numerous to fill seventeen ships. With them arrived Rowena, the daughter of Hengist: her father had particularly observed the amorous disposition of Vortigern; and, conscious of his daughter's beauty, he proposed to make her the chief step by which he was to ascend. The effect answered the design: Vortigern saw the fair Saxon, divorced his lawful wife, by whom he had many children, and incontinently married Rowena. In consequence of this marriage, the kingdom of Kent was allotted to the Saxons, and the dominion of that territory was taken away from Guorangonus, the reigning prince, and was bestowed upon Hengist, the father-in-law of the chief sovereign in Britain.

How unhappy must be the state of government, when the king could break through all the bounds of morality, and where the people could tamely submit to see one of their most considerable colonies peremptorily given away to strangers? These instances shew us, that not the least order, and scarce any degree of public courage subsisted at this time in Britain: they shew us that christianity had not as yet taken sufficient root in our island. A religion that was calculated to rescue mankind from the tyranny of fraud and force, and instituted to give a true notion of one God, and to fix right and justice upon a sure and natural foundation, must have little efficacy among a wild and indocile race of men. Some churches, however, were built, and some outward appearances of religion were maintained; but the antiquities of these times are so fabulous, that few authentic commentaries are extant, either of ecclesiastical, or of civil affairs. The facts to be depended upon, are these:

[To be continued.]

Notes

*
Constantinus, Constantius, and Constans.
↵

†
All our historical authors mention the Attacotti, but none can tell exactly who these people were. Dr. Gale thinks them a barbarous sort of Britons living in the north of Scotland about Attarith.
↵

*
Theodosius the father was put to death by the emperor Valens, because Theod were the first letters of his name. A prophet had foretold, that a man whose name began with those letters should be emperor. Valens cut off the prophet's head, and murdered all those whose names began with Theod.
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*
Flavius Magnus Clemens Maximus.
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*
Alaric was rather general than king of the Goths. He was one of the most formidable enemies of the Roman empire. He sack'd Rome itself A. D. 4O9.
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*
The inhabitants of Kent.
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*
By disobedient I presume is meant the atheists, deists, methodists, and nonconformists of those days.
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*
These were the Eubates, or lowest order of Druids.
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†
Successor of Trajan.
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*
Guthrie, vol. i. p. 81.
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†
In all probability, about the middle of the fifth century. According to Nennius, A. D. 447.
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THE HISTORY OF THE COUNT DE COMMINGE CONTINUED.

THE meeting between my father and me was, on my side, full of respect, but coldness and ‘I have given you leisure, said he to me, to repent of your folly, and I am now come to give you the means to make me forget it; return this instance of my indulgence with obedience, and prepare to receive as you ought, the count of Foix, and mademoiselle de Foix his daughter, for whom I have destined you. The marriage shall be solemnized here; they will arrive to-morrow with your mother; I came before them only to give the necessary orders for their reception.’

‘I am sorry, Sir, replied I calmly, that I cannot comply with your wishes: I have too much honour to marry a person I can never love, therefore I intreat you will permit me to leave this place directly. Mademoiselle de Foix, however amiable she may be, cannot alter my resolution; and if I see her, the affront I shall give her by refusing her hand, will be more poignant to her.’

‘No, interrupted my father in a rage, thou shalt not see her, nor shalt thou be allowed to see the day; I will shut thee up in a dungeon, a fitter habitation. I swear by heaven, that thou shalt never be delivered from thy confinement, till I am convinced thy repentance is sincere, and thy change certain. I will punish thee for thy disobedience every way that is in my power; I will deprive thee of my estate, and settle it upon mademoiselle de Foix, to fulfil, in some degree, the promise I have given her.’

I made no opposition to my father's tyrannical design; I suffered myself to be conducted to an old tower, where I was confined in a place at the bottom of it, which received no light but from a little grated window which looked into one of the courts of the castle. My father gave orders that food should be brought me twice a-day, but that I should not be suffered to see any person whatever.

I passed the first days of my confinement with tranquility enough, and even with some kind of pleasure. What I had so lately done for Adelaida employed all my thoughts, and left no room for reflection on the horrors of my condition; but when this sentiment began to lose its force, I resigned myself up to despair at being thus doomed to an absence of which I knew not the end. My busy imagination tortured me with the apprehension of a thousand other evils: Adelaida might be forced to enter into another engagement: I fancied her surrounded with rivals, all assiduous to please, while I had none to plead for me but my miseries; but to a mind so generous as Adelaida's, was not this sufficient? I reproached myself for entertaining the least doubt; I asked her pardon for it, as for a crime, and my heart gathered new strength from the confidence I had in her fidelity.

My mother found means to convey a letter to my hands, in which she exhorted me to submit to my father, whose rage against me seemed to increase every day. She added, that she suffered a great deal herself; that her endeavours to procure a reconciliation between him and the family of Lussan had made him suspect that she acted in concert with me.

I was greatly affected at the uneasiness my mother suffered on my account; but as I could not accuse myself of having voluntarily caused her any part of it, all I could do was to lament her situation.

One day when I was, as usual, wholly taken up with reflections on my unhappy fate, something fell through the window into my dungeon, which immediately rouzed my attention. I saw a letter on the floor, I seized it with trembling haste; but what became of me when I read the contents! they were as follow: ‘Your father's rage has instructed me what I ought to do. I know the terrible situation you are in, and I know but one method to extricate you from it, which will perhaps make you more miserable; but I shall be so as well as you, and that thought will give me resolution to do what is required of me. Our cruel parents, to make it impossible for me to be yours, insist upon my marrying another. This is the price your father has set upon your liberty; it will perhaps cost me my life, my quiet it too surely will, to pay it: but I am determined. Your sufferings and your prison are at present all that I can think of: in a few days I shall be the wife of the marquis de Benavides; his character is sufficient to acquaint me with all I have to suffer from him; but this sort of fidelity I owe you, at least that in the engagement I enter into, I should find nothing but misery. May you, on the contrary, be happy; your good fortune will be my consolation. I am sensible I ought not to tell you this: if I was truly generous I should suffer you to be ignorant of the part you have in my marriage; I should leave you in doubt of my constancy. I had formed a design to do so, but I was not able to execute it: in my sad situation I have need of being supported with the thought that the remembrance of me will not be hateful to you. Alas! soon, very soon it will not be permitted me to preserve yours.—I must forget you;—at least I must endeavour so to do.—Of all my miseries this is what I am most sensible of: you will increase it if you do not carefully avoid all opportunities of seeing and speaking to me. Reflect that you owe me this mark of your esteem, and oh! reflect how dear that esteem will be to me, since of all the sentiments you have profest for me, it is the only one that I am allowed to require of you.’

Of this fatal letter, which I have related at length, I was able to read no more than to these words: ‘Our cruel parents, to make it impossible for me to be yours, insist upon my marrying another.’ Pierced to the heart with this cruel, this unexpected misfortune, I sunk upon the mattrass which composed my bed, and lay there several hours without sense or motion, and probably might never have recovered, but for the assistance of the person who brought me my provisions. If he was alarmed at the condition in which he found me, he was much more so at the excess of my despair, when my senses returned. The letter, which I held fast in my hand during my swoon, and which I at last read quite through, was wet with my tears, and I spoke and acted extravagancies which made him apprehensive for my reason.

This man, who till then had been inaccessible to pity, was melted all on a sudden: he blamed my father for his cruel treatment of me; he reproved himself for having executed his orders; he asked my pardon on his knees. His repentance inspired me with the thought of proposing to him to let me quit my prison for eight days only, promising him that, at the expiration of that time, I would return and put myself into his hands: I added every thing I could think of to oblige him to consent. Moved at the state he saw me in, excited by his own interest, and by the fear that I should one day take vengeance upon him for being the instrument of my father's cruelty, he agreed to what I desired, upon the condition I had myself proposed to him.

I would have set out that moment from the castle, but there was a necessity for his going to seek for horses; and when he returned, he informed me that we could not get any till the next day. My design was to go to Adelaida, to tell her all my grief and despair, and to kill myself before her eyes, if she persisted in her resolution.

To execute this project, it was necessary that I should arrive before her fatal marriage, and every moment's delay seemed to me an age of misery. I read over her letter a hundred times, as if I had expected to find still something more in it. I examined the date over and over; I flattered myself that the time might have been prolonged. ‘She will at least make an effort, said I; she will seize all pretences to defer it. But why should I flatter myself with so vain a hope, resumed I? Adelaida sacrificing herself for my liberty will hasten the dreadful moment. Alas! can she believe that liberty without her, can be a blessing to me? I shall every where find this prison she delivers me from; she has never known my heart; she judges of me by other men: it is to that I owe my ruin. I am still more miserable than I believed myself, since I have not the consolation to think that she knows how much I love her.’

I past the whole night in making these complaints, the most tedious night I had ever known, even in that place of misery. At length the day appeared; I mounted on horseback with my conductor. We travelled the whole day without stopping a moment, when, towards the evening, I perceived my mother in a chariot which took the road towards the castle. She knew me immediately, and, after having expressed her surprize at meeting me, she obliged me to come into the chariot to her. I durst not ask her the occasion of her journey in the situation I was in; I feared every thing, and my fear was but too well founded.

‘I come, my son, said she, by your father's permission, to release you from your confinement.’‘Ah! cried I, then Adelaida is married.’ My mother answered only by silence. My misfortune which was then without remedy, presented itself to my mind with all its horrid aggravations. I fell into a kind of stupidity, and, by the force of grief, I seemed to have lost the sense of it. However, my body now sunk under the weakness of my mind: I was seized in the coach with a shivering like the cold fit of an ague. As soon as we arrived at the castle, my mother caused me to be put to bed. I lay two days without speaking or taking any nourishment; all the symptoms of a violent fever appeared, and, on the fourth, the physician despaired of my life. My mother who never left me, was inconceiveably afflicted; her tears, her prayers, and the name of Adelaida, by which she conjured me to live, made me resolve not to obstruct the endeavours of the physician to save me.

[To be continued.]

THE HISTORY OF BIANCA CAPELLO CONTINUED.

THE polite behaviour and promises of Mandragone, gave such agreeable hopes to Bianca, that with quite another countenance than before, she renewed her conversation with his lady; who, a little after, taking her by the hand, said, I have a mind to show you our palace, that you may tell me, if in any thing it resembles your great and noble buildings at Venice; and in the mean time, the old lady, your mother, as she is in years and feeble, may repose herself here till our return.

‘Aye, aye, go (replied she,) for I have not breath enough to mount such a stair-case;’ upon which the young women smiling, and arm in arm, ran from room to room, almost over the whole house. This palace, (which stood in the street called Carnesecchi, near Santa Maria Novella,) was so lately built that it was not quite finished, though very near so; and that with such good taste, and so much magnificence, that the Venetian lady admired and praised every part of it: and now through many anti-chambers, they arrived at last to a very large one, where there was an extreme rich bed, and near it a writing closet, beautifully ornamented, the window of which looked down on a delightful garden. Here the Spaniard having opened a scrutore, took out a vast quantity of jewels, which one by one she shewed her guest, to whom, while she was looking on them with great attention, she spoke in this manner, ‘I have a great, fancy to shew you some dresses I have lately made, which they tell me are exactly as the Venetian ladies wear them; but as I must fetch the key, I beg you will divert yourself with these few jewels till I come back.’

No sooner was Mandragona gone out of the closet, but on a sudden the grand duke entered it: at whose unexpected presence Bianca trembled from head to foot, well imagining the meaning of his coming; but collected in herself, and alike prudent and virtuous, she immediately threw herself at his feet, and in the most moving manner said, ‘Since, sir, it has pleased God that it should be my unhappy fate to lose my parents, my fortune, and my country, and to have nothing in this world left me but my honour; permit me humbly to entreat your royal highness's protection for that only good, which I esteem more than all the rest.’

The grand duke hearing her talk in this manner, presently raised her from the ground with the greatest respect, saying, ‘You have no reason, madam, to fear any thing from me, who only come here to assist and comfort you, under those misfortunes I grieve to see you suffer; of the truth of which, my actions shall soon convince you; let me then beg you to be satisfied, that you have found a friend in me, both willing and able to make you happy;’ and so saying, he bowed and left her all pale and confused, which the Spaniard perceiving at her return, said, ‘Don't wonder, madam, at the abrupt appearance of the grand Duke, for he is pleased to live in that familiarity with us, that very often, and at all hours he comes in this way, diverting himself with jesting, and frightening my maids and me; but this time I believe he is well met withal, and I don't doubt but that you have given him an answer that has put him out of countenance, and perhaps will make him more cautious for the future.’

‘I made him no answer, said the Venetian, but what the care of my honour obliged me to, and which I recommended to the mercy and protection of his serene highness.’

And you may be certain he will protect it, said Mandragone: ‘But can a lady of your sense and quickness (added she) not perceive, that fortune in compassion to your tedious sufferings, has at last turn'd her face, and will you not seize the golden opportunity? Believe me, madam, these are accidents that seldom happen; to have so young, so charming, and so great a prince, devote his heart with the sincerest passion to your service.’

Many were the arguments that these two ladies used to maintain their different opinions; but at the last those of the Spaniard prevailed with Bianca Capello to hear the grand duke; and having heard, she soon consented to accept his love: the charms of his conversation and person encreasing every day her inclination for him, till their passion became mutual.

Having traced poor Bianca through all those thorny paths that brought her to the flowery precipice into which she fell, we will now turn to Pietro Buonaventuri her husband, and see how his new fortune became him, still young and handsome, and still beloved by his wife; so that upon her account the grand Duke not only made him master of the robes, but gave him a most magnificent palace in the street named Maggio, with such great appointments, that he enjoyed all the happiness this world could give.

His apartment was on the ground-floor, from whence he could ascend to his wife's, except when the grand Duke was with her, and in that case, the door to them was fastened on the other side: this happened frequently, Francisco generally dismissing his train when he came home in an evening, and only with one or two confidents going privately to sup with signora Bianca, whom he could seldom bring himself to leave, till an hour before day obliged him to return to his palace; which he did in the same manner he left it.

Long did this course of life, and round of pleasure last, and longer still it might have done, had not the prosperity and power of Pietro (now become very considerable all over Florence,) filled his mind with so much pride and insolence, that his desires alone dictated all his actions, without the least regard to form or decency. Amongst the many ladies whose affections he sought to acquire, was a widow called Cassandra Bongianni, descended from one of the greatest families in the city, whose extraordinary beauty had gained her many admirers, to some of which it had proved very fatal: her relations, to revenge the dishonour done their family, having already miserably destroyed two of them; one of which (a young man of the family of del Caccia) after giving him several mortal wounds, they dipp'd in pitch, and with a straw hat on his head, and a basket full of balls of packthread on his arm, set him on a stone near the door of his mistress; so that all the people, who passed, (thinking it was a country man asleep) took no notice of him, till towards evening, some body going to wake him, discovered the truth, to the great concern of all who knew him, and more particularly his parents; who, after they had buried him, sought in vain for the authors of his death, though every body's conjecture centered on the relations of the lady.

Notwithstanding all this was well known to Buonaventuri, it did not in the least intimidate him from pursuing his enterprize, which, as he was insinuating, young and beautiful, he soon attained: and not content with his victory, he gloried in the publication of it, jesting upon, and laughing in the very faces of any of her relations whom he met; and being one day particularly impertinent to Roberto Ricci, her nephew, he, (unable to endure it,) complained to his aunt, threatning her extremely if she pursued so vile a practice, which, though she positively denied to him, she still continued in such a manner, as made it obvious to all the city: nor did Pietro from this grow more discreet; but as before he had only laughed at them, he began now to menace and insult them, which for some time they feared to resent, out of respect to the grand Duke: but at last their patience being exhausted, they went all together, and represented to his serene highness, the injuries they suffered from Buonaventuri, begging he would command him to behave in a more reasonable way.

The grand Duke was very much concerned to hear of the ill behaviour of Buonaventuri; and promised it should be remedied. When they were gone he immediately sent for Pietro, and taking him into his closet, told him the complaints he had received from Ricci, and the rest of Bongianni's relations, adding these words: ‘You see therefore, how great is the uneasiness such things give to families, and as this is one of the most considerable in our dominions, you ought to have some regard to it; instead of which you are not content to possess the aunt, but must insult and ridicule the nephew; and that in the most public places, and most opprobrious manner: all this forces me to warn you, that as your actions are unjust (perhaps) they may draw on bad consequences; and should these people kill you, 'tis not in my power to restore you to life; so that if you cannot or will not leave pursuing this amour, at least do it with more secrecy and decorum.’

The haughty Buonaventuri having heard the gracious admonitions of Francisco, (which being deliver'd with so much reason and calmness, he ought to have esteemed them as the greatest of favours) returned this answer: ‘As I assure your royal highness, there is not one word of truth in all that these men have said, (being neither so extravagant, nor impertinent as they would make me appear,) so I have not the least fear of them: but the true cause of their anger is their envy; they cannot bear to see me in that state, to which your highness's bounty has raised me, and therefore with calumnies endeavour to deprive me of it, envying also their own blood, whose fortune, like wolves, they would devour; and as they know I have a friendship for that lady, and am some protection to her from their cruelty, they are resolved to ruin us both by this monstrous contrivance.’

‘I know nothing of these affairs, replied the grand duke, nor do I mean to enter into them; 'tis enough that I have advised you as a friend, do as you please, what happens after this will be owing to yourself alone;’ and so saying he dismissed him.

Yet little did Buonaventuri profit by the kind remonstrances of the great Duke, growing every day more furious and offensive, committing so many outrages against all the relations of Cassandra, and treating Ricci especially, in so despicable a manner, that he was often ready to take a full revenge, being only detained from it by the fear of losing his fortune, by the grand Duke's resentment; at last he resolved to renew his complaints to him, and as he was much in favour with the princess Isabella his sister, he chose to do it by her means: to whom he protested, he was not able to support any longer the scorn of the world, and abominable impudence of Pietro, to deliver himself from which, if he could find no other redress, (he said) he should be obliged at last to abandon the consideration of his fortune and every thing else.

The princess having heard him out, went directly to her brother, whom she made sensible of the vile carriage of Buonaventuri, and of the mischiefs that might attend it; representing the approaching ruin of that whole injur'd family, who were so enraged, as to have no farther restraint, either from their obedience to their sovereign, or reason itself.

The grand Duke promised a speedy and effectual redress; and considering with himself that the only way to it, was to send Pietro from Florence till this hatred should be abated, by time and absence, he determined to employ him in some of his affairs abroad; and as soon as he came to Bianca Capello that night, he told her all that had passed on the occasion, desiring her to use all sorts of arguments, both persuasive and threatning, that might induce Buonaventuri to change his proceedings, and for the future to act more wisely; "But if you can't prevail (added he) I will send him to France, where he shall stay till he is sensible of his errors."

This was like a dagger to the heart of poor Bianca, who still loved her husband to excess, (though she did not let it appear to the grand duke) and fearing that he would, as he said, send him away, she resolved to try all the rhetoric of prayers and tears, to turn him from his dangerous course, and keep him with herself. For that purpose she waited his coming home, which was always late, and when she heard him below in his apartment, she descended the back stairs, and began in this manner, ‘Since my love to you exceeds all that is, or ever was, of passionate, and kind, let me by that conjure you, to hear me out with patience; for what I have to say concerns you in the nearest manner, and is absolutely necessary to your preservation;’ and then in few words she proceeded to tell him all that the grand duke had said to her, and the resolution he had taken for his security, to send him out of the country.

(To be continued.)

TREATISE ON THE EDUCATION of DAUGHTERS CONTINUED.

CHAP. IV. Cautions concerning Imitation.

THE ignorance of children, whose brain hath as yet taken no impression, and who have no formed habits, is what occasions their pliancy and inclination to imitate all they see. It is therefore a very principal point to set before them none but the best models; no sort of persons should be suffered to come near them, but such as it would be advantageous to copy after. But as it is impossible, notwithstanding all our precaution, but they must see many irregularities, we should teach them timely to remark the faulty behaviour of vicious and irrational people; such whose reputation is irretrievably lost: they should be shewn how deservedly despicable, how miserable they are, who abandon themselves to their passions, and neglect the cultivation of their reason.

By this means we may, without fear of giving them a turn for mockery, form their taste, and inspire a sensibility of whatever is truly graceful. Nay, we need not refrain from general cautions, with relation to some sorts of defects, altho' there should be a danger, by such proceedings, of giving them an insight into the weaknesses of people to whom they owe respect: for besides that we ought not to hope, nor would it be just, to keep them ignorant of the true maxims relative to those points; so is it the surest way of keeping them in their duty, to instil the notion that they must bear with another's defects; not even judge of them inconsiderately; that they often appear greater than they really are; that a number of other good qualities atone for them; that, as perfection is not to be found upon earth, we should admire those who have least imperfection: in short, though this species of information ought to be reserved for extremities, nevertheless it is our duty to give the true principles, and to preserve them from imitating indiscriminately whatever evil shall happen to come in sight.

Besides all this, we should discourage them from personating ridiculous people. This turn for comic mockery has something in it low and repugnant to genteel sentiment; besides which, it is much to be feared lest children should catch these manners, because the warmth of their imaginations, the suppleness of their bodies, and their sprightliness together, give them an aptness in taking all sorts of forms for the representing every ridiculous object.

This propensity in children to imitation, produces infinite mischief when they are put into the hands of bad people, and who act with no reserve in their company. But God hath indued them by the same means with a pliableness to whatever is set before them for their good: very often, without speaking, it sufficeth only to make them observe in another the thing we would have them do.

[To be continued.]

PHILOSOPHY FOR THE LADIES CONTINUED.

The natural History of the Swallow-tail'd Butterfly, and its Ichneumon.

IN a former Number of this work, our fair readers may remember we gave them some account of the several metamorphoses or alterations from one state to another, which various classes of animals undergo. But although we mentioned in general terms the changes of the butterfly kind, yet as we entered into no very particular detail in regard to them, it will not, we hope, be look'd on as any kind of repetition, if we take up a short portion of their time on that head here.

That beautiful and almost infinitely varied genus of insects, which is so well known by the names of butterfly and moth, (the one meaning only a day, the other a night fly,) is to be ranked with those of the most perfect change, as every one of this kind passes through the greatest number of states that has yet been discovered amongst animals, viz. the egg, worm, chrysalis, and fly. But to render these terms more clear, and at the same time to relate the general history of this extensive province in the great kingdom of nature, we shall illustrate it with an example.

The butterfly we have fixed on for this purpose is one of the most beautiful as well as the largest that we know of English growth: it is commonly known by the name of the Swallow Tail, from the figure of its under-wings, which terminate in some measure like the tail of that bird. Some authors indeed have called it the fennel fly, because the caterpillar which produces it, is fondest of feeding on fennel, though it is not uncommonly found upon dill, parsley, carrot, and several other umbelliferous plants. But Linnaeus, whose names are frequently as absurdly arbitrary, as his system is laboriously ingenious, has bestowed on it the name of Machaon, who was a celebrated Greek physician, and son to Esculapius.

His first state is, like that of all other insects, an egg, which is laid by its parent on the plant that is afterwards to become food for the infant worm at the emersion into life. She, however, seldom lays more than two, never more than three or four on one plant, and those singly and at a considerable distance from each other. These eggs are yellow and of a conical form, and are so sixt by the female, with a strong glutinous matter, to the stalk of the plant, as to stand all the fiercest attacks of the wind and rain, without being forced from their hold. One of them, as affixed to a piece of a stalk is represented at c, in the annexed plate.

These eggs, which are generally laid in June, July, or August, come to perfection in about a month's time; when the young caterpillar breaks forth the same in every respect but bulk that it appears when full grown: its body is green, annulated, or striped transversely with striae of black, each ringlet studded with spots of a bright scarlet. This caterpillar leads a very solitary life, there seldom being more than two to be found on one plant. The reason of this may probably be, that the umbelliferous plants in general, and more particularly the fennel, which, as we have before observed, is the favourite food of this caterpillar, afford but a very small quantity of foliage; and that this worm before its next change, grows to a very considerable bulk. The parent, instructed by that most infallible of all properties, instinct, purposely deposits her eggs so sparingly, lest the future offspring forming too large a colony to be maintained by one plant, should be forced to seek out for fresh quarters, in which case, unless they chanced to meet with another plant of the same kind with that they quitted, they must inevitably perish. They are very slow in feeding, and in their growth cast their skins several times before they change into a Chrysalis. In some the green is more or less bright, but in general the colours are more vivid in their infant state than when more fully grown.

This caterpillar has one property peculiar to itself, which is, that on the approach of any fly or ichneumon, it puts forth from the two red spots on its forehead, a pair of antennae, or horns like those of a snail, and then beats about from side to side with the fore part of its body, in order to prevent the Ichneumon from emitting or fixing any eggs on its body. Two of these caterpillars at their full growth, the one at rest, the other with its antennae put forth and defending itself from the ichneumon, are represented at d and e.

His next state is that of the Chrysalis, which, foreseeing for some little time beforehand, he prepares for, by abstaining from food, and discharging his excrements; which done, he fixes himself by his two hind legs, with a web, to some part of the stalk of the plant, and then spinning a thin single thread across his body, between the third and fourth joint, remains as it were suspended and immoveable for about four and twenty hours, when by a continued motion the skin is stripped off, and he becomes converted to the Chrysalis, shewn at f.

This transformation happens in August or September, according as the spring may be early or late; and in this situation he passes the whole winter and ensuing spring, coming out about the May or June following, in the form of the large and beautiful butterfly, represented at A and B. The wings are of a bright yellow, with borders and bands of a deep black; the under pair still farther decorated with a chain of fine blue spots, and two circles of a full orange. These flies feed on the dulcet juices of flowers, the moisture of which they suck in by means of a long proboscis, wherewith they are provided. They are frequenly seen sitting with their wings folded, as at a, on the ground, near rivers and ponds.

Those who are desirous of breeding these flies themselves, in order to see their changes, or to procure the butterfly in greater perfection, may find the caterpillars, during the months abovementioned, in places abounding with the umbelliferous plants. When discovered, they must be carefully supplied with fresh food: when the Chrysalis is obtained, it must be kept temperate, and not much disturbed: and the box or cage must be roomy, in order for the wings to expand themselves, otherwise they will be liable to be injur'd, when the fly issues from the shell.

They copulate as soon as they appear in the fly state, lay their eggs in about a fortnight afterwards, and then soon die.

As in our description of the abovementioned butterfly we took notice of the manner in which the caterpillar whereby it is produced, defends itself from the attacks of the Ichneumon, it may not be improper in this place to explain what we mean by that term; especially as it opens an entire new scene in the natural history of the insect tribe, in which the great parent who provides sustenance for all creatures in different ways, and has in general contrived it so, that the larger and more powerful shall prey on and destroy the smaller ones, seems to contradict herself, by enabling a small animal to subsist on the very flesh and juices of one much larger than itself; and that even whilst it continues alive, and apparently in good health.

The Ichneumon then is a class of small flies, whereof there are a very great variety of species; the proper nourishment of the worm of which is, the body of some other caterpillar. On this account the parent finds means to deposit its eggs on, or rather underneath the skin of such caterpillar, which hatching in due time, the worm immediately begins to feed on the very entrails of the caterpillar; nor ever quits it, even though it frequently changes into a Chrysalis, as if it were by a metamorphosis to elude its enemy, till the time when his own change is to happen, which he undergoes first into an Aurelia, and then into a Fly, emerging in the last form from the very spot where he first found residence in that of an egg.

The fly which is represented in the same plate with the Swallow Tail, sitting at g, and in its flying position at b, is one of this sort; preys on the caterpillar of that butterfly, and is produced in the following manner.

The female fly emits an egg, (which is represented in its natural size and shape i,) on the caterpillar, either at the time when the caterpillar is asleep, or soon after it has received a new skin. This egg, by means of a glutinous matter, which the parent emits at the same time with it, is so fixed where it is deposited, as not to be got off without the utmost difficulty; and being in less than seven days hatched by the warmth of the caterpillar's body, and the heat of the sun, the animal produced from it eats its way thereinto, on that part, whereby it adheres to the body. The empty shell covering the entrance or incision made by the newly hatched maggot, the wound becomes quickly healed, and the worm feeds on the entrails of the caterpillar till such time as he comes to his maturity, which not being in less than eighteen or twenty days, it frequently happens that the caterpillar becomes in the mean while transformed into a Chrysalis. The maggot, however, contained either within the caterpillar or chrysalis when grown to its full bulk, will eat its way through and fall to the ground; at which time it is in size and shape as represented at k, and of a dusky white; but in less than two hours is formed into a Chrysalis, as at l, in which state, if this change happens in summer, it continues for only about three weeks; but if late in autumn, as is sometimes the case, it remains during the whole winter in that state, and the fly, by eating its way through the shell, comes forth in the spring following.

N. B. All Caterpillars or Chrysales impregnated by Ichneumons, become spoiled, and do not produce any butterfly or moth. There are great varieties of the Ichneumon fly; but the one we have here described is of the kind called by Linnaeus Larvaxum.

Description of the copper plate contained in our last Number.

Figure 1. The Calamary compleat, with all its arms extended. Figure 2. and 3. Two of the suckers belonging to the long arms of the Calamary, detached and represented in different views.

THE LADY's GEOGRAPHY.

The MANNERS and CUSTOMS of the Inhabitants of AMBOYNA concluded.

THE People who were looked on as the Origines of these islands, but which it is probable came thither from other countries, were reckoned by the antient writers, who however knew very little of them, amongst the Anthropophagi, or devourers of human flesh; and indeed some recent examples seem to confirm that idea of them. The grossness of their manners was perfectly correspondent with their simplicity and their ignorance, which has however often been favourable to strangers, still is apparent in the fabulous and absurd relation, which the Amboynians themselves give in regard to their origin. Some of them claim descent from a crocodile, some from a serpent, and others from an eel, a tortoise, or even the old trunk of a tree; on which account they still respect their ancestors, in the creature from whom they pretend to have sprung; and if any one happens to kill one of these animals, they consider themselves in duty bound to avenge their deaths.

Ignorance, in all ages the mother of idolatry and superstition, has introduced into the worship and manner of living of these islanders, an infinity of customs as whimsical as their prejudices are ridiculous. Demons partake of their principal cares, and are the continual objects of their inquietude. The meeting of a dead body going to the grave, or of a lame, or old man, if it happens to be the first live object seen in the day; the cry of night birds, or the flight of a crow over their houses, are with them so many fatal presages, whose effects they think themselves enabled to prevent, by instantly returning back, and making use of certain precautions. A few cloves of garlic, some little bits of pointed wood, and a knife, put into the hand or laid under the pillow of a child in the night time, are by them imagined a sufficient security against evil spirits. They never sell the first fish which they catch in new nets, being well persuaded that it is unlucky so to do, but either eat it themselves or else present it to some one. The women who go to market in the morning with certain commodities, always give the first piece for whatever price is offered them; without which they imagine they should have no business for the whole day after: also, whenever they have sold any thing, they immediately strike on their basket, crying out as loud as they can, "that's well."

It gives these people no kind of pleasure to commend their children; for on these occasions they are always apprehensive of some design to bewitch them, unless such commendations are joined with certain expressions which may dispel all kind of diffidence. When a child sneezes, they make use of a sort of imprecation, by way of conjuring the evil spirit which is waiting for its life; and the least thing which ails a child they attribute to the power of witchcraft.

These ideas are so deeply rooted among the people of this nation, that it would be in vain to attempt destroying them. Even those who have embraced christianity are not exempt from them, although they are more circumspect on this head than the others. They will not admit into a sick person's room any one who has been before where there was a corpse. The women of the country will not eat a double pisang, nor any other double fruit; nor will a slave present her mistress with any such, for fear that afterwards, when she shall lie in, she should bring twins into the world, which would be an increase of domestic trouble.

When a woman dies either pregnant or in childbed, the Amboynians believe that she is changed into a daemon, of which they tell stories as absurd as the precautions which they take on such occasions to prevent this imaginary misfortune. Persons attacked by the small pox, would, according to them, run a very great risk, if not narrowly and closely watched, of being carried away on a branch of sagu, by the demon who communicated the distemper to them.

In short it would be endless to enter into a detail of all the singular opinions of these people, with respect to an infinity of other things: but the most remarkable one, and which shews what an imagination once led to a wrong biass is capable of, is the notion they have formed to themselves concerning their hair, to which they attribute the hidden virtue of supporting a malefactor amidst the most cruel tortures, without a possibility of forcing a confession of his crime, unless by shaving him, which never fails instantly to produce that effect.

With so strong an inclination for superstition there can be no difficulty in conceiving that they should have a fondness for necromancy. This science resides in certain particular families who are in high renown amongst them; and although the rest hate them mortally, because they look on them as capable of doing them a great goal of mischief, yet they all have recourse to sorcery on every occasion where they think it can procure them any information which may favour their loves or aid any of their designs. This vice reigns principally among the women, who talk the most of it, and who are also the most credulous; but if their magic is more deeply examined it will be found that it most frequently consists only in the fatal art of subtilly preparing poison; and that every thing also in it is no more than a texture of skilful impostures.

Inconstancy, and a love of novelty, are the characteristics of this people, in whom, therefore, there is no placing any great confidence. The Dutch have frequently experienced the necessity of depriving them of the means of following their natural bent, which incessantly leads them to form plots against them, and execute them with as much steadiness as secrecy whenever they find a favourable opportunity.

Too much severity, however, towards them would be equally dangerous: sensible of injuries, and vexations, vindictive and implacable, it is ever, better to please them by fair, than to enrage them by harsh treatment. Such moderation therefore is ever strongly recommended in the instructions which the company sends to its officers; and it were to be wished for their own sakes that they conformed thereto with more exactness than they generally do.

DESCRIPTION of the Island of CEYLON.

CEYLAN, Ceilon, or Zeilan, is an island of Asia, in the Indian sea, on this side of the Ganges, near the Cape of Comori, upon the streight of Manar or Quiloa. It lies in about six degrees of south latitude, and near 200 of longitude; and is one of the most remarkable of these seas: its length being, according to the accounts of the Hollanders, who have measured it the most exactly, about fifty-five leagues, its greatest breadth about thirty, and its whole circumference one hundred and ninety seven. Its figure is nearly that of a pear, or rather of a gammon of bacon; for which reason the Dutch have given the fort Cays, near Jaffanapatam, the name of Hammenbiel, or the Knuckle of the Gammon, a name which is perfectly expressive of the form of the island in that place.

The possession of this island lies between the Hollanders and the sovereign of the country, which is called king of Candi, or Candi-Uda. The first European settlements that were made on it were by the Portuguese, who, not contented with the possession of part of the coast, carried their incursions as far as to the capital, which they burned more than once, without sparing even the palaces or temples; in short, they rendered themselves so formidable, that they obliged the king to pay them an annual tribute of three elephants, and to purchase peace on many other servile conditions. At length, however, that prince had recourse for assistance to the Dutch of Batavia, who joining their forces to his, entirely beat the Portuguese, and drove them out of all their fortified places, after their having possessed them for near a hundred and fifty years. The monarch, however, was little advantaged by this assistance, which was only intended to procure a like establishment for themselves: for the Dutch, on the cOnclusion of the war, and more especially after making themselves masters of Colombo, in 1655, positively refused to give up a conquest which they thus saw themselves in the easy possession of: ever since which time they have applied their whole care and diligence to fortify themselves on the coast. Their principal establishments are at Jafnapatam, and the island of Manaar on the north; Trinquemali, and Batticalon, on the east; the town of Point de Galla, on the south; and Colombo on the west. To say nothing of Negombo, and Calpentin, which are two other towns belonging to them, with several forts at the mouth of the rivers and the openings of mountains, for the defence of passes; so that the Dutch may properly be considered as absolute masters of much the greatest part of the coasts of this very extensive island.

[To be continued.]

THE LADY's MUSEUM.
The TRIFLER. [NUMBER VII.]

MADAM,

ONE of your correspondents having given you a most entertaining account of the fair and unfortunate Bianca Capello, give me leave to offer at your shrine, some curious anecdotes of an Italian hero, known by the name of Castruccio Castracani. I shall draw my materials from Machiavel. They begin, I believe, with a mixture of truth and romance: Machiavel never keeping strictly in the road of truth, when by going a little on one side of it, he could embellish the history of his country. In the main, the facts are true.

In the city of Lucca, capital of the little republic of that name, Dianora Castracani, an unmarried sister of Antonio Castracani, one of the prebends of the cathedral of Lucca, going one morning into her garden, to gather herbs, found secreted among some cabbages an infant boy, who at her approach held out its helpless little hands, and cried, as wanting assistance. Dianora was moved at the sight; she took up the child, and carried him into her brother's house. The prebend, no less humane than his sister, approved of what she had done, and resolving to preserve, nourish, and adopt this foundling, immediately gave the child baptism, by the name of Castruccio.

Antonio and Dianora performed their different parts with equal care and attention, in the culture of this young sapling, which Antonio intended to plant, in a proper season, under the shade of the church. Fate, and Castruccio's own inclinations, intended him for a more open situation. At the age of fourteen, arms were his exercise, and books on military subjects his study. The boy had discovered so many feats of courage among his play-fellows, and such an unwearied attention to all the exercises in which he saw the soldiers employed, that he had attracted the particular observation of Francisco Guinigi, a gentleman of great esteem and authority; head of that party distinguished in Lucca, by the title of the Ghibellins. Guinigi sent for the boy, and, after having exactly learnt his story, and education, very generously offered to place him, without any expence to himself or friends, in the army. Castruccio, with great eagerness, chose to mount a horse, rather than ascend a pulpit: he quitted the good priest Antonio Castracani, with all the decency of gratitude, and enlisted into the Ghibellian troops, with all the raptures of an Achilles. His person, his manners, and particularly his modesty, soon became extremely attractive. He was not only agreeable to the family of Guinigi, but to the whole people of Lucca. He had scarce been three years in the army, when, in consequence of a treaty between the Lucchese and the Pavians, the Guelfs of Pavia applied to the Ghibellins of Lucca for assistance, which was granted by the latter, notwithstanding former antipathies, the Guelfs and Ghibellines having been long at variance. Francisco Guinigi, was appointed with the number of auxiliary troops in favour of the Pavians. Among these squadrons marched Castruccio, then only eighteen years old: he distinguished himself in so remarkable a manner, and reflected such glory and success upon his countrymen, that at his return to Lucca, he was received with the most unanimous applause, and rewarded with honours seldom or ever bestowed upon so young an officer. He was raised in the army and in the state, to a rank equal with Uguccione della Fuggivola: even his personal losses became to him fresh acquisitions of power; his great patron and benefactor, Francisco Guinigi died, and left Castruccio tutor and sole director of the education and fortune of his only son Pagolo Guinigi. A trust of such importance still exalted the character of Castruccio, especially as his intentions of discharging it with honour and fidelity appeared in every step of his life.

After the death of Francisco Guinigi, whose authority had been incontestably great, Georgio Opizi attempted to grasp the same same degree of power which Francisco had enjoyed in Lucca: he was the head of a numerous family, all of whom were Guelfs. Uguccione, jealous of the Opizi, and most especially of Georgio, was advised by Castruccio, to destroy the whole race at once. The manner of putting his scheme into execution was performed with equal secrecy and dispatch. Castruccio remained at Lucca, while Uguccione went to his government at Pisa; but soon returned in the night time unsuspected to the gates of Lucca, at the head of an army of Ghibellins, whom he had brought from Pisa.

Castruccio was ready at the time appointed to open the gates, and in the slaughter of a few hours, the entire race of the Opizi, and great numbers of the chief Guelfs, were put to the sword. Not one of the Opizi survived; but, amidst the confusion and obscurity of the night, about an hundred of the Guelf families escaped, some of whom took refuge in Florence, others in Pistoia.

To this massacre, for it will bear no softer a denomination, succeeded La Battaglia de Monticatini, the battle fought upon the banks of the Nievole. Uguccione was hindered by illness from being personally present in the battle: one of his sons was killed, Castruccio was wounded, and three hundred of the Lucchese army were left dead upon the field.

Uguccione, naturally jealous, was now grown as uneasy at the established power of Castruccio Castracani as he had been at the aspiring power of Georgio Opizi. He saw the repeated victories of so young a general with envy. He acquiesced to councils, and pursued measures, which he wished rather to have given, than to have heard. He had been taught by Castruccio himself, that death was the only sure antidote against a rival. Morta la Serpe, spento it veleno. ‘The viper killed, the poison evaporates.’ In pursuance of this maxim, he sent a letter to his son, Neri Uguccione, to invite Castruccio to supper, and there, in defiance of all laws of hospitality and honour, to take an opportunity to murder him. Castruccio was invited; accepted the invitation, and in the midst of the festivity was manacled and confined as a prisoner, but not murdered. Neri Uguccione rightly judged that the forfeiture of his own life would be inherent to the destruction of so popular a man as Castruccio. The father, less considerate and more envious, was resolved to perfect the bloody work, which his son was unwilling to perform. He came to Lucca, with a considerable number of soldiers for that purpose. At his arrival, the whole people of Lucca rose in arms, delivered Castruccio from his imprisonment, and soon drove Uguccione out of Tuscany: he took refuge in Lombardy, where some years afterwards he died in little esteem, and extremely poor.

Uguccione being removed, the whole field of honorary dignities lay open to Castruccio: he was solemnly elected prince of Lucca, and lord of Pisa: he was scarce in possession of those titles, when Frederic of Austria came into Italy, where he was received as emperor; and in a personal interview with Castruccio, appointed him his lieutenant in Tuscany.

Castruccio, equally courted by Tuscans, Lombardians, and Guibellins, entertained hopes within his own breast, of becoming entire master of the whole kingdom of Tuscany. In pursuance of such intentions, he resolved to seize upon Florence; but while he was taking proper measures to fulfil these revolutions, he was called back to Lucca, on account of a conspiracy against him, concerted by the family of Poggio.

The several branches of the house of Poggio thought their merits ill rewarded by Castruccio, to whose sovereignty they had zealously contributed. Catching mutually fire from each other's indignation, they took advantage of their prince's absence, killed his lieutenant, and were warmly inciting the whole state of Lucca to rebel, when Stefano Poggio, an old man of great worth and weight in his family, who had kept himself free even from all thoughts of a conspiracy, stopped any farther mischief, and waited upon Castruccio, to ask his pardon for what had already past. Castruccio received him without any outward shew of resentment; and having placed soldiers upon whom he might depend, in every corner of the city, he appointed a day when Stefano Poggio at the head of his relations should come to receive an act of grace. The harmless unsuspicious old man, being deceived himself, deceived all his relations, and attended with his whole family at the day and hour appointed. They were admitted to Castruccio: they were sent by his immediate orders to prison; and soon afterwards, without any respect to age, or regard to honour, they were every one of them put to death.

More effectually to secure himself in a government, which he found capable of entertaining plots against him, Castruccio, under various pretences, destroyed either the life or fortune of every individual Lucchese, whom he suspected as his personal enemy; and having pulled down many of their castles, he turned the materials to his own service, and built a fortress at Lucca in a situation to command and terrify the inhabitants. As a farther security of his dominions, he made a league of friendship with the Florentines for two years, and then turned his thoughts towards Pistoia, in which city he knew the old party-divisions, distinguished by the names of Bianci and Neri, were not totally extinguished. With great accuteness he foresaw the consequences that must follow from those divisions, and found himself courted by both parties, separately and secretly from each other. He gave them both assurances of his protection. Bastianodi Possente was at the head of the Bianchi, Jacopo da Gia at the head of the Neri. To Jacopo he promised troops under his own conduct; to Bastiano he promised troops under the conduct of Pagolo Guinigi, whom he treated and loved as his son. The troops of both commanders marched different ways, and came into the town at different gates; but at the same time the Pistoians of each party received them as friends. Castruccio soon gave the signal, and while Guinigi cut in pieces the Bianchi, Castruccio himself slaughtered the Neri. Then, as conquerors, they seized the palace, put themselves in possession of the signory, quieted the populace, and made Pistoia their own.

Castruccio, by his continued victories, no matter how obtained, was become the idol of worship to all the states of Italy: he was entreated to come to Rome to pacify the people, who were ready to mutiny for want of provisions. Pope John the XXII. was, by the twenty seventh schism in the church, at that time driven to Avignon: and the emperor Lewis V. was in possession of the city of Rome. Castruccio hastened in person to the relief of the Romans, and sent thither great quantities of corn from Pisa: he calmed the mutiny, made himself acceptable to the emperor and the nobility, and was created a senator of Rome.

The Florentines foreseeing their danger, in the capture of a town so close to their territories as Pistoia, seized it to themselves, by the assistance and stratagems of several of the inhabitants, who were glad to be delivered from the present yoke of their servitude; and whom the Florentines, by the power of money and promises, had seduced to their own desires. Such an action was scarce justifiable, if the subsisting truce had been ratified to any other man less faithless, ambitious, or sanguinary than Castruccio: but he was to be looked upon as a wolf, and all the states of Italy as lambs destined to his voracity, unless they could find a shepherd for their own security. He hastened back from amidst his honours at Rome, and made preparations for a Florentine war. The successes of that war were various: sometimes the acquisitions were on one side, sometimes on the other; till in the year 1328, one great battle gave Castruccio a signal, but, in its consequence, a dear bought victory. As soon as the conquest was entirely compleated, by the loss of twenty thousand Florentines, and the flight of the rest, their whole army having consisted of thirty thousand foot and ten thousand horse, Castruccio placed himself in the gateway of the town of Fusechio, the head-quarters of his own residence, to review his troops at their return, and to take an opportunity of thanking the several soldiers and officers of his army, as they passed by him into the town. He was much heated and fatigued by the long and laborious combat; and whilst he staid in the passage of the gate, hot, and exposed to a very sharp nipping wind, he caught cold, and the next night a fever confined him to his bed. At first the symptoms were not dangerous, but the distemper increasing by degrees, quickly spread throughout his body, and beyond the limits of medicinal power. As soon as he found himself without the least hopes of recovery, he called Pagolo Guinigi to his bed side, and embracing him with the composure of a hero, and the affection of a father, made a very moving speech, and took a last melancholy farewell of his pupil, who had been the constant object of his care. Castruccio died September 3, 1328. No comments are requisite to illustrate the life of such a man: his actions are a continual comment upon themselves: they represent him an active, bloody, remorseless soldier; not unsusceptible to the calls of gratitude and friendship, but vindictive to a degree that makes human nature almost tremble at his name.

I am, Madam, Your Humble Servant, E. F.

THE HISTORY OF HARRIOT AND SOPHIA CONTINUED.

WHEN they arrived at Mrs. Lawson's, Sophia, who little expected such a visit, had wandered, as usual, in the wood, accompanied with Dolly: Mrs. Lawson immediately sent Fanny in search of her; and Harriot, expressing an impatience to see her sister, went along with her.

They found Sophia sitting under an oak, with Mrs. Gibbons on one side of her, and Dolly on the other; for the old gentlewoman was prevailed upon by Sophia to endure the company of the innocent girl, who had never offended her; and Dolly, instructed by her lovely friend, made good use of these opportunities to insinuate herself into her favour.

William leaned on a branch close by Sophia, to whom he addressed his discourse, while his eyes often stole tender glances at his beloved Dolly. Harriot, when she approached, cried out affectedly, ‘Upon my word, sister, you have a brilliant assembly here; I did not expect to find you in such good company.’

Sophia, surprised to see her sister, ran hastily to meet her, and embracing her kindly, enquired with a sweet anxiety for her mother, and whether she also had been so good to visit her. Harriot scarce answered her question; her attention was all fixed upon William: so handsome a youth seemed worthy to feel the influence of her charms; and all the artillery of her eyes was instantly levelled against him. Having returned his respectful bow with an affected courtesy, and the fashionable toss of the head, she deigned to take some little notice of Mrs. Gibbons, and honoured Dolly with a careless glance, whose amiable figure, however, attracted a second look; and after examining her with an inquisitive eye, she turned away with a little expression of scorn in her countenance, and again attacked William, practising a thousand airs to strike him; all which he beheld with the utmost indifference.

Sophia, being impatient to see her mother, took leave of Mrs. Gibbons; but Harriot, who had a new conquest in view, was unwilling to go so soon, professing herself inchanted with the place, and declaring she would turn shepherdess.

Sophia told her, smiling, that she was sure that that sort of life would not please her.

‘Oh! how can you think so, cried Harriot, is not the dress excessively becoming? then love in these woods is so tender and sincere! I will engage there is not a nymph in this hamlet whose frown would not drive her lover to despair: pair: own the truth now, said she, turning with a lively air to William, are you not violently in love?’

The youth bowed, blushed, and sighed; and not daring to look at his mistress, he suffered his eyes, full as they were of tender expression, to direct their glances towards Sophia. ‘I am proud to own, madam, said he to Harriot, that I have a heart capable of the most ardent passion.’

"And mighty constant too! no doubt," interupted Harriot, with a malignant sneer; for she had observed the sigh and the look, and was ready to burst with vexation and disappointment, to find her conquest obstructed already by her sister, as she supposed; and being now as impatient, as she was before unwilling to be gone, ‘Come, Sophy, said she, taking her under the arm, my mamma will take it ill that you make no more haste to see her, for we shall return to town immediately.’

"Sure you will stay one night," said Sophia.

"Oh not for the world!" exclaimed Harriot affectedly; ‘How can you imagine I would stay so long in an odious village, to be rusticated into aukwardness, pursued she, with a spiteful laugh, and ashamed to shew my face in any assemby in town afterwards.’ Saying this, she courtesied disdainfully to Mrs. Gibbons and her nephew, and tripped away, pulling her sister away with her.

Dolly joined the two ladies, but walked by the side of Sophia, not aiming at any familiarity with the insolent and affected Harriot; and as they pursued their way home, she had the mortification to hear her lover ridiculed and despised by the disappointed coquet, who supposed she mortified her sister by the contempt she expressed for a man who had so little taste as to like her.

Sophia, as well in compassion to poor Dolly, who suffered greatly upon this occasion, as in justice to the amiable youth, defended him warmly, which drew some coarse raillery upon her from Harriot.

When they came near to Mr. Lawson's house, the sight of Sir Charles's chariot threw her into a fit of trembling; Harriot perceived it, and willing to undeceive her, if she hoped to find the young baronet there, ‘I am charged with Sir Charles's compliments, to you, said she, he insisted upon our using his chariot for this little excursion; my mamma and I would fain have persuaded him to accompany us, but he pleaded an engagement, and would not come.’

Dolly now looked with great concern upon her fair friend, who suppressing a sigh, asked if Sir Charles was quite recovered.

‘I do not know that he has been ill, replied Harriot. Indeed when he came from Bath, the fatigue he had endured with his sick uncle, whom he had sat up with several nights before he died, made him look a little pale and thin; but he is now extremely well, and more gay than ever: and it is well he is so, pursued she, for we have so much of his company, that if he was not entertaining, we should find him very troublesome.’

All this was daggers to the heart of poor Sophia: those pleasing ideas which she had indulged upon reading her mother's letter, that represented Sir Charles as having suffered in his health, from his endeavours to vanquish his passion for her, all vanished, and left in their room a sad conviction that she was become wholly indifferent to him.

She might indeed, knowing her sister's malice, have attributed what she said to artifice; but her manner of accounting for the alteration in Sir Charles's looks, which her fond fancy had dwelt upon so much, was so natural and so full of probability, that she could suspect no artifice there.

Every thing Harriot said was confirmed by facts which left no room for doubt: his assiduity to Harriot, his neglect of her, appeared but too plain. Did he not lend his chariot for a visit in which he would not share? did he not send his compliments in a manner that shewed his heart was so much at ease, that he felt not even any resentment for her leaving him? could there be stronger proofs of indifference than these?

Such were her thoughts, and her heart was so oppressed by this sudden and unexpected shock, that it was with difficulty she restrained her tears. Dolly, who looked at her with tender anxiety, and saw her colour come and go, and her charming eyes bent on the ground, as if she feared to look up, lest they should betray her anguish, cast many an angry glance at her envious sister, and wished her a thousand miles off.

Sophia having a little recovered herself, hastened towards her mother, who with a face of ignorant wonder was following Mrs. Lawson about her little farm, asking a thousand questions, without heeding the answers she received. Sophia approaching, paid her duty to her with her usual tenderness and respect, which Mrs. Darnley returned with slightly kissing her cheek, telling her that she thought her complexion was greatly improved, and appealed to Harriot for the truth of her observation.

Harriot answered, ‘That indeed she could not flatter her sister so much, as to say she thought so; for if there was any alteration, it was rather for the worse.’

Sophia, without attending to this difference of opinion, with regard to her complexion, was only sollicitous to know if her mother had been well; and while she was making some tender enquiries concerning her health, Mrs. Darnley, who never consulted either time or place, suddenly interupted her to draw her aside from the company, and asked her abruptly, ‘Whether she was not surprised at Sir Charles's indifference?’

Sophia, still smarting with the pangs her sister's discourse had given her, replied, in a tone of resentment, ‘That nothing now could surprise her with regard to Sir Charles.’

‘Why, to say the truth, Sophia, replied Mrs. Darnley, I believe he has quite forgot you; but there was a time when you might have been happy.—oh girl, girl, pursued she, kindling with anger as she spoke, you were always obstinate and conceited; what a foolish part have you played with all your wit! but I am to blame to trouble myself about you.’

Sophia now eased her loaded heart by a shower of tears. ‘It is to little purpose now, said Mrs. Darnley, to repent of your imprudent behaviour; you were too wise to take a parent's advice, when it might have been useful: when a man of rank and fortune makes his addresses to a woman who is inferior to him in both, he expects a thousand little complacencies and attentions from her, which, without wounding her honour, may convince him that it is not to his riches she sacrifices herself.’

‘Ah, Madam, cried Sophia, that is a snare which has been fatal to many young women in my circumstances. Who sees not the advantages this gives a man whose aim is to seduce? I am persuaded these pernicious maxims are not yours, but his, for whose ungenerous purpose they are so well calculated.’

Sophia guessed truly; the young baronet had often had discourses of this sort with Mrs. Darnley, who nevertheless took it ill that her daughter should offer her such an affront as to suppose she did not understand maxims as well as Sir Charles.

Nothing is more certain than that we are never made so ridiculous by the qualities we have, as by those we affect to have. Mrs. Darnley, with all her ignorance, aspired to be thought witty: she therefore vindicated her claim to what Sophia had called maxims; no matter whether they were pernicious or not. The word maxim sounded learnedly in her ears: she told her daughter, with great asperity, that she was so conceited and vain of her own wit, that she would allow no one else to have any. Sophia found it difficult enough to appease her, but she succeeded at length, and they joined the rest of the company.

Mrs. Lawson easily prevailed upon her guests to stay that night and the following day, which, being Sunday, Harriot could not resist the temptation of displaying her charms and her fine cloaths in a country church, which was so new a triumph, that the thoughts of it kept her waking almost the whole night.

The ridiculous airs she assumed to draw the admiration of the simple villagers, who never saw any thing so fine and so gay before, and who stared at her with stupid surprise, made Sophia often blush for her: but her affected glances were chiefly directed to the beautiful youth, whose insensibility had so greatly mortified her pride: she saw his eyes constantly turned towards the pew where she sat; but she saw plainly that it was not her charms that drew them thither. She had no suspicion that Dolly was the object of his affection, and, sensible to her great grief, of her sister's power to charm, she no longer doubted that this envied conquest was hers.

Thus disappointed, she appeared so much out of humour, and so impatient to return to town, that Mrs. Darnley, over whom her power was absolute, complied with her importunity, and set out with her for London, as soon as they returned from church; notwithstanding all the endeavours of the good curate and his wife to detain them to dinner.

Sophia was now left alone to her own melancholy reflections; this visit from her mother and sister had produced a sad reverse in her situation: hitherto hope had not quite forsaken her; the idea of being still beloved by Sir Charles lessened all her griefs, and supported her amidst the doubt and anxiety which his mysterious conduct had involved her in: his indifference, so apparent in her sister's account of him, gave her pangs unfelt before: and never till now did she think herself unhappy; for, unperceived by herself, she had encouraged a secret hope that the passion she had inspired him with would not be easily subdued; and that perhaps all which she had thought exceptionable in his conduct proceeded not from a settled design to the prejudice of her honour, but from that irresolution and slowness with which a man, too sensible of his superiority in birth and fortune, proceeds in an affair of marriage, where he has no obstacles to fear, and where every thing depends upon himself.

She now perceived the necessity of banishing Sir Charles from her heart; but at the same time, she perceived all the difficulty of the task. Though ashamed of her tears, she wept, and passionately exclaimed against her own weakness, which had kept her in a delusion so fatal to her peace. She continued the whole day in her chamber, wholly absorb'd in melancholy thoughts.

Dolly, who knew enough of her situation to guess the cause of this new affliction, was grieved to find herself excluded as well as the rest of the family; and although she ardently wished to console her, yet she durst not intrude uncalled upon her retirement. While she waited impatiently for her appearance, a visitor arrived, who she knew would be welcome to her charming friend. As soon as she perceived him, she flew with eager haste to inform Sophia, and, tapping at her door, told her in a joyful voice, that Mr. Herbert was just alighted.

Sophia, surprised at the news, instantly opened her chamber-door, and smiling tenderly upon the charming girl, to whom she excused herself for her long absence, hastened to receive the good old man, who, after some affectionate enquiries concerning her health, rallied her upon the melancholy that appeared in her countenance.

Sophia blushed and fixed her eyes on the ground, not a little surprised at his talking to her in that manner; and when with a bashful air, she looked up again, and saw a more than usual chearfulness in his eyes, her confusion encreased, and for a few moments she could not help feeling some resentment against her benefactor, for thus diverting himself with her uneasiness.

Mr. Herbert, whose thoughts were wholly employed on the pleasing news he brought, did not perceive how much his behaviour embarrassed her: to prevent his renewing a subject so disagreeable, she talked of the visit her mother and sister had made her.

Mr. Herbert asked her, ‘If they had mentioned Sir Charles, and what she thought of him now?’

‘I think of him as I ought to do, replied Sophia, with some warmth, I despise him.’

‘Be not too rash, my dear child, said Mr. Herbert; if your sister, whose malice I well know, has suggested any thing to Sir Charles's disadvantage, be assured she deceives you; for I am convinced he not only loves you, but loves you with honour.’

Sophia, who from the first words Mr. Herbert uttered, had been in great agitation, as expecting something extraordinary, was so overwhelmed with surprise at what she heard, that her speech and colour forsaking her, she remained pale, silent, and motionless in her chair.

Mr. Herbert, perceiving how powerfully this news operated on her spirits, began to be apprehensive of the consequences, and was rising hastily to give her some assistance, when Sophia, rouzed to recollection by this motion of her venerable friend, and ashamed of the extreme sensibility she had discovered, apologised for it with a charming modesty, that greatly affected the good old man, who, if he had known in what melancholy thoughts she had passed the day, would have told her with more caution, a circumstance that raised her at once from despair to hope, and produced so great a change in her situation.

As we are never so ready to fear a disappointment as when we are nearest the completion of our wishes, Sophia, with a sweet apprehensiveness, which yet she laboured to conceal, hinted her doubts of the baronet's sincerity; Mr. Herbert answering explicitly to these half expressed doubts, told her, that he was fully persuaded Sir Charles would act like a man of honour. "I will give you an exact account, said he to her, of what has passed between us, from which you may judge yourself of his conduct:" he then took a letter out of his pocket, and desired her to read it.

Sophia, trembling a little at the sight of Sir Charles's hand writing, took the billet, and found it contained a message from him to Mr. Herbert, requesting in very earnest terms, the favour of an interview, and an offer to wait upon him at any hour he should appoint.

‘You may be sure, said Mr. Herbert, (receiving back the billet which Sophia gave him without speaking a word) that I did not suffer Sir Charles to come to me; hearing from the messenger that his master was at home waiting for my answer, I attended him immediately. I perceived a little embarrassment in his countenance upon my first entrance, but that soon wore off: he welcomed me with great politeness, and after thanking me for the honour I did him, in preventing his visit, he entered immediately upon the affair which had occasioned his sending to me.’

‘You have, Sir, said he, shewn so truly a paternal affection for the young lady to whom I have paid my addresses, and are so much esteemed and reverenced by her, that I think I may without any impropriety, address myself to you upon this occasion—’

Here he paused, and seemed a little perplexed. ‘To be sure, added he, I ought to have done this before; my conduct must have appeared capricious both to her and you, and indeed it was capricious,—but—’

Here he paused again, and fixed his eyes on the ground. "His frankness, pursued Mr. Herbert, pleased me greatly, and disposed me to give him a favourable attention."

‘I cannot blame Miss Sophia, said he, for acting as she has done; my heart did homage to her virtue at the time that I suffered most from the contemptuous behaviour it suggested to her. Fain would I hope, added he sighing, that the prejudices she has conceived against me has not entirely banished me from her remembrance; the delicacy of my passion would be but ill satissfied by calling so deserving a woman my own, unless I could likewise boast a preference in her heart that left me no room to doubt my fortune had any share in determining her in my favour.’

"I know not, pursued Mr. Herbert, whether Sir Charles expected any answer to this declaration; it is certain he looked on me with a kind of anxious timidity, and stopped a moment; I continued silent, and he proceeded in this manner:" ‘I know, Miss Sophia has an understanding too solid, and a mind too noble to suffer any considerations of rank and fortune to determine her solely in an affair upon which the happiness of her life depends: she would not surely give her hand where her heart did not acknowledge a preference. 'Tis thus I answer all those doubts which my situation, and perhaps an overstrained delicacy suggest: I am impatient to convince her of the purity of my passion; and, considering you as her friend, her guardian, and one who is in the place of a father to her, I will take no steps in this affair but such as have the sanction of your approbation; I will not even presume to visit her without your permission: be you my advocate with her, tell her I lay myself and fortune at her feet, and will receive her from your hand as the greatest blessing that heaven can bestow on me.’

‘Now, my child, pursued Mr. Herbert, looking on Sophia with a smile, how would you have me answer to this discourse? was it necessary, think you, to play off a few female artifices here, and keep Sir Charles in doubt and anxious suspence, or did the apparent openness and candor of his procedure deserve an equal degree of frankness on my part?’

‘It is not to be doubted, sir, said Sophia blushing, but that on this occasion, as on every other, you acted with the utmost prudence.’

‘I find, resumed Mr. Herbert, that you are resolved beforehand, to approve of whatever I said: well then, I told Sir Charles, that his present declaration entirely satisfied me; that being fully convinced of his sincerity, I looked upon his offer as highly honourable and advantageous to you; and that I was very sure you would have all the sense you ought to have of so generous an affection.’

‘He then begged me to set out immediately for this place, and prepare you to receive a visit from him. This request I could not possibly comply with, having business in town, which would necessarily detain me for some hours; but I promised him to go as soon as that was dispatched, which probably might be in the afternoon.’

‘He modestly asked my leave to accompany me; but this I declined, as fearing his sudden appearance, without your being previously acquainted with what had past, might occasion some perplexity and uneasiness to you; so it was agreed that he should come to-morrow.’

"To-morrow," replied Sophia, with an emotion she was not able to suppress.

‘Yes, my child, replied the good old man, have you any objections to this?’

‘I know not, replied Sophia, with downcast eyes and a faultering accent, what I ought to do; I have been so used to consider Sir Charles's professions in an unfavourable point of view; my heart has been so accustomed to suspect him—to guard itself against delusive hopes, perhaps I ought not to admit his visit so easily; perhaps I ought to resent his former behaviour. I own I am greatly perplexed, but I will be determined wholly by your advice.’

Mr. Herbert saw her delicate scruples, and, to favour her modesty, answered, with the authority of a guardian, ‘When Sir Charles visits you next, Miss Sophia, he comes to offer you his hand; he has asked my consent as your guardian and your friend; and, I presuming on my influence over you in both those characters, have given it freely; and how indeed, having your interest and happiness sincerely at heart, could I do otherwise? but if you think his former behaviour, in which however there were only suspicions against him, deserves to be resented, at a time when those suspicions are absolutely destroyed, you must go through with your heroism, and see him no more; for as the poet says, ‘He comes too near who comes to be denied,’ so he has offended too much who needs a pardon.’

Sophia, who felt all the force of this reasoning, answered only by a blushing silence. Mr. Herbert then told her, that Sir Charles had declared to him that he would make the same settlements on her as had been stipulated for his mother; for he added, with equal delicacy and tenderness, ‘Miss Sophia, in virtue, wit, good sense, and every female excellence, brings me an immense portion.’

"Sir Charles, pursued Mr. Herbert smiling, by a strange contradiction, which is, I suppose, always found in lovers, though he was impatient to have me with you, yet could not help detaining me to have the pleasure of talking of you: he painted to me very naturally, the uneasiness he had suffered from your supposed contempt of him: he told me, that he was at one time determined to travel, in order to efface you from his remembrance;" ‘But, (said he, rising and unlocking a cabinet, from which he took out a paper and put into my hands,) you shall judge whether amidst all my resentment I did not still love Miss Sophia; that is my will, which I ordered to be drawn up previous to my intended journey.’

"He then, to spare me the trouble of reading it all through, pointed to the place where you was mentioned, and I found he had bequeathed you an estate of four hundred pounds a year for life, and five thousand pounds to be disposed of as you pleased."

This last circumstance touched Sophia so much that tears filled her eyes: she sighed, and turned her head aside to conceal her emotion, while Mr. Herbert, without seeming to observe it, continued to repeat to her several expressions used by Sir Charles, which shewed the greatness of his affection, and his veneration for her virtues.

‘We parted at length, pursued Mr. Herbert, extremely well satisfied with each other, and tomorrow, or next day at farthest, you may expect to see Sir Charles here; for he told me, that if he received no ill news from me, he would conclude I had prepared him a favourable reception; and, presuming on this hope, he would immediately set his lawyer to work to prepare the writings, that nothing might be left undone which could convince you of the sincerity of his affections; therefore, my dear child, set your heart at rest; and since providence has thought fit to reward your piety and virtue, receive with humble gratitude that fortune to which you are raised, and which puts it so largely in your power to do good. I will now leave you, said the good old man rising, to your own reflections; I have scarce spoke a word yet to our kind friends here, for I was so impatient to see you, that I left them very abruptly.’

Mr. Herbert had no sooner left the room, than Sophia, in an ardent ejaculation, thanked heaven for thus relieving her from her distress: but it was long ere the tumult in her mind raised by such unhoped for happy news subsided, and gave place to that calm recollection which supplied a thousand pleasing ideas, and filled her with the softest emotions of gratitude, tenderness, and joy.

She was now freed from those tormenting doubts, which made her consider her tenderness for Sir Charles as a crime, and occasioned so many painful struggles in her mind. What joy to reflect that the man she loved was worthy of her affection! how pleasing was the prospect that opened to her view; to be blest with the power of shewing her gratitude to her friends, her piety to her mother; to repay her sister's unkindness with acts of generosity; and indulge the benevolence of her heart in relieving every distress which fell within her power to relieve!

These were the advantages which she promised herself in the change of her fortune, and for these her grateful heart lifted itself up every moment in thanks and praise to that providence that bestowed them on her.

While Sophia was thus absorb'd in thought, Dolly opened the door, and running up to her, eagerly cried, ‘Tell me true, my dear miss, has not Mr. Herbert brought you some good news? I am sure he has; I never saw him so joyful in my life, and you look glad too,’ pursued she, peering in her face with a sweet earnestness. ‘May I not ask you, Miss Darnley, what this good news is?’

‘You may, my dear, said Sophia smiling, but not now; you shall know all soon. At present I would rather talk of your affairs.’

‘Indeed I am greatly obliged to you, miss, said Dolly, for what you have done for me. Mrs. Gibbons seems almost as kind to me as ever she was, and you have talked so sensibly to my mother, that she repents of her behaviour to Mrs. Gibbons; and she likes Mr. William so well, that I am sure she would be glad to be reconciled to her.’

‘That is what I have been labouring at all this time, resumed Sophia. If Mrs. Lawson can be persuaded to make some concessions to the fantastick old gentlewoman, all may go well yet: it shall be my care to bring them together; and if my endeavours to produce a reconciliation fail, perhaps I may be able to engage a more powerful mediator in your interest.’

Sophia had Sir Charles in her thoughts, who she doubted not would readily undertake the cause of the distressed lovers, and possibly add something to her Dolly's portion, to lessen the inequality there was between them in that point. She spoke with such a chearful confidence, that Dolly, full of hope and joy, thanked her with artless transports of gratitude that moved her even to tears.

The next day, though in expectation of seeing Sir Charles, her heart laboured with a thousand emotions; yet kindly attentive to the affairs of her friend, she resolved to make Mrs. Gibbons a visit, to prepare the way for the hoped for interview between her and Mrs. Lawson. As soon as she had disengaged herself from Mr. Herbert, she set out alone for Mrs. Gibbons's house; but scarcely had she crossed the first field when she saw William, who was as usual, sauntering about Mr. Lawson's grounds, in hopes of seeing his mistress.

Sophia beckoned to him, and he flew to meet her; for, next to Dolly, he thought her the most charming woman in the world; and he adored her for the goodness with which she interested herself in his and his Dolly's happiness.

When he drew near, Sophia told him she was going to visit his aunt; the youth respectfully expressed his concern that his aunt could not have that honour; she was gone, he said, to visit a relation who lived a few miles up the country.

Sophia then told him the design upon which she was going, and the favourable disposition Mrs Lawson was in. ‘I am persuaded, said she, all might be made up, if we could but bring them together. Mrs. Lawson only wants an opportunity to repair her fault; but how shall we contrive to give her this opportunity? what expedient can we find out to overcome your aunt's obstinacy, and prevail upon her to enter Mrs. Lawson's door again?’

‘I know one, madam, said the youth smiling, which I think would do.’

Sophia concluding from the timidity of his look, that she was concerned in this expedient, prest him to speak freely, assuring him she would assist to the utmost of her power.

‘My aunt, madam, said he, is as you know a great observer of forms: she would not for the world fall under the censure of having failed in any part of ceremony or good breeding; now, madam, if you would be pleased to make a point of her returning your visit, and permit me to tell her that you are offended with her neglect, and that you insist upon this proof of her politeness, I am persuaded she will come.’

‘Well, said Sophia, smiling, if you are of opinion this will do, you have my consent to say whatever you think will affect her most; make me as angry and as ceremonious as you please.’

‘Nothing shall be wanting on my part to promote the success of this affair, added she, with a graver look and accent; for I believe you have a sincere affection for my young friend, and I shall not be at rest till I see you both happy.’

The youth, in whose breast the sweet benevolence of her looks and words excited the strongest transports of gratitude, not able to find words to express his sense of her goodness, suddenly threw himself at her feet, and kissed her hand with a mixture of tenderness and awe.

Sophia, smiling at this sally, stepped back a little; upon which he rose up, and with a graceful confusion paid her his thanks: she again repeated her promise of serving him, and took leave: he bowed low, following her for some time with his eyes, and sent a thousand kind wishes after her.

Sophia, at her return, acquainted Dolly with what had passed between her lover and her, and filled her with pleasing hopes of the success of his scheme: but now the day wore away, she was in continual expectation of seeing Sir Charles; her heart throbbed with anxiety; every noise she heard, sounded like the trampling of horses, and then a universal trembling would seize her. She dreaded, yet wished for his arrival; and at every disappointment she sighed, and felt her heart sink with tender despondency.

Such were her agitations, till the evening being far advanced, she gave up all hope of his coming that night. Mr. Herbert had assigned a very pleasing reason for his visit being deferred till the next day; and, her mind growing more composed, she went in search of the good old man, who, Dolly told her, was gone to walk in the meadows behind the house; for she had kept herself out of his sight as much as possible, unwilling that he should observe her emotions. She saw him at a distance, walking with a slow pace, and she perceived he saw her; but to her great surprise, she saw him cross into another field, and take a quite contrary way, on purpose to avoid her.

Struck with this little accident, she stood still and paused a few moments: she felt herself strangely alarmed, yet wondered why she should be so, and took her way back again to the house with sad forebodings on her mind.

[To be continued.]

ESSAY ON THE Original Inhabitants of GREAT BRITAIN, CONTINUED.

IMmediately upon the marriage of Vortigern with the daughter of Hengist, great numbers of the northern nations, under the inclusive title of Saxons, hastened over to Britain, and the Britons received and paid them as confederates. Vortigern, by the persuasion of his father-in-law, assigned Northumberland for their residence. As their numbers increased, the payment of such fresh supplies grew burdensome to the Britons. They desired the Saxons to depart; and alledged that they were not able to maintain so many more troops than were stipulated by treaty, or were necessary for defence. The Saxons relished their present situation too well to exchange it: they refused to return; so that the Britons were compelled to rouze themselves from every symptom of lethargy, and to assume that glorious spirit of liberty, which, whenever exerted in a proper manner, renders the British nation a powerful, and a happy people. They unanimously rose up in arms against the Saxons, who were joined by the Scots and Picts. Many battles were fought, and great numbers of men were destroyed; woods were burnt, churches were demolished, and whole cities were depopulated. At length, many of the Saxons returned into Germany: Their return was owing to the warm reception which they met with from our ancestors. The Britons might be plundered, but could not be absolutely conquered: they might be forced or betrayed into slavery, but they had native strength sufficient soon to unshackle themselves, and to burst forth again into the plains of liberty. The Britons, as a national body, or as individual men, seldom failed to appear with remarkable lustre under misfortunes and oppressions. In milder times, they were either totally inactive, or impoliticly employed in disputes and animosities among themselves. They were naturally honest, indolent, and unsuspicious; too easily captivated with strangers; too hasty and irresolute, and, consequently, too easily led into danger and disasters. These were some of their earliest, and these will probably be some of their latest characteristics.

Nothing farther can be said with certainty: the latter end of Vortigern's reign is much obscured amidst fables and idle tales: he is generally described as a man much abandoned to his vices.

His son Vortimer is supposed to have deposed his father, or at least to have commanded the Britons against Hengist, Vortigern, and the Saxons: he is represented as a prince of a more amiable character than Vortigern. He died before his father; and, after his death, Vortigern reassumed the reins of government, and became again one of the chief monarchs of Britain. Hengist still remained king of Kent.

Vortigern was very unacceptable to his subjects: he shewed too great favour and partiality to the Saxons, who, by their cruelties, had rendered themselves exceedingly terrible and odious. Vortigern, finding himself uneasy on his throne, retired with his family into Wales, and was buried at a place in Caernarvonshire, which still bears the name of Vortigern's Grave [*].

The clouds of history are no where more obscure than at this period. The antient historians have mixed their narratives with legendary stories: the modern writers have been at the pains to mention those stories; the history is swelled, but the instruction from it is not encreased. The uncertainty of chronology is another most discouraging circumstance: the chronologists differ very widely from each other. Every author who treats of those times, fills his bucket, as he imagines, from the purest fountains; but tacitly endeavours to draw up some water from a different stream than any that has been discovered by his cotemporaries, or his predecessors.

Here it may not be improper to remind ourselves of the civil government that still subsisted among the Britons, since that government will soon be changed into another form.

The whole nation, as by the original constitution, was still divided into principalities. The principalities were very small: the head of each little colony was honoured sometimes, not always, with the pompous title of a king.

Several of these princes had been lately driven out of the kingdom by the outrages of the Saxons; and had been attended by great numbers of their subjects into Armorica [†]. They were received and protected by Aldroen, king of that country: but as soon as they heard that the majority of Saxons were departed towards Germany, many of the British princes, again attended by their subjects, came back, and settled themselves in the districts which they had formerly governed. Ambrosuis Aurelianus was of the number of those who returned. He was king of Wiltshire, and his chief residence was called Urbs Ambrosii: the name of the place (Amesbury) is still in a great measure retained. He was a young prince of Roman descent, and of a most excellent character; warlike, modest, and amiable. As some period must be affixt to his reign, although the beginning and end of it are both very uncertain, let us suppose, from various small glimmerings, if they even may be called glimmerings of probability, that it began in the year 465, and ended in the year 508. In this space of forty-three years the general historical records entirely consist of different battles and sieges between our ancestors and the Saxons, who had left Britain fully determined to return to a more effectual purpose.

The methods which the Saxons took to effect their views of conquest were gradual. From the year 437, Hengist bore the title of king of Kent: he reigned upwards of thirty years, and died, after various struggles with the Britons, in peaceful possession of his throne. He was succeeded by his son Esca; and from him sprung a line of kings amounting, Hengist included, to seventeen. The last of the kings of Kent was Baldred: he was driven out by Egbert, in the year 823.

The Saxons who had been settled in Northumberland, or dispersed in other parts of the kingdom, received continual accessions of strength by the arrival of their countrymen from Germany. These additional troops of supply came in small numbers, but they came often; till, by degrees, the most eminent chieftains appeared, and with them whole armies of followers and dependants.

Such was Ella, a Saxon of great power and dignity among his countrymen. He brought with him his two sons, and a very considerable force. He landed in Sussex in the year 477; and, after much opposition from the Britons, he conquered Sussex, and a great part of Surry. He did not assume the title of king during the life of Hengist, from whom he probably received great assistance in his conquests. He died in the year 514, after a reign of twenty-four years. His territories were called the kingdom of the South Saxons.

The third and next monarchy formed by these invaders, was the kingdom of the West-Saxons. The first of the West Saxon kings was Cerdic: he landed in the year 495. From the very day on which he landed, till the year 519, he was at war with the Britons. In these battles the success was various, and the loss on each side considerable: but Cerdic was constantly reinforced by fresh recruits from Germany. The Britons, who had no such advantages, were at last so effectually conquered, that Cerdic became possessed of a great part of Cornwall, and entirely of Devonshire, Dorsetshire, Wiltshire, Somersetshire, Hampshire, and Berkshire. He died in the year 534, and was succeeded by his son Cenric. The West-Saxon kings were in number seventeen, the last of whom became sole monarch of Britain.

The fourth kingdom of the heptarchy was that of the East-Saxons. The first monarch of that kingdom was Erkenwin. He began his reign in the year 527: he died in the year 560. His territories were Essex, Middlesex, and part of Hertfordshire.

Northumberland was the fifth kingdom of the heptarchy. It contained Lancashire, Yorkshire, the bishopric of Durham, Cumberland, Westmorland, Northumberland, and part of Scotland, as far as the frith of Edinburgh. Ida was the first Saxon king of these provinces. He began his reign in the year 547, and died in the year 559. After his death, the kingdom of Northumberland was otherwise divided.

The sixth was the kingdom of the East-Angles. It contained Norfolk, Suffolk, Cambridgeshire, and the isle of Ely. Uffa, the first monarch, began his reign in the year 575: he died in the year 582. This kingdom was united to Mercia in the year 793.

Mercia was the seventh, and the largest division of the Saxon heptarchy. It contained Gloucestershire, Herefordshire, Worcestershire, Warwickshire, Leicestershire, Rutlandshire, Northamptonshire, Lincolnshire, Huntingdonshire, Bedfordshire, Buckinghamshire, Oxfordshire, Staffordshire, Shropshire, Nottinghamshire, Cheshire, and part of Hertfordshire. Cridda, the first king, began his reign in the year 582, and died in 593. The fate of these several kingdoms needs not to be particularised: let us return to take a review of the Britons under the reign of Ambrosius.

Many of our historians are of opinion, that Ambrosius is the same person as Natan-leod, who is represented by the antient writers, as the greatest of the British kings. In that point the description answers the dignity of Ambrosius, who, whilst he lived, defended his territories with great magnanimity, and often with success.

Natan-leod was slain in a battle fought against the Saxons, near Charford, in Hampshire, when five thousand Britons were left dead upon the field.

But what shall be said of king Arthur? or at what time shall we suppose that he reigned? since his very existence itself is call'd in question; and since he has unfortunately been celebrated by so many fabulous writers, that his true history can never be known. That he existed is beyond all doubt, and that he reigned is a point which many authors have sufficiently proved: but the actions of this prince, although in themselves brave and glorious, are so outrageously magnified, that the real soldier is lost in the fictitious giant-killer; and the genuine and noble form of the hero is so utterly dissolved, that from a substance, it becomes a shadow. I will endeavour to extract, if possible, some gold from amidst the historical dross of these times. Probability must be my best assistant in the search.

Arthur was nearly related to Ambrosius, Aurelianus, perhaps directly descended from him. The beginning of Arthur's reign is assigned to the year 514. His coronation to the year 519. His victories over the Saxons are supposed to have been twelve in number; but the Saxons had already fixed themselves too deeply in our island to be rooted out by the strongest hand: nor was Arthur always victorious, otherwise he would scarce have yielded up by a treaty with Cerdic, the counties of Somerset and Southampton [*]; a cession which gave the West Saxons such great power, and such easy opportunities of encreasing their dominions, that in length of time, they absorb'd the rest of the heptarchy, and terminated the entire monarchy of Britain in their own sovereign, king Egbert.

Arthur was a native of South Wales: his memory has been ever held in particular veneration by the Welch. One of the highest mountains in Brecnockshire is called Arthur's chair [†], in honour of a prince who was remarkable pre-eminent. The first part of his life was prosperous, the latter end of it was unfortunate. During an expedition to the northern parts of the kingdom, where he was summoned to assist the Britons against the Saxons, he left his patrimonial dominions, which were Cornwall, Devonshire, and Dorsetshire, to the government and care of his nephew Mordred, who proved unfaithful to his trust, and possessed himself of the throne. Arthur returned into Cornwall, attended by a numerous army: an engagement ensued, Mordred was killed in the field of battle, Arthur was desperately wounded, and died soon afterwards, at the age of ninety years, seventy-six of which he had exercised in war. He was buried at Glastenbury, in Somersetshire, and with him was interred the glory of the Britons. Arthur's death is fixed by all authors, in the year 542.

As I have mentioned the Welch, it may not be improper in this place to give some short account of a people, who have constantly held themselves in a kind of separate and distinct state from the rest of the Britons. In the time of the Romans, the inhabitants of North Wales were called Ordovices, and those of South Wales were called Silures.

The counties of North Wales are Montgomeryshire, Merionethshire, Denbighshire, Flintshire, Carnarvonshire, and the isle of Anglesey.

The counties of South Wales, are Monmouthshire, Brecknockshire, Carmarthenshire, Glamorganshire, Cardiganshire, and Pembrokeshire.

The inhabitants of the forest of Dean, and of Herefordshire, were also called Silures, and those of Shropshire were reckoned among the Ordovices.

The Welch, or Cambrians were never entirely conquered: They had the same advantage as the Caledonians. When they found themselves too hard pressed, they retired within their mountains, and were safe. They were of more generous, and 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 less rapacious dispositions than the Scots: they were an high spirited people, easily provoked, and very sharp in resentment: they were hardy, like all mountaineers, well made, and robust in their persons: they were proud, not vain; fiery, not cruel: they married within their own tribes, and therefore are justly looked upon even to this day, as the truest and most ancient Britons. The Ordovices remained longer than the Silures, in the state of a commonwealth, independant of any single sovereign: but the whole kingdom of Cambria had certainly submitted to a regal government long before the arrival of the Saxons, and even before the departure of the Romans. Their sovereigns were all chosen by the people; but in what manner, I believe, cannot easily be known: and although their names may be enrolled in the records of Wales, their particular histories would be tedious and to no purpose. In the choice of Arthur, the Britons were entirely unanimous: he was an honour to the country where he was born, and a defence to the territories where he resided.

From the departure of the Romans, to the settlement of the Saxons, Christianity, by degrees, and at different periods, had made a considerable progress into various parts of Britain. The first step, and certainly a very wise one, was the establishment of schools, in which the Britons in their earliest time of life were taught the doctrines of religion, and the principles of moral virtues. From such seeds alone must spring every flourishing branch of civil government and order. A school under the conduct and care of Dubricius, is mentioned as one of considerable note in those times, Dubricius was a most religious man, of great abilities, and of indefatigable industry. He was first made bishop of Landaff, and was translated from thence in the year 512, by the authority of a synod, to the archbishoprick of Kaer-leon, or Chester. I mention this circumstance only to shew that the Christian church was then so well established in Britain, as to be divided into sees: and it will be found, upon looking into the voluminous historians of our nation, that monasteries had been erected, synods had been held, and even heresies, particularly those of Arian and Pelagius, had prevailed in Britain long before the perfection of the heptarchy. By the perfection, I mean the division of the kingdom into seven Saxon monarchies.

To give an history of the church, or to enter minutely into the ecclesiastical government, would be a laborious, and a very unprofitable undertaking; neither suitable to the intent of these papers, nor available in any material point whatever. To our happiness, and to our honour be it spoken, we have long ago thrown off the yoke of Rome: we have discovered her pretended miracles, and we have despised her idolatrous vanities. The memorials of her errors need not be minutely specified, unless when they are connected, or interwoven with the systems of the state.

The Saxons were descended from those Germans who are often mentioned by Caesar, and fully described by Tacitus; and who appeared under the denomination of Goths and Vandals, titles dreadful to learning, and all the civil arts of peace! 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 they were a rude, robust, warlike people; and subsisted under a kind of government, to which it would be difficult to appropriate any general name. It was neither oligarchy, monarchy, democracy, nor commonwealth. Tacitus, in his account of the Germans, says, De minoribus rebus principes consultant, de majoribus omnes. Ita tamen, ut ea quoque quorum penes plebem arbitrium est, apud principes pertractentur. ‘The chieftains debated solely upon matters of little consequence: in matters of importance, all the people were consulted; but in such a manner, that whatever was left to the decision of the people had first been digested by the chieftants.’ A little farther, the same historian tells us, Nihil autem neque publicae neque privatae rei nisi armati agunt. ‘They never transact any business, either of a public or a private nature, unless they are armed.’ Such were the aborigines of the Saxons, and from them is derived our Gothic custom of wearing swords in all public places, and in all visits of ceremony, even to our nearest friends and relations.

Whatever system of government might have prevailed among these northern nations, while they remained upon the continent, they were wise enough to perceive that the regal state was most natural, and agreeable to the disposition of the Britons. The first step of Hengist was to make himself king. Six other Saxon chieftains, whose names I have already mentioned, followed his example. The Britons fought often, and fought bravely in defence of their rights and privileges, particularly the liberty of chusing their own kings: they were overpowered by numbers; and time, often the best friend to conquest, inured them to Saxon monarchs, and to Saxon laws. Their own customs were forgotten, and the customs and religion of the conquerors were received. They even lost their name; and, from the Angles, will be called English, as long as the nation shall subsist.

The Saxons apparently laid the foundation of that mighty pillar of our state, a parliament: at least the basis of it seems to have been built upon the Saxon Wittena-Gemot. The column indeed has since been formed and fluted with all the power and skill of architecture; and when a sovereign is properly placed upon the capital, the justness of the several parts, and the exactness and beauty of the proportions will be universally admired, except by those who think the king a superficial ornament. The Wittena-Gemot of the Saxons was an assembly in which all public and private business was transacted. Leagues of alliance and affinity with other nations were there determinately passed: inconveniencies were remedied, and rights were established, and sanctified by law. The assembly was composed of king, lords, and freemen. The debates were concluded by votes, and the numbers were determined by voices, unless when the noise was doubtful, and the majority uncertain: in that case the votes were taken severally.

In the year 596, Augustine the monk, since known by the name of St. Austin, was peremptorily sent into England by Pope Gregory the first, to convert the Saxons from Paganism to Christianity: he was attended by a company of Missionaries, his brethren, of whom he was the chief: they landed in the isle of Thanet, and soon afterwards proceeded to Canterbury, where king Ethelbert and his court then resided. They were received favourably by the king: a part of the city of Canterbury was assigned for their habitation, and they were permitted to preach the gospel throughout the dominion of Kent. Augustine had undertaken the journey unwillingly: he had once absolutely refused it, and had returned back to Rome, frightened at the terrible accounts which were given of our ancestors. Gregory, who had undoubted assurances, that the English were ready to embrace Christianity, spirited up the timorous monk to pursue his intended journey, and the event proved so successful, that before the end of the year, more than ten thousand English were converted. Among these was Ethelbert, king of Kent, who was looked upon as the superior king of the Saxons. In his conversion he was probably influenced by his queen Bertha, a princess of great piety, a daughter of France, and perhaps the only daughter of France who was ever of real advantage to England.

From this period, Christianity, which had been much repulsed, and damped, since the arrival of the Saxons, began to shine out, sometimes in greater, and at other times in lesser degrees of lustre. Many of the Saxon kings were zealous christians: their sons and successors often returned to paganism. But the indefatigable industry of the Romish priests, the dexterity with which they performed their miracles, the natural enthusiasm, doubts, and timid disposition of mankind, were all circumstances that tended, not indeed to introduce the doctrines of Christ, but to establish and encrease the power of the pope, and to inculcate an implicit submission to priests of every degree and order; and most especially to monks. It pleases God to permit us to worship him in all the errors and infirmities of our nature: such is his will, and his will be done!

From the arrival of St. Augustine, to the end of the heptarchy, by the establishment of a single monarch over the whole kingdom of England, is a space of about two hundred and thirty years. Throughout that period we might expect to find many remarkable events in a monarchy, consisting of seven royal branches; but scarce any part of the English history is more sapless and unfruitful. The scenes which heretofore represented civil wars between the native Britons, were now only changed into civil wars between those Britons, and the engrafted Saxons. The ambition and restlessness of the several kings prevented an union in the general system of government. Each monarch strove to extend his territories, and to enlarge his rights. We are at a loss to know in what particulars these rights consisted. If from the materials of history that remain to us, we can form any exact notion of the rules of policy, by which the heptarchy was guided, we may conclude that one of the seven monarchs was superior to the rest: a kind of president to the regal council. All matters of importance, or relative to private property, were to be laid before him; but each of the other kings had an equal right of choice in every single transaction that required approbation or dissent. The principal members of the Wittena-Gemot had no less a right of giving their voices, in points where the general welfare of the nation was included. This seems to have been the Saxon form of government; and it is easy to suppose, that the different prerogatives not only of the several kings, but of the individual members who composed the assembly, might often clash, and give continual occasions for those feuds and contests, which are the principal records that occur to us in all accounts of the heptarchy.

[To be continued.]

Notes

*
Where some years ago was found a stone chest, with the corpse of a very tall man enclosed, says Mr. Carte.
↵

†
Bretaigne, a province of France.
↵

*
Hampshire.
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†
Cadair Arthur.
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THE HISTORY OF BIANCA CAPELLO CONCLUDED.

THE furious Buonaventuri would not let her go on; but starting up, and running to her in a fury, said, ‘Go hang yourself, and then howl to those that will hear you in the other world: in this, I'll follow my own way; therefore do not pretend to whine to me, but take care of yourself, who are in more danger; for do you think, strumpet, that I won't cut off that golden horn, which you have placed on my head, by stopping your windpipe with a knife one day or other.’

In the mean time the grand Duke being returned to his palace, could not rest there, having observed in Bianca, (in spite of all her endeavours to hide it,) a great concern at his late discourse; and impatient to give some satisfaction either to her or himself, returned back; and not finding her in her apartment, softly descended the back-stairs, from the door of which he overheard every word that had passed: and Pietro thus answering his wife, in a great rage turned his back, and went out of the house. Deaf to all her calls, and despising all her care, he left her overwhelmed with grief and tears; in which she retired to her own apartment, without knowing Francisco had been there, he having taken care to mount the stair-case first, and get out of sight.

Here she gave a loose to all her sorrows, enumerating all her misfortunes, and lamenting the hour that brought her to the light of this world, where she was doom'd to find them; and in a flood of tears, gave vent to the passion that filled her breast. Long would these reflections have employed her time and thoughts, had not the grand Duke interrupted them, who coming into the room, and appearing ignorant of the matter, asked the cause; saying, ‘To what are owing these tears, and these complaints? dearer than my soul, tell me what misfortune has befallen you?’ ‘Nothing, sir, said she, occasions my concern but compassion for my husband, who as you have commanded, I have admonished; but he seems so little to regard his safety, that I fear some mischief will attend him.’

‘Is it nothing but that, (replied the grand Duke,) Oh, let him follow his own inclination, and at last he will find the consequence: but why will you afflict and torment yourself for what you cannot prevent? a torrent must have way, or they that try to stop it may be drowned in it: Buonaventuri is headstrong, and void of understanding, which will inevitably draw on his fate, if he does not quickly change his manners.’

Yet after all this, the desperate Pietro, full of indignation and revenge, meeting Ruberto Ricci next day at the column of the Santa Trinita, where he was talking with two other gentlemen; he clapt a pistol to his breast, saying, ‘I don't know what hinders me, despicable, infamous wretch that you are, from shooting you this minute through the heart: but stay and hear what I have to say to you, for you shall not escape me. I will go to your aunt, as often as I please, in defiance of you; and if ever I know, or but guess, that you make the least murmur or complaint to the grand Duke, you shall not live an hour after it.’

Ricci being unarmed, and thus accosted, remained immoveable as a statue, till the other had done speaking, and then, without the least reply, went with his companions immediately to the grand Duke, who was at the Casino, where he declared to him all that had passed just before at the Column; to which the two gentlemen witnessing, the grand Duke, (who remembered his threats to his wife,) no longer doubting of his unbounded brutality, thought within himself, that there was no more time to be lost in inflicting on Pietro the punishment he deserved; and taking Ricci apart, they talked together for some time in the garden, where the grand Duke having given him what directions he thought proper, sent him away, and the next morning by times mounting on horseback, rode to his villa of Pratolino, where he stayed all that day and the next night. The result of their conference was, that Ricci should get together twelve companions, all men well armed, strong, and resolute; some of whom had cutlasses of such a temper, that with one stroke, they were able to cut off the head of a bull; for he knew that Buonaventuri was ever provided with pistols, and other arms from head to foot, in which equipage, he constantly went in the night to Bongianna's house, not returning home till very late; so that in order to be sure of his prey, he divided his company, setting two or more in different places, through which Pietro might pass; and his page (who personally knew him) as centinel at the beautiful bridge of la Santa Trinita, to give notice when he should be there, for which Ruberto waited with great impatience, after he had made this disposition of his forces.

And now the unlucky lover having spent the night with his mistress, rose before break of day, and taking leave of her went slowly to his own house. As he was walking over the bridge, the page gave two whistles, and then cry'd, alo! alo! the accustomed noise of the Florentine ruffians in those days: at this the fierce Pietro, though unused to fear, felt some presage of his approaching fate; and taking in his left hand a pistol, held it ready cocked, and with his drawn sword in his right, passed the bridge, that led directly to the great gate of his palace; but as his apartment was on the ground-floor, the door to it lay on the other side of the house; so that he was obliged, after descending the bridge, to turn down a little street, on the left hand of which, within a stone's throw, was the entrance that he always kept the key of. Meeting in this narrow passage two armed men, he did not immediately think they had any design on him; but going a little farther, he saw four more, who stopt his way, and these having joined the two first, six others started out and encompassed him, with Ricci in the midst, crying out, kill, kill, the infamous traitor. Buonaventuri knowing his voice, threw his cloak to the ground, and firing his pistol, hit one of them; but whilst he was taking another out of his pocket, they all fell on him at once; yet by means of his armour, he escaped for some time, making a very brave defence, and had already wounded two of them, when the assailants renewing their attack, by the advantage of their short arms, and the closeness of the street, struck him at every blow, so that being driven to the wall, he could do little damage with his sword: but as Ricci got under it, thinking to end him, he exerted all his force for one blow, and cut him quite thorough his iron head-piece to his skull; at the sight of which a cousin of Ricci's, with a back stroke, wounded Pietro in the face, and repeating it with a second, split one side of his head, so that his brains stuck to the wall. Buonaventuri finding himself dying, said, oh! no more for mercy, since I am dead, and dropt down; after which they all fell on him, stabbing him in every part which his armour did not cover, and there left him, with no less than five and thirty mortal wounds. Ricci, as fast as he could, got to the palace of the princess Isabella, where, though his hurt was dangerous, he was by the help of a good surgeon, cured in a short time.

Not far from the place where this bloody scene was acted, stood an apothecary's shop, the people of which, having heard the clash of arms and noise of men, with two of their boys, as it drew near day, went to see what was the matter, and there found the unfortunate Pietro bathed in his blood upon the ground, and by same faint short sighs, could just perceive he was not quite dead: upon which they run for a light, and immediately conveyed him to the nearest church, named St. Jacopo, which stands upon the river Arno.

The sun was no sooner up than the death of Buonaventuri was spread about the whole city; and coming to the ears of the poor deluded, but still affectionate Bianca, almost distracted her. She, with the utmost violence of passion, was ready to destroy herself, in order to follow him; which perhaps in the first rage of sorrow she might have done, (notwithstanding the endeavours of all her friends and acquaintance who came to comfort her,) if the great Duke had not arrived at that juncture, to restrain and pacify her, which even he found difficulty in doing.

The next night after this had happened, as soon as it was quite dark, two armed men masked got into Bongianna's house by the tiles, and cutting her throat left her dead on the floor: such was the miserable end of these thoughtless lovers, and such the revenge taken by this lady's relations, for the infamy she had brought upon them.

The grand Duke, that he might not seem to know of this execution, put on all the appearance of anger and inquisition after the actors in it; but took care they never should be discovered, so that by degrees the affair was dropt; and Ricci unsuspected went about as before.

Time, which alleviates all affliction, had now restored Bianca to herself, whose charms and merits the Grand Duke grew every day more sensible of; and reflecting that his love alone had obscured her virtues, which in themselves were both great and many, and that her birth, though not royal, was illustrious, resolved to give the utmost proof of a sincere passion, by sharing his power and title with her who had already all his heart; and on the evening of the 22d of June, 1579, publicly married her; commanding the senate of forty eight, to do her homage as grand Dutchess, and the next day she went out as such, with the German guard, and a train of eight coaches. To compleat her glory, the senate of Venice, when they heard she was become great Dutchess of Tuscany, not only repealed their former acts against her, but made a new one, by which she was adopted daughter of that state, which sent a solemn embassy with it to the grand Duke, and a dowry suitable to the dignity they had given her.

When the sudden marriage of Francisco was effected, the cardinal Ferdinando, his next brother, resided at Rome, where he received the news of it with the greatest indignation, his haughty soul not enduring any alliance below that of a crowned head; and he esteemed his blood so much disgraced by this marriage, that he set a thousand machines at work, to take away (what he called) the shame of his family, by the death of Bianca; whom he oftentimes attempted to poison, either by means of her servants, or presents that he sent her. His designs by one accident or other, being discovered, made her very cautious, nor was he less suspicious of her, fearing to meet the same fate he had designed to give; so that a mutual hate reign'd in both, though both disguised it, out of regard to the grand Duke.

It happened one time amongst others, that the cardinal being at Florence, and they all dining together, the grand Dutchess had that morning taken a fancy to make a tart with her own hands, which, towards the latter end of the dinner was served up with other things of the same sort; and when Ferdinando was desired to taste of it, he put it off, and began some gay discourse, that he might not appear to have any thought about it. At last the grand Duke, (after having asked his brother several times to taste what Bianca had made,) said, since none else will begin, I must, and took a piece and eat it: after which the grand Dutchess did the like, and the conversation continued for some time with the same good humour, when all of a sudden they both felt such violent and strong pains in their bowels, that they were obliged to retire to their apartment, and go to bed; where they waited in vain for remedies and physicians, the cardinal having given strict commands, that none should come near them, himself and his creatures keeping guard at the doors for that purpose; whilst the poor unhappy princes expired in tortures, on the 28th of October, 1586. He buried them by each other, with all due honours: himself renouncing the cardinal's hat, was immediately acknowledged grand Duke of Tuscany; through all which he caused a report to be spread, that Bianca Capello intended to poison him, which he pretended he discovered by means of a ring he always wore, the stone in it being of a nature to change colour at the approach of poison; and so he avoided tasting the tart, which she seeing her husband do, rather than outlive him, or discover her treachery, chose to eat the rest; but however this story was strengthened by authority, very few believed it; for besides the improbability of her killing herself, with that coolness, when she might have found a hundred pretences to hinder Francisco from eating the tart, without discovering herself, (and would no doubt if she had known it to be poisoned) many circumstances concurred to make it plainly a contrivance of the cardinals, who had bribed the servant that provided the materials for the tart, to put poison amongst them. But as Francisco dying without a son, left Ferdinando his heir, the nobles thought it wiser to receive with a good grace their living prince, than hazard their safeties, by a vain inquiry after the dead one, tho' a man beloved and esteemed, a fine gentleman and great governor, all the arts and sciences being in perfection in his time, as may be seen by their best poets and historians, who all dedicated their works to him.

THE HISTORY OF THE COUNT DE COMMINGE CONTINUED.

AFTER suffering fifteen days the agonies of a most violent fever, I began, tho' by slow degrees, to recover. The first thing I did when I was able to attend to any thing, was to seek for the letter I had received from Adelaida. My mother, who had taken it from me, for fear it should increase my affliction, was obliged to restore it to me. After I had read it several times, I put it into a little silk bag, and placed it on my heart, where I had always kept her picture; and whensoever I was alone, it was always my employment to gaze upon that lovely picture, and read that letter.

My mother, who was of a soft and tender disposition, shared my grief: she likewise thought it best to yield to my first transports, and leave it to time to finish my cure. She permitted me to speak of Adelaida, and sometimes was the first to mention her to me; and perceiving that the only thing which gave me consolation was the thought of being loved by her, she told me that it was she herself that had determined Adelaida to marry.

‘I ask your pardon, my dear son, said she, for the grief I have caused you; I did not imagine you would have felt her loss so deeply. I trembled for your health, and even your life, while you continued under that cruel confinement. I knew your father's inflexible temper, and was convinced he would never set you at liberty while there was a possibility of your marrying mademoiselle de Lussan. I resolved to speak to that generous young lady: I told her my fears for your health; she partook in them, she felt them perhaps with more force than I did. From that moment I saw her use every endeavour to hasten her marriage; for her father, justly irritated at the proceedings of monsieur de Comminge, had long pressed her to marry: hitherto she had resisted his solicitations, and even his commands. I asked her which of those persons who addressed her, she would chuse? It matters not which, replied she; they are all equal to me, since I cannot be his to whom I have given my heart. Two days after I had this conservation with her, I learned that the marquis de Benavides was preferred to all his rivals; every one was surprised at her choice, and I as much as any other. Benavides has a disagreeable person, his understanding is mean, and his temper extremely bad: this last circumstance made me tremble for poor Adelaida. I was resolved to tell her my apprehensions: I went for that purpose to the house of the countess de Garlande, where we used to meet.’

‘I am prepared, said she, for misery, but I must marry; and since I know it is the only means of procuring your son's liberty, I reproach myself every moment that I delay this sacrifice: yet this marriage, which I consent to only for his sake, will perhaps be the most cruel of his misfortunes. I will at least convince him by my choice, that his interest was the sole motive which engaged me to it. Pity me, dear Madam, I deserve your pity; and, by my behaviour to Mons. Benavides, I will endeavour to render myself worthy of your esteem.’

My mother afterwards told me, that Adelaida was made acquainted by my father himself, with my having burnt the writings: he publicly upbraided her with it on the day that he lost his process. ‘She confessed to me, added my mother, that she was more affected with your extreme delicacy in concealing so generous an action, than with the action itself.’ We passed the days in such conversations: my melancholy was excessive; yet, tho' deprived of hope, I found a kind of sweetness in the idea of my being still loved.

After a stay of two months, my mother received orders from my father to return to him. He had expressed no concern for my illness, and his cruel treatment of me had extinguished every sentiment of tenderness for him. My mother pressed me to go with her; but I intreated her to consent to my staying in the country: she yielded to my reasons, and left me. I was now once more alone in the midst of my woods, and found so much sweetness in solitude, that I would then have abandoned every thing, and taken up my habitation in some hermit's cell, had I not been restrained by my tenderness for my mother. I often resolved to endeavour to see Adelaida, but the fear of displeasing her stopt me. At length after long irresolution, I thought I might at least attempt to see Adelaida without being seen by her.

Accordingly, I resolved to send a person in whom I could confide to Bourdeaux, to know where she was, and for this purpose I fixed upon a man who had attended me from my infancy. My mother, during my illness, had restored him to his place about me: he had been with me at the baths; he knew Adelaida; and when I mentioned my design to him, he informed me that he had friends in the house of Benavides. After having given him his orders, which I repeated a thousand times, I caused him to set out from the castle. When he arrived at Bourdeaux, he was informed that Benavides had carried his lady a short time after his marriage to an estate which he had in Biscay. Saint Laurent, for that was my servant's name, wrote to me to know what he was to do next: I sent him orders to go immediately into Biscay. My desire of seeing Adelaida was so much increased by the hope I had conceived, that it was not possible for me to oppose it any longer.

Saint Laurent returned at the expiration of six weeks, which my anxiety and impatience had lengthened into so many ages. He told me, that, after many fruitless attempts, Benavides having occasion for an architect, he had prevailed upon his friend to present him to him in that quality; that having acquired some knowledge of the art from an uncle, under whose care he had been brought up, he made no scruple to undertake the business Benavides employed him in. ‘I believe, said he, that Madame de Benavides knew me, for she blushed when she first saw me.’

He then told me that she lived the most retired and melancholy life imaginable: that her husband hardly ever quitted her a moment; and that it was said in the house, he was excessively fond of her; but that he gave her no other proof of it, than by his extreme jealousy, which he carried so far, that even his brother had not the liberty of seeing her, but when he was present. I asked my servant some questions about that brother; he told me that he was a very amiable young man, and that the world spoke as much in his favour as they did to the disadvantage of Benavides; and that he appeared to be greatly attached to his sister-in-law.

This discourse made no impression upon me at that time; the unhappy situation of Madame de Benavides, and the desire of seeing her, employed my whole soul. Saint Laurent assured me he had taken proper measures for introducing me into the house of Benavides. ‘He has occasion for a painter, said he to me, to paint an apartment: I promised to bring a good one, and you must undertake this business.’

Nothing now remained but to regulate our departure; I wrote to my mother, and told her I was going to pass some time at the house of one of my friends. This done I set out with Saint Laurent for Biscay: during our journey, I was continually asking him questions concerning Madame de Benavides; I was desirous of knowing the slightest particulars relating to her. Saint Laurent was not able to satisfy my curiosity; he had but few opportunities of seeing her: she was shut up in her own apartment, with no other company but a little dog, of which she was extremely fond. This article touched me particularly: I had presented her with that dog, and I flattered myself that she loved it for my sake. These little things, which escape one in good fortune, affect one sensibly in misery: the heart, in the need it has of consolation, fastens upon every thing which is likely to afford it.

Saint Laurent often mentioned to me the great attachment of young Benavides to his sister-in-law; he added, that he often opposed the furious sallies of his brother's temper, and, but for his good offices, Adelaida would be still more miserable than she was. He earnestly intreated me to be contented with the pleasure of seeing her, and to make no attempt to speak to her, ‘not because it would endanger your life, added he: that, I know, is too weak a motive to restrain you; but because she will suffer by any imprudence you may be guilty of.’

The liberty of seeing Adelaida appeared to me so great a blessing, that I was fully persuaded that alone would satisfy me, and resolved within myself, and promised Saint Laurent, to behave with the utmost circumspection. After a most tedious journey, as my impatience made it seem, we arrived at Biscay, and was presented to Benavides, who set me to work immediately.

The supposed architect and I were lodged in the same apartment, and to him was committed the care of overseeing the workmen. I had been several days at work before I saw madame de Benavides; at length I perceived her one evening from a window in my own room going to walk in the garden. She had only her little favourite dog with her: her dress was negligent, a kind of languishing melancholy appeared in her looks and motions, and her fine eyes seemed to dwell on the objects around her, without regarding them. Oh heavens! what sweetly painful emotions did my soul feel at the sight of her. I continued leaning on the window the whole time she staid in the garden: it was dark when she returned; so that I could not distinguish her when she passed by my window, but my heart knew it was her.

I saw her a second time in the chapel of the castle; I placed myself in such a manner, that I could look at her the whole time without being observed. She never once turned her eyes upon me: I ought to have rejoiced at this circumstance, since I well knew that if she discovered me, she would be obliged to go out of the chapel; yet I was afflicted at it, and returned to my chamber in greater disquiet than when I left it. I had not yet formed any design of making myself known to her; but I was sensible that I should not be able to resist doing it, if an opportunity offered.

The sight of young Benavides gave me likewise some kind of uneasiness; he often came to see me work, and notwithstanding the seeming distance of our rank, he behaved to me with an obliging familiarity, which ought to have excited my esteem; yet it had no effect on me. His great merit, and the amiableness of his person, which I could not but be sensible of, with-held my gratitude. I was afraid of a rival in him, and a certain impassioned sadness that I perceived in him, which was too like my own not to proceed from the same cause, gave me a suspicion which he soon confirmed.

After asking me one day several questions relating to my condition in life; ‘You are in love, (said he to me, sighing imperceptibly to himself,) the melancholy in which I perceive you continually plunged, persuades me that your heart is not well: tell me the truth; can I do any thing for you? The miserable in general have a claim to my compassion; but there is one sort of grief which I pity more than any other.’ I believe I thanked Don Gabriel, (that was his name,) with a very ill grace, for the kind offers he made to me; however, I could not help owning to him that I was in love: but I told him that time only could produce any change in the state of my fortune. ‘You are not absolutely unhappy, replied he, since you may hope for a change; I know persons who are much more to be pitied than you.’

When I was alone I reflected upon the conversation that had passed betwen Don Gabriel and myself; I concluded that he was in love, and that his charming sister-in-law was the object of his passion: his whole behaviour, which I examined with the utmost attention, convinced me I was not mistaken; I observed him always assiduous about Adelaida; he gazed on her with eyes like mine, yet I was not jealous: my esteem for Adelaida would not admit of such an injurious sentiment; but I could not help fearing, that the company of an agreeable man, who was continually rendering her services that softened the horrors of her present situation, would make her reflections on me be greatly to my disadvantage, whose passion had been productive of nothing but misfortunes to her.

I was full of these thoughts, when one day I saw Adelaida enter the room where I was painting, led by Don Gabriel. ‘Why, said she, do you press me to come and look at the ornaments of this apartment? you know I have no taste for these things.’ ‘I hope, madam, (said I, looking earnestly upon her, and bowing low,) that if you will deign to cast your eyes upon what is here, you will find something not unworthy your attention.’

Adelaida, struck with the sound of my voice, turned instantly towards me. I perceived she knew me, for she blushed and bent her eyes on the ground, and, after pausing a moment, she left the room without giving me a look, saying, that the smell of the paint was disagreeable to her.

I remained behind, terrified, confused, and overwhelmed with grief. Adelaida had not deigned to give me a second look; she would not even shew that she was enough interested in my disguise to express any signs of resentment at it. What have I done, said I, I am indeed come hither contrary to her commands; but if she still loves me, she would pardon a fault that proceeded from the excess of my passion for her. I now concluded, that since Adelaida no longer loved me, she must of necessity have bestowed her heart upon another. This idea filled me with a grief so new and violent, that I thought I had never been truly miserable till then.

Saint Laurent, who came from time to time to see me, entering the room that moment, found me in an agitation that made him tremble. ‘What ails you, sir, said he to me, what has happened to you?’ ‘I am undone, replied I; Adelaida no longer loves me: she no longer loves me, repeated I; it is but too true, alas! I never had reason to complain of my fate till this cruel moment: what torment would I now endure to purchase this blessing which I have lost! this blessing which I preferred to all things, and which in the midst of my greatest miseries, filled my heart with so soft a joy.’

I continued a long time to exclaim in this manner, while Saint Laurent in vain endeavoured to draw from me the cause of my grief. At length I related to him what had happened. ‘I see nothing in all this, said he, which ought to drive you to the despair I see you in. Madam de Benavides is certainly offended at your rash attempt. She was desirous of punishing you by appearing indifferent; and perhaps she was apprehensive of betraying herself, if she had looked upon you.’

‘No, no, interrupted I, they who love have no such command over themselves in those first emotions; the heart alone is listened to. I must see her, added I, I must reproach her with her change. Alas! after giving herself to another, ought she to take away my life by so cruel an indifference? why did she not leave me in my prison, there I should have been happy, had I been assured of her love.’

Saint Laurent fearing that any one should see me in the condition I was in, obliged me to retire to the chamber where we both lay. I past the whole night in tormenting myself; my thoughts were at strife with each other; in one moment I condemned my suspicions, and the next relapsed into them again. I thought it unjust to wish that Adelaida should preserve a tenderness which rendered her miserable. In those moments, I reproached myself for loving her less than my own satisfaction. ‘Why should I wish to live, said I to Saint Laurent, if she loves another: I will endeavour to speak to her, only to bid her an eternal adieu: she shall hear no reproaches from my mouth; my grief, which I cannot conceal from her, shall speak for me.’

When this point was resolved upon, it was agreed that I should leave Biscay as soon as I should have an interview with her; we then began to consider upon the necessary means of procuring it. Saint Laurent told me that we must seize the first opportunity that offered, when Don Gabriel went to hunt, as he often did, and Benavides was employed in his domestic affairs; for which he always set apart two mornings in the week. He then made me promise, that to avoid giving any suspicion, I should go on with my painting, as usual; but that I should likewise declare, that I was under a necessity of returning soon to my own country.

Accordingly I resumed my former employment. I had almost, without perceiving it, some hope that Adelaida would come again into that apartment; every noise that I heard gave me an emotion I was scarce able to bear. In this situation I remained several days, and then losing all hope of seeing Adelaida in that manner, I eagerly sought for some moment in which I might be so fortunate as to find her alone. At length this moment came; I was going as usual to my work, when I saw Adelaida passing to her own apartment. I knew that Don Gabriel went out early that morning to hunt, and I had heard Benavides talking in a low hall of the castle, to one of his farmers; so that I was pretty certain of finding her alone.

I entered her apartment with so much precipitation, that Adelaida saw me not till I was very near her: she would have retired to her closet as soon as she perceived me, but I catched hold of her robe, and prevented her. ‘Do not fly from me, madam, said I to her, suffer me this last time to enjoy the blessing of beholding you: I shall never importune you more. I am going far from you, to die with grief for the miseries I have been the cause of to you; and for the loss of your heart. I wish Don Gabriel may be more fortunate than I have been.’

Adelaida, whose surprise had hitherto prevented her from speaking, interupted me at these words, and giving me a look of mingled tenderness and anger, ‘What, said she, dare you make me reproaches? dare you suspect me?—you—.’ The tone with which she pronounced these last words, brought me instantly at her feet. ‘No, my dear Adelaida, interupted I, no, I have no suspicion that is injurious to you: pardon a few distracted words, which my heart disavows.’

‘I pardon you all, said she to me, provided you depart immediately, and never attempt to see me more. Reflect, that it is for your sake I am the most miserable creature in the world; would you give me cause to reproach myself with being the most criminal.’ ‘I will do every thing you command me, replied I, but only promise that you will not hate me.’

Although Adelaida had several times desired me to rise, yet I still continued at her feet. To those who truly love, this attitude has a thousand secret charms. I was still kneeling, when Benavides suddenly opened the chamber door. Transported with rage, he flew towards his wife, and drawing his sword, "Thou shalt die, perfidious woman," cried he, and would have infallibly killed her, had I not thrown myself between them, and put by his sword with my own.

‘Wretch! cried Benavides, you first shall feel my vengeance,’ and at the same time gave me a wound on my shoulder. I did not love life well enough to be solicitous for the preservation of it; but my hatred to Benavides would not suffer me to abandon it to his fury: this cruel attempt upon the person of his wife, deprived me almost of reason. I threw myself upon him, and plunging my sword in his body, he fell at my feet without sense or motion. The servants, drawn by the cries of madame de Benavides, entered the room that moment, and several of them throwing themselves upon me, disarmed me, while I made no effort to defend myself. The sight of madame de Benavides bathed in tears, and kneeling by her husband, left me no sensibility of any thing but her grief. I was dragged out of her chamber into another, and the door fastened upon me.

There it was, that delivered up to my own reflections, I saw the abyss into which I had plunged madame de Benavides: the death of her husband, killed before her eyes, and killed by me, could not fail of giving rise to suspicions against her. How did I not reproach myself! I had been the cause of her first misfortunes, and I had now completed her ruin by my imprudence. My imagination continually represented to me the dreadful condition in which I had left her. I acknowledge that she had just reasons to hate me, and I did not murmur at it. The only consolation I had, was in the hope that I was not known. The idea of being taken for an assassin, and a robber, which on any other occasion would have made me tremble with horror, now gave me joy. Adelaida knew the innocence of my, intentions, and Adelaida was the whole world to me.

Impatient to be interrogated, that I might clear the honour of Adelaida, I passed several hours in the most racking inquietude: in the middle of the night my chamber door was opened, and I saw Don Gabriel enter.

(To be continued.)

TREATISE ON THE EDUCATION of DAUGHTERS CONTINUED.

CHAP. IV. Indirect Instructions, and that Children ought not to be urged.

I AM persuaded it would be right to make frequent use of such indirect instructions, as are not so tiresome as lessons and remonstrances, meerly to awaken their attention to those examples we would lay before them.

One person may sometimes say to another in their hearing, why did you act in that manner? and the other may answer, for such and such a reason: for instance, why did you acknowledge your fault? because it would have been a greater to disavow it meanly by the help of a lie; and nothing sounds handsomer than to say frankly, I was in the wrong; upon this, let the first commend him for thus passing sentence upon himself: but all this should be carried without affectation; for children have more penetration than is generally thought, and as sure as they discover any artifice in their governors, they fall off from that simplicity and reliance so natural to them.

We have formerly remarked that the brain of infants is very hot and moist, which therefore subjects them to be in continual motion. This softness of the brain is the reason why the images of all sensible objects impress themselves thereon very easily, and in very lively characters: we should not let slip this opportune season; but then, be careful in our choice of the images to be engraved, for in a receptacle so small and so precious, none but very valuable things ought to be deposited; nothing but what we may wish to remain there during life. The first let of images engraven while the brain is so soft, and entirely unoccupied, are always the deepest: as it dries they harden, and become indelible; hence it is, that though grown old, we remember the passages of our youth, through a long space of time, distinctly; but those of our more advanced age, in a much slighter manner, because those traces were drawn in the brain already dried and marked with many other figures.

Perhaps this kind of reasoning will with difficulty be admitted; nevertheless, it is certain every one talks in this way without perceiving it: do we not say every day, I have taken my biass, I am too old to change, I was brought up to this? and besides, is there not a particular pleasure in recalling the images of our youth? the strongest inclinations, are they not such as were taken at that age? and does not all this prove that the first impressions and first habits are the most prevalent?

Now, though infancy is the fittest season for engraving images on the brain, yet it must be confessed, not to be the same with respect to reasoning: that humidity, which so easily admits impression, being joined to a great degree of warmth, is productive of an unsettledness that is an enemy to close application: their brain is in the condition of a lighted taper, exposed to the air; its flame perpetually wavering: a child asks a question, and before you can answer, his eyes are upon the wainscot, counting all the figures painted there; or all the pieces of glass that compose the windows. To force him back to his first object, is, as it were, to put him in confinement. So then it behoves us with great care to temporise with the organs till they are grown firm; answer his question directly, and let him ask others as he likes; entertain his curiosity only, and furnish his memory with a stock of good materials. The time will come when they will assemble of themselves, and the brain having obtained a consistence, the child will reason of course; at which time, when he happens not to reason justly, confine yourself to setting him right, and letting him see, without emotion, as he shall give you an opportunity, what it is to draw a true consequence. Suffer a child therefore, to have his play, and mingle instruction with it, that wisdom may not shew herself to him but at intervals, and ever with a smiling countenance: take care, I say, of tiring him with indiscrete exactness:

If a child once forms to himself a frightful and gloomy idea of virtue, if self-will and irregularity appear to his eyes in a pleasing shape, all is lost; your endeavours are in vain: therefore keep him ever from the flatteries of the narrow-minded and the profligate. We grow to love the manners and sentiments of the persons we love; the pleasure found for the time in the company of immoral people, draws us on by degrees to esteem those very qualities in them which are most to be abominated.

In order to give children a liking to the well-disposed, bring them to remark all that in them is both amiable and profitable; their sincerity, their modesty, their disinterestedness, fidelity, and discretion; but above every thing, their piety, which is the source of all. Should it happen that any such have something about them disagreeable and disgusting, you may say, these defects take not their rise from Piety; she eradicates, or at least abates them.

Though you should keep strict watch over yourself never to let him see in you ought but what is right, yet expect not that your defects will escape him; frequently he will perceive some of your minutest failings. St. Austin tells us, that he in his infancy remarked the vanity of his masters in their respective professions. The best step you can take, and the most important, is, to be as well acquainted with your own defects as will the child, and to get some sincere friends to advertise you of them. Generally speaking, those who have the government of children, pardon nothing in them, and every thing in themselves; this excites in the young ones a spirit of criticism and ill-nature, insomuch, that when ever they can espie any fault in the governor, they are quite delighted; what they want is, a reason to hold him in contempt. Avoid this inconvenience, nor fear to speak of your visible defects, nor of the errors that have escaped you in his presence: as you find him capable of hearing reason, say that you are desirous to set him an example of correcting his errors by correcting your own. Thus will you draw from your imperfections themselves matter of instruction and edification for the child, and give him courage to bear correction; thus will you escape that contempt and disgust which your failings might give him for your person.

At the same time it is necessary to take all methods to render the things you require of him agreeable; suppose some particular one should be in its nature unpleasant, assure him that his trouble will be followed with satisfaction; explain the usefulness of what you would teach him; shew him the relation it bears to the commerce of the world, and the duties of his station; without this, study will appear an abstract, barren, and thorny piece of work; to what purpose, will they say to themselves, is it to learn all these things which are never mentioned in conversation, and have no relation to what one is obliged to do. It is necessary therefore to give them the reason for teaching them: it is, we may say, to put you in a capacity of doing well, what one day will be your duty. It is to form your judgment; it is to use you to reason well upon the affairs of life. One should always place in their view some truly useful and agreeable end, that will keep up the spirit of application; but never pretend to force them to it by meer tyrannical authority.

Never assume, without extreme necessity, an austere and imperious air, such as makes children tremble. It is for the most part affectation and pedantry in governesses; for as to children, they are generally but too meek and bashful: it is the way to harden their hearts, and to destroy that trust and reliance, without which no fruit of education is to be expected. Make yourself beloved by them, that they may be free with you, and not fear to let you see their faults; to bring this about, be indulgent to those of them who act without disguise; seem neither astonished, nor provoked at their bad inclinations; on the contrary, bear with their weaknesses: sometimes this inconvenience will arise, that they will be under less restraint of fear, yet upon the whole, a reliance and a sincerity kept up will be more serviceable to them than your exertion of rigorous authority. Authority will at all times take place, when respect and persuasion fail; we should ever begin with an open behaviour, easy, and familiar without meanness; this affords an opportunity of seeing their real tempers, and of knowing them thoroughly. In short, though you should reduce them by dint of authority to the observation of all your rules, the whole would be but a scene of stiff formalities, perhaps of hypocrisy; you would give them a disgust to that good, which it ought to be your sole aim to make them love.

If the wise son of Sirach continually recommends it to parents, ever to keep the rod lifted up over their children; if he hath said, Play with thy child, and he will bring thee to heaviness [*], it is not that he means to blame a gentle and patient education: he only condemns those weak and inconsiderate parents who flatter the passions of their children, and aim at nothing but to please themselves with them, during their infancy, to such a degree as to indulge them in all kinds of excesses.

The conclusion from this is, that parents ought always to keep authority in reserve for correction; for there are dispositions which must be subdued by fear, but, once again, it is not to be made use of but when we have nothing else left.

A child, who hitherto acts merely by his imagination, and confounds in his head those things that present themselves to him in combination, hates study and virtue, whenever he is prepossessed with an aversion to the person that talks to him of them.

Observe here the source of that gloomy and frightful idea of piety, which he retains all his life: it is often the only part that stays with him of an education of severity.

Frequently it will behove us to tolerate things that require to be corrected; and to watch for the moment in which the spirit of the child shall be disposed to profit by correction. Never reprehend him in his first emotion, nor in your own: if you do it during your own, he will perceive you to be actuated by your mood and over-hastiness, not by reason or friendship to him: you will lose your authority without resource. In case you reprove him in his first emotion, consider he has not his spirit enough at liberty to acknowledge his fault, to overcome his passion, to perceive the importance of your reproof. This is to expose the child to a losing of the respect which he owes you: let him always see you master of yourself, and this your patience will best show him. Watch day after day, if need be, for the favourable moments to introduce reproof. Tell him not of his faults, without adding the method of surmounting them, something that may hearten him to endeavour it; for we must beware of the chagrin and despondency, which mere dry correction brings on.

If one finds the child somewhat reasonable, I believe it right to engage him insensibly to desire to be told of his mistakes, and by this means he will hear them without being afflicted; but even then let him hear but one at a time. It ought to be considered that children have weak heads, and by reason of their age, are sensible of pleasure alone; whereas, there is oft times expected of them an exactness and seriousness of which the very people that require it, are not themselves capable; nay, their very temper receives a dangerous tincture of uneasiness and melancholy from being continually talked to of words and things they understand not: no liberty, no diversion, but always a lesson, silence, a prescribed posture, rebukes, threats. The ancients understood this matter much better; among the Hebrews, Egyptians, and Greeks, the principal sciences, the maxims of virtue, and politeness of manners, were introduced by the delightfulness of verse and music: people that have not read can hardly believe this, so wide is it from our customs; nevertheless, whoever is the least acquainted with history, can have no doubt of its having been the common practice for several ages.

In this our age let us accede so far as to unite the agreeable with the useful, as much as lies in our power.

Now, though with regard to numbers of children whose tempers are difficult to be wrought upon, we cannot hope not to be obliged to make use of fear, yet we should first have tried, with patience, every other remedy.

We ought to make them apprehend distinctly the sum of what we require of them, the very point which would please us; for liveliness of disposition, and their reliance on us ought to be kept up, otherwise their spirit will be dulled, and their courage abated; the bold will be provoked, the gentle made stupid. Fear is like those forcible remedies made use of in violent illnesses, they purge, but they alter the temperament and wear the organs: and thus, amind acted upon by fear is constantly rendered weaker.

[To be continued.]

Notes

*
Fcclesiasticus, Chap. xxx. ver. 9.
↵

THE LADY'S MUSEUM.
The TRIFLER. [NUMBER VIII.]

MADAM,

IF the title of a literary performance contributes much to excite the curiosity of the public, I can well suppose that the Trifler is eagerly perused by all the bright eyes of the kingdom; for surely a greater consonancy between the title of this essay and the present complection of females, cannot well be imagined.—For to what end or use do the multiplied branches of female education serve, but to trifle gracefully and agreeably? This is the true sçavoir vivre, so happily and universally taught by those valuable people, the French governesses, all over this great metropolis: for surely no other persons can pretend, with equal justice, to give people of fashion that charming air and those enchanting manners which alone can make them look like themselves. Did our young gentlemen enjoy the benefit of instruction equally salubrious, I should hope, that in a little time they might learn to trifle away their courage and honesty, almost as happily as the French themselves seem to have done.

Nor let it derogate in the least from the present approved system of things, that in the fervid pursuit of higher attainments, the ladies may very possibly less attend to duty, character, reputation, than some Cynical persons have been willing to approve of. Surely such mean insinuations could only be suggested by those whose exploded nonsense has totally disqualified them for the society of the triflers—And really was the accusation well founded, I don't see what blame could justly lie upon us, who have never been taught to set the least value on moral obligations.

In how much more pleasing a light have we been instructed to consider the scope and design of our being? We have at length happily resolved it into one general principle, that of being delightfully idle.

In order to support the consistency of our character, give me leave to descend to a few particulars. If a lady spends her whole life in fretful dissipation, is it not plain, that she considers her time, for the use of which some have fancied themselves accountable, as a meer trifle?

If another considers cards as the true consolation of life, and consequently makes them the sole business of it, supposing even that she is unsuccessful, no matter by what compensations she ballances her accounts; her losses in any way, can only be considered as meer trifles.

If a third, by the kind assistance of foreign tuition, has been happily extricated from the restraints of modesty, delicacy, virtue, and religion, these omissions ought surely to be considered as so many negative advantages, and their value placed to our account. For it is well known, that those exploded qualities which are now not worth a dispute, were only held in great reverence in remarkably simple times.

However, we are happily accomplished out of all those simplicities, and have substituted in their room such opinions as have raised us above all vulgar fears and prejudices—Hence it is, that we have left the sense and love of religion to be embraced only by those who are no longer loved by any body. Let such as want the solid supports of fashion, luxury, gallantry, and fifty et cetera's, take refuge in such aerial meditations: for our part, we shall take care to enjoy the substance, and leave to those disappointed wretches the shadow.

As to the churches, I can't say what sort of people attend them, as neither I or any of my acquaintance ever go there; but, in the way of curiosity and pleasure, we sometimes visit the methodist conventicles; and there thro' the whole auditory there obtains so visible a distraction, that we have always considered those deluded people as much more the objects of compassion than contempt.

I have often thought it extremely well judged in the government to tolerate such places; for they must considerably lessen the number of mad-houses. With such invariable constancy do we persevere in our opinions, that our whole life may be considered as one uniform trifle; and, unless we should be encumbered by a few brats, can it be said of any of us, when we quit the scene, that we have left any monuments of our existence?

A tender regard for the honor, laws, and religion of one's country, are considerations which only can affect narrow souls; but (thanks to the dear foreigners who direct our education) we have been taught to consider things in a more elevated sense, and to respect the interest of our very national enemies at least as much as our own, and universally to prefer those people to our own natives.

There is one discovery in particular that does infinite honour to our society, and which for the credit of the sisterhood, I must beg leave a little to enlarge upon—I mean our discovery of the true sources of pleasure and happiness. These objects were heretofore supposed to be best attained by following nature, and to be inseparably connected with reason and duty. Pleasure, truly so called, had formerly been considered as a very natural thing, and some unintelligible stuff, named virtue, as the only safe road to happiness—But we have undeceived the world in these particulars, and have taught them to look for their happiness where none but ourselves ever dreamed it could be found.

In short, we have fixed its basis in the extinction of all reasonable ideas, and, to enjoy life the more perfectly, have fairly consented to lose sight of all the ends of living. This grand principle pervades the whole sphere of our activity, and our conduct affords the most ample attestation of our opinions.—Let others, if they please, look up to causes, and consider consequences; it is sufficient for us, that we appear of consequence in the eyes of the world.

Nor are we in the least disconcerted by the invidious remarks of those who would insinuate, that we are not quite so happy as we would seem to be; and that, notwithstanding our continual efforts to appear highly pleased, there is still a dismal vacuity in our minds.

However that may be, there is at least an equal vacuity in those understandings who have made that remark, not to know, that we live only for appearances; and that to be, or to seem only, are pretty much the same thing with the whole race of triflers.

Nay, to a still higher heroism have we carried our ideas on this subject, that, with a magnanimity peculiar to ourselves, we have exchanged realities for appearances, and have lost all pleasure, merely for pleasure's sake. Let others ridiculously estimate their happiness by their own consciousness, while we wisely measure ours by the opinions of other people, which must always be in our favour so long as

to appear we strive,

The most contented things alive.

I can't conclude this letter, without lamenting the great detriment our society have suffered by the conduct of Miranda. This lady, you know, is the sworn enemy of all triflers, and the business of her whole life has been to discredit our opinions. Perverse creature! not to have yielded to the conviction which numbers, fashion, and raillery scarcely ever fail to impress.

Her obstinacy is the more to be lamented, as from an unusual concurrence of circumstances her influence happens to be very extensive. Happy for us there are few Miranda's; for if we may judge from this one, half a dozen such would be sufficient to destroy the credit of our society. Never was there so ungrateful a creature! would you believe it? though nature has been extremely kind to her, in the distribution of personal charms, she never was so much as suspected to be sensible of the obligation. It is very plain that this must be the case; for had she been duly thankful for nature's liberality, she would, like the rest of us, have solely relied upon it, and never so far affronted her beauty, as to endeavour to please by any other merit whatsoever.

We have great reason to wish, that nature in this instance had spared her bounty; for her charms always create an attention, which she never fails to improve to our prejudice. However, there is one consolation left; as Miranda is yet single, and the men almost all of our party, who knows but the race may become extinct?

This lady, I am told, among other singularities, pretends to have opinions of her own; and that she makes reason, and not ridicule, the criterion by which she examines their truth. Some of her notions are so extraordinary as to deserve being related. She thinks that moral virtue, on its true basis religion, is the only sure and permanent object of esteem; and that whatever purifies the heart does likewise embellish the manners, and even raises the genius. She cannot comprehend why a rational creature should be ashamed of its reason, or blush to acknowledge a pleasure in cultivating it.

She is of opinion that a woman of sense is a character not inferior to a woman of fashion, and, with an extravagant ambition, has united both in her own person. I have here only given you a small specimen of her notions, which are such, you see, as leave us slender hopes of reclaiming her.

Indeed were her opinions simply proposed to the understanding, or to the desires, which judge much better, they are so repugnant to the present modes both of thinking and acting, that they must be inevitably rejected, as our custom is, without any examination at all. But things will appear very different, seen through different mediums. There are certain women who carry in their own persons a demonstration of their opinions. Of that number is Miranda, who besides has got such a way of colouring things, and of recommending her notions by manners the most insinuating, and a behaviour so sweetly feminine, that I really begin to fear her impressions must be irresistible. You know, my dear, every body is not fortified as we are, and the girl has so imposing a way, she certainly will continue to do much mischief. Let us not however be intimidated by so dangerous an enemy, but unite more vigorously in our common defence. The annals of all ages are in our favour; for at what place or period could nature and reason prevail over folly and vanity?

I shall further observe, for our encouragement, that the world never fails to applaud the time and pains which are devoted to the service of the triflers. Upon this consideration I hope you will excuse the trouble occasioned by this long letter, from your

Affectionate Sister, and Servant, ANOETA.

THE HISTORY OF HARRIOT AND SOPHIA CONTINUED.

WHEN Mr. Herbert returned from his walk, and met the curate, and his little family at supper, Sophia, who heedfully observed him, saw an alteration in his countenance, which realized all her melancholy apprehensions, and convinced her that some new misfortune awaited her: his eyes, which studiously avoided her's, expressed nothing but grief and confusion; but he retired so early to his chamber, that Sophia, finding there was no hopes of his explaining himself that night, passed it in an anxiety of mind which suffered her not to taste the least repose. Early in the morning he knocked at her door, and desired her to join him in the garden; she was already drest, and instantly complied.

As soon as she came up to him, he took her hand, and pressed it affectionately, but spoke not a word.

Sophia, who feared, as much as she wished to know what had happened, had not power to ask for an explanation; so they both continued silent for some minutes.

At length Mr. Herbert told her he was going to London: Sophia, in a faultering accent, asked him what had happened to occasion this sudden resolution?

‘Alas! my dear child, said the good old man, in great emotion, I am ashamed and grieved to tell you that —Sir Charles has, I fear, deceived me.’

Although Sophia had reason to expect some sad reverse of fortune, and had endeavoured to prepare herself for it, yet this fatal confirmation of her fears shocked her so much, that Mr. Herbert, who saw a death-like paleness overspread her face, and felt her hand cold and trembling, fearing she would faint, made haste to lead her to a little bench of turf which was near them.

Sophia recovering, saw so much concern in his looks, that struggling to repress her own anguish, she endeavoured to comfort him, and smiling through the tears that filled her charming eyes, ‘Let not this instance of my weakness alarm you, sir, said she; and doubt not but, with the assistance of heaven, I shall bear this strange insult with proper fortitude.’

‘How worthy are you, my good child, of better fortune!’ said Mr. Herbert; then taking a letter out of his pocket, ‘My first design, pursued he, was to seek some explanation of this mysterious letter before I made you acquainted with it, but I perceived that my too apparent uneasiness had alarmed you, and I thought it would be less cruel to inform you of the whole matter, than to leave you in doubt and uncertainty: this letter was delivered to me yesterday in the evening, by one of Sir Charles's servants, just as was walking out towards the road, in hopes of meeting his master. My surprise at receiving a letter when I expected to see himself, made me open it instantly, without asking the servant any questions, and while I was reading it he went away, doubtless being directed to do so.’

Mr. Herbert then gave the letter to Sophia, who unfolding it with trembling emotion, found it was as follows:

SIR,

Since it is impossible my marriage with Miss Sophia can ever take place, I wish you would look upon all that passed between us upon that subject, as a dream: I dreamt indeed when I imagined there was a woman in the world capable of a sincere attachment; and I ought to be ashamed to own that upon so delusive a hope I was ready to act in opposition to the general maxims of the world, and be pointed at as a silly romantic fellow. However, I beg you will assure the lady, that as I have no right to blame her conduct, so I have not the least resentment for it, and am so perfectly at ease on this occasion, that I can with great sincerity congratulate her on her approaching happiness. I am, Sir,

Your humble Servant, CHARLES STANLEY.

Although this letter gave Sophia a sad certainty of her misfortune, yet it relieved her from those worst pangs which a heart in love can feel, the belief of being abandoned through indifference, or inconstancy: unperceived by ourselves, pride mixes with our most tender affections, and either aggravates or lessens the sense of every disappointment, in proportion as we feel ourselves humbled by the circumstances that attend it.

This ill-disguised jealousy, the personated calmness, the struggling resentment that appeared in this letter, convinced Sophia that Sir Charles was far from being at ease, and that to whatever cause his present unaccountable behaviour was owing, yet she was sure at least of not being indifferent to him.

It was not difficult to perceive that he had been deceived by some malicious reports, and her suspicions fell immediately upon Harriot; but rejecting this thought, as too injurious to her sister, she returned the letter to Mr. Herbert without speaking a word, but with a look much more serene and composed than before.

Mr. Herbert, who saw nothing in this letter like what her penetration had discovered, and who conceived it to be only a poor artifice to disengage himself from promises which he now repented of, was surprised to find her so much less affected with it than he expected, and asked her what she thought of it?

Sophia told him, that she was fully persuaded Sir Charles had been prejudiced against her.

‘Do you think so, my dear, said he, after a little pause; then it is your sister to whom you are obliged for this kind office.’

‘I hope not, sir, replied Sophia, sighing; that circumstance would aggravate my concern—indeed I think it would be a crime in me to suspect her of being capable of such unkindness.’

‘Well, resumed Mr. Herbert, I will, if possible, discover this mystery before night; you shall hear from me to-morrow; in the mean time calm your mind, and resign yourself entirely to that providence, which while you continue thus good and virtuous, will never forsake you.’

Mr. Herbert now left her, to go and take leave of the curate and his family; and Sophia, whose fortune had undergone so many revolutions in so short a time, retired to her chamber, where she passed great part of the day alone, at once to indulge her melancholy and to conceal it from observation.

In the afternoon Dolly came up, in a great hurry of spirits, to acquaint her that Mrs. Gibbons was come to wait upon her, that she had been met at the door by her mother, and that several courtesies had passed between them.

The poor girl, though transported with joy at this favourable beginning, no sooner perceived by the pensive air in Sophia's countenance, and the sighs that escaped her, that her suspicions of some new disappointment having happened to her were true, than instantly forgetting the prosperous situation of her own affairs, her sweet face was overspread with tender grief, and a tear stole from her eyes; but Sophia, whom nothing could have awakened from that stupifying sorrow in which any great and sudden misfortune plunges the mind, but the desire of being useful to her friends, soon assumed a more chearful look, and hastened to receive her visitor.

Mrs. Gibbons was in full dress, and had omitted no superfluous ornament that could serve to shew Sophia how well she understood every sort of punctilio. As soon as the first compliments were over, ‘You see, madam, said she, what affluence your commands have over me; I once little thought that I should ever have entered this impolished house again; my nephew attended me to the door, but I would not suffer him to come in, because I am not sure that you are willing to let these people know the honour you do him by receiving his adorations.’

Sophia, though a little startled at these words, yet supposed she had no particular meaning in them, and ascribed all to her fantastick manner of expressing herself; but Mrs. Gibbons being resolved to hasten the conclusion of an affair which she had very much at heart, spoke so intelligibly at last, that Sophia could no longer be ignorant of her design, all the ill consequences of which suddenly striking her imagination, she exclaimed in a tone of surprise and terror, ‘Sure I am the most unfortunate creature in the world! is it possible, Mrs. Gibbons, that you can be serious? have you really given any cause for a report, that I receive your nephew's addresses? if you have, you have done me an irreparable injury.’

Sophia's spirits were so greatly agitated that she did not perceive how much of her situation these words discovered; so that Mrs. Gibbons, who saw the tears flow fast from her eyes, immediately comprehended the whole truth.

‘I see plainly, said she, in great concern, that I have been deceived, and others perhaps have been so too; I shall never disculpate myself for being the cause of any misfortune to you: some more advantageous treatise has been on the tapestry, and this unlucky affair has done mischief.’

‘Give me leave to ask you, madam, interupted Sophia, with some peevishness, what foundation you had for believing that I considered your nephew as my lover? you know his heart has been long since engaged.’

‘I acknowledge I have been to blame, my dear miss, resumed Mrs. Gibbons, I was too sanguinary in my hopes; but I beg you will disclaim no more, this will do no good, only tell me if it is possible to repair the harm I have done by my foolish schemes.’

To this Sophia made no answer; but Mrs. Gibbons, who wanted neither tenderness nor candor, and who was greatly concerned at the uneasiness she saw her under, urged her so frequently, and with so much earnestness, to tell her if she could be of any use in clearing up a mistake that had possibly been disadvantageous to her, that Sophia, still attentive amidst all her own distresses to the interest of her friend, thought this a favourable opportunity to serve her; and therefore told Mrs. Gibbons, that if she was really sincere in her offers, there was one way.

‘I understand you, madam, interrupted Mrs. Gibbons, and I believe I may venture to say that I thought of this expedition before you did. I cannot, indeed, Miss Darnley, I cannot consent to my nephew's marriage with the young woman here; you know I have been affronted.’

Sophia now urged some arguments in favour of Mrs. Lawson, but chiefly rested her defence upon her ignorance of those form's of politeness and good breeding which Mrs. Gibbons was so perfectly mistress of.

This compliment put the old lady into so good a humour, that she cried out, ‘Well, my dear Miss Darnley, in regard to you, I will take off the probition I laid on my nephew to visit here no more; and this I hope, added she smiling, will set matters right in another place; as for the rest, I shall take no resolution till I see how they behave.’

Sophia, in her transport at having succeeded so well with the old lady, felt all her own griefs suspended; and indeed when she reflected upon what had happened with regard to herself, she found she had less cause for reflection than Mr. Herbert, or her own fears, had suggested.

Mrs. Gibbons acknowledged that she had flattered herself with the hope of her nephew's being well received by her; and that, in consequence of it, she had talked of their marriage as an event which was very likely to happen, and which would give her great joy. Sophia, being fully persuaded that these reports had reached Sir Charles, though by what means she was not so well able to determine, easily accounted for that jealousy and resentment which had produced so strange an inconsistency in his behaviour, and which Mr. Herbert considered as a piece of artifice to palliate his lightness and inconstancy.

The good old man, animated by his affection for the poor afflicted Sophia, rode with the utmost speed to town, and alighted at the house of the young baronet. The servants informed him, that their master was in the country, which was all the intelligence they could give him; for they neither knew where he was, nor when he would return. Mr. Herbert, perplexed and concerned at this new disappointment, repaired immediately to Mrs. Darnley's, hoping to hear some news of him there.

Harriot, in answer to his enquiries, told him with an air of triumph, that the same day they returned from visiting Sophia, Sir Charles had waited on her mamma and her, and had as usual past great part of the afternoon with them.

Mr. Herbert, who was struck with this incident, endeavoured to make some discoveries concerning their conversation, and Harriot's malice made this no difficult matter: for she could not forbear throwing out some sarcasms against her sister, whose extreme sensibility, she insinuated, had already found out a new object.

Mr. Herbert, by his artful questions, drew her into a confession of all that had passed between her and the baronet upon this subject; and was convinced that her malignant hints had poisoned his mind with suspicions unfavourable to Sophia.

He went away full of indignation at her treachery, and still doubtful of Sir Charles's sincerity, who he could not suppose would have been so easily influenced by Harriot's suggestions, (whose envious disposition he well knew,) if his intentions had been absolutely right.

The next morning he received a letter from Sophia, in which she acquainted him with the discoveries she had made; and modestly hinted her belief that Sir Charles had been imposed upon by this report of her intended marriage, which she found was spread through the village, and which, as it was very probable, he had intelligence from thence, had confirmed any idle raillery to that purpose, which her sister might have indulged herself in.

Mr. Herbert reflecting upon all these unlucky circumstances, began to suppose it possible that Sir Charles had been really deceived. He went again to his house, but had the mortification to hear from a servant whom he had not seen the day before, that the baronet was at his seat in—

Thither the good old man resolved to go; the inconveniencies and expence of such a journey, which in his years, and narrow circumstances were not inconsiderable, had not weight enough with him to make him balance a moment whether he should transact this affair by letter, or in person. The happiness of his dear and amiable charge depended upon his success: he therefore delayed no longer than to make the necessary preparations for his journey, and, after writing to Sophia to acquaint her with his design, he set out for Sir Charles's seat, where he met with a new and more severe disappointment. The first news he heard was, that the baronet was not in that part of the country; and, upon a fuller enquiry of his servants, he was informed that their master had the morning before set out for Dover with an intention to go to Paris.

Mr. Herbert, dispirited with this news, and fatigued with his fruitless journey, retired to his inn, where he passed the lonely hours in melancholy reflections upon the capricious behaviour of Sir Charles, and the undeserved distresses of the innocent Sophia.

Sir Charles, however, notwithstanding appearances, was at present more unhappy than guilty. His resolution to marry Sophia, though suddenly formed, was not the less sincere: he had always loved her with the most ardent passion, and had not the light character of her mother and sister concurred with those prejudices which his youth, his fortune, and his converse with the gay world led him into, his heart, which never ceased to do homage to her virtue, would have sooner suggested to him the only means of being truly happy.

An overstrained delicacy likewise proved another source of disquietude to him. The inequality of their circumstances gave rise to a thousand tormenting doubts: he was afraid, that dazzled with the splendor of his fortune, she would sacrifice her inclinations to her interest, and give him her hand without her heart; and when doing justice to the greatness of her mind, and the real delicacy of her sentiments, he rejected this supposition as too injurious to her, his busy imagination conjured up new forms of distrust: he trembled left, mistaking gratitude for love, she should be deceived by her own generosity and nice sense of obligation, and imagine it was the lover she prefered, when the benefactor only touched her heart.

Such was the perplexed state of his mind, when Mrs. Darnley and Harriot proposed making her a visit. With some difficulty he conquered his desire of accompanying them; but his impatience to hear of her, carried him again to Mrs. Darnley's much earlier in the evening than it was likely they would return; presuming on his intimacy in the family, he scrupled not to go up stairs, telling the servant he would wait till the ladies came home.

He sat down in the dining room, where he gazed on Sophia's picture a long time. At last a sudden fancy seized him to visit her apartment, which he knew was on the second floor: he ascended the stairs without being perceived, and with a tender emotion entered the room where his beloved Sophia used to pass so many of her retired hours.

It was still elegantly neat, as when its lovely inmate was there; for Harriot, who hated this room, because it contained so many monuments of her sister's taste and industry, never went into it; and it remained in the same order that she had left it.

The first thing that drew the young baronet's attention, was a fire screen of excellent workmanship; it was a flower-piece, and executed with peculiar taste and propriety: the wainscot was adorned with several drawings, neatly framed and glassed. In this art Sophia took great delight, having while her father lived, appropriated all her pocket-money to the payment of a master to instruct her in it. Sir Charles considered the subjects of these drawings with peculiar pleasure. The delicate pencil of Sophia had here represented the virtues and the graces, from those lively ideas which existed in her own charming mind.

Her little library next engaged his notice: many of the books that composed it he had presented her; but he was curious to see those which her own choice had directed her to, and in this examination he met with many proofs of her piety as well as of the excellence of her taste.

Several compositions of her own now fell into his hands; he read them with eagerness, and, charmed with this discovery of those treasures of wit, which she with modest diffidence so carefully concealed, he felt his admiration and tenderness for her encrease every moment.

While he was anxiously searching for more of her papers, a little shagreen case fell from one of the shelves upon the ground. He took it up, and as every thing that belonged to her excited his curiosity, he opened it immediately, and with equal surprise and pleasure, saw his own miniature in water colours, which was evidently the performance of Sophia herself.

Had it been possible for her to imagine the sudden and powerful effect the sight of this picture would have upon the heart of Sir Charles, she would not have suffered so much uneasiness for the loss of it as she really had; for forgetting where she had laid it, she supposed it had dropt out of her pocket, and was apprehensive of its having fallen into her sister's hands, who she knew would not fail to turn this incident to her disadvantage.

While Sir Charles gazed upon this artless testimony of Sophia's affection for him, the softest gratitude, the tenderest compassion filled his soul. ‘Oh my Sophia, said he, do you then truly love me! and have I cruelly trifled with your tenderness!’

This thought melted him even to tears; he felt in himself a detestation of those depraved principles which had suggested to him a design of debasing such purity! he wondered at the hardness of his own heart, that could so long resist the influence of her gentle virtues, and suffer such sweet sensibility to waste itself in anxious doubts, and disappointed hope.

Being now determined to do justice to her merit, and make himself happy, his first design was to go immediately to Mr. Lawson's; but, reflecting that Sophia had great reason to be dissatisfied with his conduct, and that to remove her prejudices, the utmost caution and delicacy was to be observed, he conceived it would be more proper to make a direct application to Mr. Herbert, whom she loved and reverenced as a father, than to present himself before her, while her mind yet laboured with those unfavourable suspicions for which he had given but too much cause; and hence new fears and doubts arose to torment him. He dreaded left her just resentment for his injurious designs should have weakened those tender impressions she had once received, and that in the pride of offended virtue every softer sentiment would be lost.

Impatient of this cruel state of suspense and inquietude, he left Sophia's apartment, and repairing to the dining-room, rang the bell for the servant, of whom he enquired where Mr. Herbert lodged. Having obtained a direction, he went immediately to the house; Mr. Herbert was not at home, and Sir Charles grieved at this disappointment, and at Mrs. Darnley's not returning that night, from whom he hoped to have heard some news of Sophia; the agitation of his mind made him think it an age till the next day, in which he determined to put an end to all his perplexities, and to fix his fate.

After his interview with Mr. Herbert, and the good old man's departure to prepare Sophia for his intended visit, the young baronet resigned his whole soul to tenderness and joy. His impatience to see Sophia encreased with his hope of finding her sentiments for him unchanged, and he regretted a thousand times his having suffered Mr. Herbert to go away without him.

Mean time a card came from Mrs. Darnley and Harriot, acquainting him that they were returned, and thanking him for the use of his servants and chariot. Sir Charles, eager to hear news of his Sophia, went immediately to wait on them, and scarce were the first compliments over, when he enquired for her with such apparent emotion, that, Harriot mortified to the last degree, resolved to be even with him, and said every thing that she thought would torment him, and prejudice her sister.

She told him that Sophia was the most contented creature in the world, and that she was so charmed with her present way of life, and her new companions, that she seemed to have forgot all her old friends, and even her relations. ‘She is grown a meer country girl, said she, is always wandering about in the fields and meadows, followed by a young rustic who has fallen in love with her. I rallied her a little upon her taste; but I found she could not bear it, and indeed he is extremely handsome, and she says, has had a genteel education.’

Harriot was at once pleased and grieved at observing the effect these insinuations had on Sir Charles; his colour changed, he trembled, and fixing his eyes on the ground, he remained pensive and silent, while Harriot, notwithstanding her mother's significant frowns, proceeded in a malicious detail of little circumstances partly invented, and partly mistaken, which fixed the sharpest stings of jealousy in his heart.

If in dealing with cunning persons we were always to consider their ends, in order to interpret their speeches, much of their artifice would lose its effect; but Sir Charles had so contemptible an opinion of Harriot's understanding, that although he knew she was malicious, he never suspected her of being capable of laying schemes to gratify her malice, and did not suppose she was mistress of invention enough to form so plausible a tale as that she had told.

Impatient under those cruel doubts which now possessed him, he resolved to go, late as it was in the evening, to Mr. Lawson's house, and taking an abrupt leave of Mrs. Darnley and her daughter, he went home, and ordered his horses to be got ready. He scarce knew his own design by taking this journey at so improper a time; but in the extreme agitation of his mind, the first idea of relief that naturally presented itself was to see Sophia, who alone could destroy or confirm his fears; and this he eagerly pursued without any farther reflection.

The servant to whom he had sent his orders, made no haste to execute them, as conceiving it to be a most extravagant whim in his master to set out upon a journey so late, and in that manner. While he with studied delays protracted the time, hoping for some change in his resolutions, Sir Charles racked with impatience, counted moments for hours; message after message was dispatched to the groom. The horses at length were brought, and Sir Charles with only one servant gallop'd away, never stopping till he came to the place where Sophia resided.

It was now night, and the indecorum of making a visit at such a time in a family where he was a stranger first striking his thoughts, he resolved to alight at an inn which he saw at a small distance, and there consider what it was best for him to do.

A guest of his appearance soon engaged the attention of the host and his wife. They quitted two men with whom they had then been talking, and, with a great deal of officious civility, attended upon Sir Charles, who desired to be shewn into a room. As he was following the good woman, who declared he should have the best in her house, the two men with whom she had been talking, bowed to him when he passed by them; the salute of the younger having a certain grace in it that drew his attention, he looked back on him, and at the sight of a very handsome face, and a person uncommonly genteel, his heart, by its throbbing emotion, immediately suggested to him, that this beautiful youth was the lover of his Sophia.

The jealousy which Harriot's insinuations had kindled in his heart, now raged with redoubled force; this rival, whom she had called a rustic, and whom he fondly hoped to find such, possessed the most attractive graces of form, and probably wanted neither wit nor politeness. Sophia's youth, her tenderness, her sensibility wounded by his dissembled indifference, and the cruel capriciousness of his conduct, all disposed her to receive a new impression, and who so proper to touch her heart as this lovely youth, whose passion, as innocent as it was ardent and sincere, banished all doubt and suspicion, and left her whole soul open to the soft pleadings of gratitude and love?

While he was wholly absorb'd in these tormenting reflections, and incapable of taking any resolution, the officious landlady entered his chamber to take his orders for supper.

Sir Charles, surprised to find it was so late, resolved to stay there all night, and after giving the good woman some directions, his restless curiosity impelled him to ask her several questions concerning the old man and the youth whom he had seen talking to her.

The hostess, who was as communicative as he could desire, told him, that the old man was one farmer Gibbons, of whom she had been buying a load of hay; that the young one was his son, and a great scholard. ‘His aunt, pursued she, breeds him up to be a gentleman, and she has a power of money, and designs to leave it all to him, much good may it do him, for he is as handsome a young man as one would desire to see. Some time ago it was all over our town that he was going to be married to the parson's youngest daughter, and she is a pretty creature, and disarves him if he was more richer, and handsomer than he is; but whatever is the matter, the old folks have changed their mind, and his aunt, they say, wants to make up a match between him and a fine London lady that boards at the parson's; but I'll never believe it till I see it, for she and the parson's daughter are great friends, they say, and it would not be a friendly part to rob the poor girl of her sweetheart. To say the truth, I believe there is some juggling among them; but this I keep to myself, for I would not make mischief; therefore I never tell my thoughts to any body, but I wish the young folks well.’

Sir Charles, who had listened to her with great emotion, dismissed her now, that he might be at liberty to reflect on what he had heard, which although it did not lead him to a full discovery of the truth, yet it suggested thoughts which relieved him in some degree from those dreadful pangs of jealousy with which he had hitherto been tortured, and balanced at least his fears and his hopes.

His impatience to free himself from this state of perplexity and suspence, allowed him but little repose that night; he rose as soon as the day appeared, and it was with some difficulty that he prevailed upon himself to defer his visit till a seasonable hour; and then being informed that Mr. Lawson's house was scarce a mile distant, he left his servant and horses at the inn, and walked thither, amidst a thousand anxious thoughts, which made him dread as much as he wished for an interview, which was to decide his fate.

As he drew near the house, he perceived a young man sauntering about in an adjacent field, whose air and mien had a great resemblance of the youth whom he had seen in the inn. Sir Charles, eager to satisfy his doubts, followed him at a distance, and the youth turning again his wishing eyes towards the house, the baronet had a full view of his face.

At the sight of his young rival his heart throbbed as if it would leave his breast: he hastily retreated behind the hedge, determined to watch his motions; for he imagined, and with reason, that he came there to meet his mistress; and who that mistress was, whether Sophia, or the curate's daugher, was the distracting doubt, which he now expected to have satisfied.

He walked along by the side of the hedge, still keeping William in sight, who suddenly turning back, rather flew than ran to meet a woman who beckoned to him. Sir Charles saw at once his Sophia, and the fatal sign, which planted a thousand daggers in his heart. Trembling and pale he leaned against a tree, which concealed him from view, and saw her advance towards his rival, saw her in earnest discourse with him; and, to compleat his distraction and despair, saw the happy youth throw himself at her feet, doubtless to thank her for the sacrifice she made to him of a richer lover.

Such was the inference he drew from this action; and now rage and indignation succeeding to grief, in these first transports, he was upon the point of discovering himself, and sacrificing the hated youth to his vengeance; but a moment's reflection shewed him the dishonour of a contest with so despicable a rival, and turned all his resentment against Sophia, who having quitted her supposed lover, took her way back again to the house. Sir Charles followed her with disordered haste, resolved to load her with reproaches for her inconstancy; then, unwilling to gratify her pride by such an acknowledgment of his weakness, he turned back, cursing love, women, and his own ill fate. In this temper he wandered about a long time; at last he again returned to the inn, where after giving orders to have his horses got ready, he wrote that letter to Mr. Herbert, in which he so well disguised the anguish of his heart, that the good old man believed his breaking off the affair was the effect of his lightness and inconstancy only, though Sophia's quicker penetration easily discovered the latent jealousy that had dictated it.

Sir Charles ordered his servant to deliver the letter into Mr. Herbert's hands; then mounting his horse, he bid him follow him as soon as he had executed his commission. The young baronet, who retired to his country seat to conceal his melancholy, and fondly flattered himself that he should soon overcome that fatal passion which had been the source of so much disgust to him, found his mind so cruelly tortured with the remembrance of Sophia, that he reassumed his first design of going abroad, and unfortunately set out for Dover, the day before Mr. Herbert's arrival.

The good old man being obliged to send Sophia this bad news, filled his letter with tender consolations, and wise and prudent counsels: he exhorted her to bear this stroke of fortune with that dignity of patience which distinguishes the good and wise.

‘The virtue of prosperity, said he, is temperance, the virtue of adversity fortitude; it is this last which you are now called upon to exert, and which the innocence of your life may well inspire you with; for be assured, my dear child, that it is the greatest consolation under misfortunes to be conscious of having always meant well, and to be convinced that nothing but guilt deserves to be considered as a severe evil.’

Sophia in her answer displayed a mind struggling against its own tenderness, offering up its disappointed hopes, its griefs, and desires, in pious sacrifice to the will of Providence, and seeking in religion all its consolation and support.

‘Can a virtuous person, said she, however oppressed by poverty, and in consequence neglected by the world, be said to want friends and comforters who can look into his own mind with modest approbation, and to whom recollection furnishes a source of joy? Every good action he has performed is a friend, every instance of pious resignation is a comforter, who cheer him with present peace, and support him with hopes of future happiness. Can he be said to be alone, and deprived of the pleasures of society, who converses with saints and angels? is he without distinction and reward whose life his almighty Creator approves?’

[To be continued.]

TO THE Author of the LADY'S MUSEUM.

MADAM,

THE inclosed little poem was written by the celebrated Earl of Dorset. It was never published, and may possibly be acceptable to some of your readers: I am, madam,

Your most humble servant, J F.

Lord DORSET to his LADY.

Not, Chloe, that I truer am,

Or juster than the rest;

For I could change each hour like them

Were it my interest.

But I am tied to very thee

By ev'ry thought I have,

And would you now my heart set free,

I'd be again your slave.

All that in woman is ador'd,

Tn thy dear self I find;

For the whole sex can but afford

The handsome and the kind.

Why should I then seek farther store,

And still make love anew;

Since change itself can give no more,

'Tis easy to be true.

ESSAY ON THE Original Inhabitants of GREAT BRITAIN, CONTINUED.

OUR modern writers, with indefatigable industry, have given us a most exact historical dictionary of the several Saxon monarchs, who successively reigned in the seven kingdoms of Britain. Dictionaries are always voluminous, but always useful; they are lesser libraries, and the compilers of them are entitled to the highest acknowledgements from all lovers of learning. I have gone through these biographical lexicons, which, like the chronicles of the kings of Israel, give us many barbarous names that tend rather to weary than to indulge our curiosity. The times indeed are at such a distance, and the face of government has been long since so entirely changed, that we are scarce any farther interested in the Saxon heptarchy, than as it serves to continue and compleat the line of our English history.

Within the space of sixty years from the arrival of Augustine, the people of England were entirely converted from paganism to christianity; but, as in general they had been converted by monks, most of them were taught, that a monkish life was the surest, and perhaps the only road to heaven: and, in obedience to this doctrine, several of the kings renounced their thrones, quitted all commerce with the world, and retired into monasteries.

The heptarchy is a field where so little grain is to be reaped, and where the small produce is mixed and choaked with so many monastic tares and brambles, the most succinct and effectual method will be only to mention some of those princes who, by remarkable actions, or from particular events, have particularly deserved the attention of posterity.

In the history of Northumberland, Edwin distinguished himself more than any other of the Saxon kings. He was son of Alla, king of Deira; but his father dying when he was only three years old, Adelfrid, king of Bernicia, who had married Edwin's sister, seized the kingdom of Deira, and possessed himself of the orphan's throne. By such an union of the two kingdoms, Adelfrid became extremely powerful, and was able to raise a considerable body of forces against the Welch, the Picts, and the Scots. But the unfortunate Edwin was reduced to the greatest extremities, and was in perpetual danger. All the princes of England stood in awe of Adelfrid, and were afraid to give a sanctuary to his rival; till Redwald, king of East Anglia, from a compassion to Edwin's miserable situation, openly received him at his court. Adelfrid, the Cromwell of those days, sent ambassadors to the king of the East Angles, to require the surrender of Edwin's person, or in case of refusal, to threaten an immediate declaration of war. Redwald for some time was staggered and disconcerted by the embassy. He found within his breast a struggle between honour and prudence. If he protected Edwin, he run the hazard of losing his own kingdom: if he yielded up a guest whom he had voluntarily received, where was the faith of princes? who could rely upon the honour of a king? This last consideration, fortified again by the persuasion of his queen, determined Redwald to protect Edwin, and not only to protect his person, but to take up arms in his defence. Courage was the characteristic of those times. Redwald, Edwin, Adelfrid, were all equally brave: the two former entered the kingdom of Northumberland, and came to an engagement with Adelfrid, in which the Northumbrians were entirely conquered. Adelfrid fell like Cataline: Longe a suis inter hostium cadavera repertus est, paululum etiam spirans serociamque animi quam habuerat vivus in vultu retinens. ‘His body was found at a distance from his own troops, in the midst of a heap of enemies whom he had slain. He still breathed, and his features still maintained that fierceness of soul, which they had expressed during the vigour of his life.’

Edwin, after the death of Adelfrid, by the consent, or rather by the gift of Redwald, whose troops had gained the conquest, took possession of the kingdom of Northumberland. His reign, during several years, was prosperous, and except some successless plots against his person, was, in every respect, happy to himself, and to his people. His spirit and his conduct made him the chief monarch of the heptarchy. His laws were executed with so much efficacy, that a child might pass through Northumberland holding open a purse of gold, without danger of being robbed. He was a pagan when he ascended the throne, but after his marriage with Ethelburga, sister of the king of Kent, he became a christian, and in the year 627, was publicly baptized at York.

Edwin maintained his dignity with true splendor. An ensign, in the form of a globe, was constantly carried before him, as a symbol, that in his person was united the heptarchical government. What a loss have we in being totally ignorant of his laws! for although historians represent him as a prince of great ambition, his understanding, policy, and conduct are remarkably extolled. His greatness drew upon him the envy of all the other monarchs in Britain; especially of Cadwallo, king of Wales, and Penda, king of Mercia. These two princes joined their forces against Edwin, who with undaunted bravery, and an inferior number of troops, gave them battle at Heathfield, in Yorkshire. The victory seemed to be inclining on the side of the king of Northumberland, when his eldest son Offrid, was killed by an arrow, and fell dead at his father's feet. Edwin, in the instantaneous rage of a parent, lost all his steadiness and presence of mind, and rushing with all the violence of despair, into the midst of his enemies, he soon gained the death which he desired; and by his death, his subjects the Northumbrians, lost the day.

The ensuing wars, and the confusion that followed in Northumberland, are described with all the horrors of devastation and slaughter. The kingdom remained in the utmost misery, till it was secured by Oswald the son of Adelfrid, who after his father's death had taken refuge in Scotland. He is represented as a prince of great virtue, and of abilities necessary and proper for a throne. He was slain[*] in a battle against an invader of his kingdom. Penda, king of Mercia, who finding among the slain the dead body of Oswald, ordered it to be cut into small pieces, and each piece to be placed upon a stake, as so many visible trophies of victory: such was the barbarous rage of those times; nor did that barbarity subside, unless when it was sometimes changed by the power of the monks, into the folly of superstition, and the dronishness of indolence. To represent such scenes would be only tedious and disagreeable. However, there are some remaining kings of Northumberland who deserve to be remembered.

Among these Egfrid may claim particular notice. In the year 670, he succeeded his father Oswy, in the kingdom of Bernicia, and soon afterwards possessed himself of Deira.[†] In the year 684, he sent over an army to conquer Ireland. The enterprize was frustrated, and the Northumbrians were repulsed. In the following year, he personally attacked Scotland, and was joined by a consederate army of Picts; his allies soon deserted him, and he was compelled to return wounded to his own dominions. In the year 686, he endeavoured to revenge himself against the Picts, who retired hastily before him, and by that stratagem led him forward into an ambush, where he was slain.

These instances shew him to have been of a martial aspiring genius: he was the first British prince who resisted, or rather defied, the papal authority. The popes had been always looked upon as sacred and infallible; but Alfrid paid no regard to their assumed infallibility. He deprived Wilfred, bishop of York, of his bishopric, and seized all his possessions, which were great, even to an amazing degree of opulency. Wilfred appealed to the pope: the synod of Rome ordered that Wilfred should be restored to his bishopric. He returned to England, and produced an authentic copy of the sentence. Egfrid, in a full council of nobility and clergy, treated the papal ordinances and jurisdiction, not only with contempt, but with resentment. Wilfred, instead of being restored, or receiving any kind of compensation, was taken into custody, and sentenced to a close imprisonment. So spirited a resistance against the see of Rome in times so slavishly superstitious ought to be remembered with honour; Agatho was then the reigning pope.

It is scarce worth while to enter into any particular character of the succeeding kings of Northumberland, especially since they will find few who are distinguishably great in the exact catalogue which has been made of them by several of our historians. From the death of Egfrid, who left no children, the Northumbrian kingdom seems to have declined. The succession became uncertain: the civil wars encreased; so that after the continuance of three hundred and twenty-eight years, Northumberland, torn to pieces by intestine calamities, was totally absorbed in the kingdom of Mercia.

The next century produced a king of Mercia, Offa, who rendered himself most eminently renowned in arms: with some virtues, he had the particular vices which are inseparable from ambition and a boundless thirst of power. He was one of those dauntless heroes, who imagine that, ‘Whoever will be great must be wicked.’ Such men will be terrible, not beloved. They neglect the affection, and work only on the fears of the people. They may be followed, but will never be respected. Their actions may strike wonder, but cannot excite applause: however, they are frequently, if not always, the immediate means made use of by providence to bring about extraordinary revolutions. Their success and their greatness make them vain: like the fly upon the chariot, they imagine that they raise all the dust, while the secret hand of heaven turns the wheel.

Offa well knew that the first maxim of ambition is an extent of territories: he had his eye upon the kingdom of East Anglia. Ethelbert, a prince of a very amiable character, reigned there. Offa, with the greatest shew of friendship, invited him to his court. The king of the East Angles accepted the invitation: Offa murdered him in the most treacherous manner. Ethelbert was the last of his race, and with him perished his kingdom. It was united to Mercia, after a separate, but tributary existence of two hundred and seventeen years.

Offa died, I think, in the year 794, after a reign of thirty-nine years, in which his many victories rendered him exceeding powerful and tremendous. With him, perhaps, it will be most proper to end the particular account of the heptarchy, since, although it may be said to have subsisted about thirty years longer, till England became subject to one monarch only, yet the several kingdoms were so often ravaged, their governments disjointed, and their boundaries attenuated, extended, or laid waste, that the distant description of such changes must be almost as much confused as the original scenes themselves. Mercia held out the longest, as the conquests gained by Offa had rendered it very formidable: but Mercia yielded at last, after having subdued a great part of Kent, Sussex, Wales, and several other provinces in Britain.

The heptarchy was so different a form of government from any that had before prevailed, and gave so total an alteration to the English state, that a summary review of it may not be unacceptable. It began as all new systems of empire begin, with wisdom and order. Whether the Saxons were called in, or whether they landed of their own accord, is a point not absolutely decided; but most certainly some years after their arrival, they became our conquerors. Some of their battles with the Britons were bloody and cruel: their adversaries, in their turn, shewed little less compassion or humanity. When the seven kingdoms were settled and divided, the Saxon religion was established, and it seems to have gained considerable ground over christianity, till the arrival of St. Austin.

The outward forms of the Romish church were so much finer and more embellished than the plainer ceremonies of Woden and Thor, that the people were easily induced to quit paganism for what was called christianity. The ignorance of the times contributed much to their conversion. All appearances of learning were centered in the priests; and, with the true art of sacerdotal cunning, they pointed out different paths to heaven, according to the different dispositions of the persons who were desirous to travel the road: so that after the first monkish times of melancholy and retirement, journies were undertaken to Rome, miraculous images were gorgeously dressed up, various sorts of idolatry were practised in the most public manner, with equal devotion by the princes, and their subjects of every degree. The truth is, many of the heptarchical monarchs were either weakly devout, or wickedly inhuman; governed by hypocritical prelates, or governing by lawless tyranny; inferior to common sense, or superior to all religion and morality; tamely submissive or brutally destructive. How was it possible for such a government to subsist? only by the accidental succession of some kings of abilities and understanding: by the prudence of some prelates, who at the same time that they supported the church, defended the state; and by the wise resolutions taken in the wittenagemot, or great council of the land. During the intestine wars of the heptarchy, it is to be presumed that this council could neither meet so often, nor bear so great an influence, as in more peaceable and settled times; yet it was the most essential institution of the Saxon government. Before the arrival of St. Austin, few records are to be found of it. The clergy, as they grew more powerful, became very leading members in the wittenagemot. They appeared, and gave their voices in that assembly; and at the same time they lost no opportunities of assuming all possible power and prerogatives entirely to themselves, so as to become superior to the king in most if not all ecclesiastical affairs. Thus in one of the canons passed by a synod, anno 694, we find this expression, Neque de hac re aliquid pertineat ad regis saecularis imperium. "With this affair," [the government and appointment of abbots, abbotesses, presbyters, and deacons,] "the king has nothing to do."

But what are become of the native Britons? Lost and buried as it were among the Saxons. Few, very few remaining, and those in corners of the island, unseen and unknown. Unhappy people! hidden at home in rocks and fastnesses, or driven abroad, like vagabonds, in quest of habitations: destroyed by wars, wasted by time, wounded by persecution, and sunk into eternal oblivion.

To the Saxons therefore the present race of English may be said to owe their original, those parts of Wales and Cornwall excepted, whose inhabitants by their mountainous situation may possibly have flowed in an uninterrupted channel, from the Aborigines of our island.

It is asserted, if I am not mistaken, by Bede, that now and then a true British chieftain stept into one of the thrones. This might have happened towards the latter end of the heptarchy, when all was confusion; but the successive line of kings, in general, consisted of English Saxons; not chosen in an hereditary, nor absolutely in an elective manner, oftner by caprice than by judgment. They sometimes succeeded by accident, sometimes by cunning, sometimes by force. Many of them were murdered, many were dethroned, many fell in battle, and many crept into religious cells.

Hitherto I have represented the black part of the tablet; let us turn to a fairer side. The Britons certainly owe the first institution of order and government to the Saxons. The Saxons owe the first institution of their church-government to St. Austin. Their civil policy, which they transplanted with them, had been long established in Germany: it was Gothick, but it was regular. As soon as they settled themselves in England, a king became an additional part of their constitution. The contract between the king and his people was mutual; they were bound to defend each other: the properties on both sides were ascertained: the people had their patrimonies, the king had his regalities.

The nobility were next to the king in dignity. This high rank could only be attained by remarkable and brave actions; either by great atchievements in war, or by sagacity and wisdom in peace. The honour, when attained, went in succession to the next heir, but was still to be forfeited by baseness and degeneracy.

The subsequent order of people were the freemen: they were joined in judicature with the nobility: they were above all arbitrary power; nor were they liable to any compulsive law to which they did not voluntarily give their consent. They were much more numerous than the nobles, and consequently were the chief bulwarks of legal justice, and every other branch of liberty. They were divided into two sets, being chosen to the rank of freemen, either from their superior merit, or from their great military service, and the large possessions which they had gained in war.

The inferior and meanest classes of the Saxons were in a state of bondage; subject to the will, disposition, and commands of their landlords. They were called villains, because the lands which they occupied were held in villenage, or servitude. These were the only people who were exempted from the power of voting in the wittenagemot.

One of these councils, convened by Ina, king of the West Saxons, is entitled Consilium omnium sapientum senicrum et populorum totius regni. ‘A council of all the wise men, the elders, and the people of the whole kingdom.’ In another council convened at Winchester, in the year 855, it is said to have been held in presence of the great, men, alixum fidelium infinita multitudine, ‘And of an infinite number of other faithful freemen.’ The inconveniencies arising from so general and unlimited a privilege must have been very great.

I have so often mentioned the Picts, that before we quit entirely a view of the heptarchy, it may be necessary to attempt some account of their original. Authors differ widely upon the point: some are of opinion that the Picts broke in upon Scotland, at a time when the Caledonians were in a reduced languishing state, unable to defend themselves. Bishop Stillingfleet imagines that they came from European Scythia[*], others suppose that they arrived from a different part of the northern continent. The most probable conjecture is Tyrrhel's:[†] he says, ‘That the Picts were the remainder of those Britons who preserved their liberty by resisting the Roman arms, and were at last divided from the Roman Britons, by a wall, now called the Picts wall, (the vestiges of which are to be seen to this day,) drawn between the mouths of the rivers Tyne, and Eske, to hinder their farther incursions into those parts which were then under the Roman empire.’ They may be said to be the same people with the Caledonians, as the Welch are said to be the same people with the English. They were a colony who kept themselves separated from the main body, and were distinguished from the rest of the Scots, by the name of Picts, as they continued the custom, which originally had been common to all the British islands, of painting their bodies with various figures; even after that practice had been long neglected, and laid aside by all the rest of the Britons. The perpetual incursions of the Picts into the more southern parts of the island may have proceeded from an one, a more composed and regular system of government presented itself to view.

The heptarchy was a fabric which for some years had been growing too heavy for itself. Several of the partitions which had been framed and fitted within it, had either burst asunder, or were forcibly destroyed. The building had been tottering long before it fell. A skilful artist was wanting to gather up the best materials, and to form a new edifice of magnificence and duration. Such an architect was found in the person of Egbert, king of the West Saxons.

[To be continued.]

Notes

*
In the year 642, in the thirty-eighth year of his age.
↵

†
Bernicia and Deira were the two parts in which Northumberland was divided.
↵

*
Strabo, as also Diodorus and Pliny, supposes, that Scythia Europrea extended to the utmost bounds of the north, and includes, among the Scythians, the antient inhabitants of Norway, Sweden, Denmark, the Daci Getae, &c. INNES'S Essays, page 67.
↵

†
Tyrrhel, page 5 and 6.
↵

THE HISTORY OF THE COUNT DE COMMINGE CONTINUED.

‘BE not apprehensive of any harm, said he to me, as he approached; I come by the command of madame de Benavides: she has had esteem enough for me, to trust me with every thing relating to you, probably, (added he, with a sigh which he could not suppress,) she would have judged differently if she had known me well; but I will be just to her confidence; I will save you, and I will save her, if I can.’

‘You shall not save me, replied I; it is my duty to justify the innocence of madame de Benavides, and I will do it at the expence of a thousand lives, if I had them to lose.’ I then acquainted him with my design of keeping myself concealed, and passing for an assassin, to prevent any imputation falling upon her.

‘This project might be necessary, replied Don Gabriel, if my brother was dead, as I perceive you think, but his wound, although great, is probably not mortal, and the first sign of life and sense he gave, was to order that madame de Benavides should be confined to her own apartment: this proves that he suspects you are her lover, and if you persist in your design, you will lose your own life, without preserving hers. Let us go, added he, the safety I offer you to-day, I probably cannot afford you to-morrow.’

‘And what will become of madame de Benavides? cried I; no, I can never resolve to withdraw myself from danger, and to leave her in it.’

‘I have already told you, replied Don Gabriel, that your presence will only render her situation worse.’ ‘Well, said I, sighing, I will fly, since you will have it so, and that her interest demands it. I had hoped that by the sacrifice I had intended to make her of my life, I should at least have been pitied by her; but I deserve not to have this consolation: I am an unhappy wretch, who am not even worthy to die for her. Protect her, added I, to Don Gabriel, the tears streaming from my eyes as I spoke: you are generous; her innocence, her misfortunes must move you.’

‘You may judge, said he, by what has escaped me, that I am too much for my own quiet concerned in the fate of madame de Benavides. I will do every thing for her. Alas! added he, I should have thought myself well paid, if I could have hoped that she had loved no one. How is it possible that you should not be satisfied with your good fortune in having touched a heart like hers? but let us go, pursued he, let us take advantage of the night.’ Then taking my hand and turning a dark lanthorn, he led me through the courts of the castle. Transported with rage against myself for what I had done, in the wildness of my despair, I wished myself still more miserable than I was.

Don Gabriel, when he left me, advised me to retire to a convent of religious, which was within a quarter of a league of the castle. ‘You must, said he, keep yourself concealed in their house for some days, that you may not be in danger from the search I myself shall be obliged to make for you; and here is a letter for one of those religious, which will procure you admission into the house.’

I loitered a long time about the castle after he left me, not being able to remove myself from the place where Adelaida was; at length the desire of hearing all that happened to her, determined me to set out for the convent. I arrived there just at day-break, the religious to whom I presented Don Gabriel's letter received me very civilly, and conducted me into a chamber near his own. My paleness, and the blood he observed on my cloaths, made him apprehensive that I was wounded. He was beginning to enquire after my health, when I fainted away. With the assistance of a servant he put me to bed, and sent for a surgeon belonging to the convent to examine my wound: he declared that it was in a dangerous condition, through the fatigue and cold I had suffered.

When I was alone with the good father to whom I was recommended, I intreated him to send to a house in a certain village, which I named to him, to enquire for Saint Laurent, for I supposed he would take refuge there: I was not mistaken; he came with the messenger I had sent to him: the poor fellow was in excessive affliction when he heard that I was wounded: he approached my bed-side, and anxiously enquired how I did.

‘If you would save my life, said I to him, you must learn in what state madame de Benavides is, inform yourself of all that has passed; haste, lose not a moment, and remember that what I suffer in this uncertainty, is ten thousand times worse than death.’ Saint Laurent promised to do every thing I desired, and went away to take proper measures to satisfy me.

Mean time I was seized with a violent fever, my wound grew more dangerous, they were obliged to make great incisions, but the torments of my mind made me almost insensible to those of my body; the image of madame de Benavides bathed in tears, as I had seen her when I left her chamber, and kneeling by her husband, whom I had wounded, was continually before my eyes. I took a review of the misfortunes of her life; I found myself in all: her marriage, to which she was forced on my account, her fatal choice of the most jealous and brutal man in the world for a husband, was made for my sake; and I had lately compleated all her misfortunes, by exposing her reputation to injurious censures. I called to my remembrance the unjust jealousy I had discovered, which although it had lasted but a few moments, and was banished by a single word from her, yet I could never pardon myself for. Adelaida could not but think me unworthy of her esteem; she could do no otherwise than hate me.

Saint Laurent returned the next day; he informed me that Benavides was still extremely ill of his wound; that Adelaida was in the utmost affliction; and that Don Gabriel made a shew of seeking for me every where. This news was not very likely to calm the perturbation of my mind. I know not what I ought to wish for, every thing was against me. I could not even wish for death; I thought I owed the prolonging of my wretched life to the justification of madame de Benavides.

The good father to whom I was recommended beheld me with great compassion: he heard me sigh continually, and always found my face bathed in tears. He was a man of sense and politeness, who had been long in the world, and whom a concurrence of strange accidents had driven into a cloister: he did not endeavour to reason me out of my grief, or to console me by the usual methods; he only expressed great sensibility of my misfortunes. This way succeeded; by degrees he entirely gained my confidence, perhaps also I only wanted an opportunity to speak and to complain to him. I conceived so great an affection and esteem for him, that I related to him my whole story. He became so necessary to me after a few days stay in the convent, that I could not bear him to be absent from me a moment. I never met with a man that had more goodness of heart: I repeated to him the same things a thousand times over; he always listened to me with the utmost attention, and sympathised in all my griefs.

It was through him that I learned every thing that passed in the house of Benavides: he had been in great danger from his wound, but it was at length cured. I was informed of it by Don Jerome, so was my friend the religious called. He afterwards told me, that all seemed quiet in the castle; that madame de Benavides lived more retired than before, and that she was in a very languishing state of health. He added, that I must resolve to remove as soon as I was able; for if it should be discovered that I was concealed there, it would expose the lady to new distresses.

It was not likely that I should be soon in a condition to leave the convent; I was wasting away with a continual fever, and my wound was not yet healed. I had been in this religious house above two months, when one day I observed Don Jerome to be pensive and melancholy; he always turned his eyes away when they met mine; he seemed studiously to avoid looking at me, and with difficulty answered my questions. I had conceived a very tender friendship for him; misfortunes give sensibility to the heart. I was going to express my concern for his uneasiness, and to enquire into the cause, when Saint Laurent entering my chamber, told me that Don Gabriel was in the convent, and that he had just met him.

‘Don Gabriel here, said I, looking at Don Jerome, and you never to mention to me his coming! what is the meaning of this reserve? you fill me with the most dreadful apprehensions; what is become of madame de Benavides? for pity draw me out of this cruel uncertainty.’ "Would I could leave you always in it." said Don Jerome at length, embracing me.

‘Ah, cried I, she is dead, Adelaida is dead; Benavides has sacrificed her to his rage. You answer me not—alas! then I have nothing to hope: Ah! it was not Benavides, but I who have plunged the poniard into her breast: had it not been for my fatal passion she might have been still alive—Adelaida is dead; I shall never behold her more—I have lost her for ever, she is dead, and I still live! why do I not follow her? why do I delay to revenge her upon her murderer? alas! death would be too great an indulgence to me; it would separate me from myself, and I am made up of horror and anguish.’

The violent agitation I was in caused my wound, which was not well healed, to open again. I lost so much blood that I fell into a swoon, which lasted so long that they thought me dead: but after continuing several hours in this happy state of insensibility, I woke to grief unutterable. Don Jerome, apprehensive that I should make an attempt upon my own life, charged Saint Laurent to watch me with the strictest attention. My despair now took another form: I complained not, I shed not a tear; then it was that I formed a resolution to go and inhabit some solitude, where I might, without controul, deliver myself up a prey to my affliction.

I was desirous of seeing Don Gabriel, for I eagerly caught every thing that could heighten my despair. I intreated Don Jerone to bring him, and the next day they came together into my chamber; Don Gabriel seated himself upon the side of my bed. We continued along time silent; neither of us was able to speak, he looked upon me with eyes swimming in tears. ‘You are very generous, monsieur, said I at length, to visit a wretch whom you have so much reason to hate.’

‘You are too miserable, replied he, to make it possible for me to hate you.’

‘Ah, cried I, tell me, I beseech you, every circumstance of my misfortunes, leave me ignorant of nothing; the explanation I desire of you may possibly; prevent my taking some measures which you have an interest to hinder.’

‘I shall redouble your affliction and my own, replied he, but I cannot help it—I will satisfy you; and in the recital I am going to make you, you will find you are not the only person to be pitied. Take then the incidents in order as they happened; we shall too soon come to the melancholy catastrophe.’

‘I had never seen madame de Benavides till she became my sister-in-law. My brother, who had some affairs of consequence to settle at Bourdeaux, saw her there, and fell in love with her, and although he had several rivals, whose birth and riches were superior to his, yet madame de Benavides, for reasons I never could guess at, preferred him to them all. A short time after their marriage, he brought her to his estate in Biscay, and there it was that I saw her for the first time; if her beauty excited my admiration, I was still more charmed with the graces of her mind, and the extreme sweetness of her temper, which my brother put every day to new trials. However, the passion I then had for a very amiable young person, made me believe that I was secured from the influence of her charms, which it was impossible to behold without love: I even designed to make use of my sister-in-law's interest with my brother, to prevail upon him to consent to our marriage. The father of my mistress, offended at my brother's refusal, had given me but a very short time to bring him to a compliance, declaring that when it was expired, he would marry his daughter to another.’

‘The friendship and esteem which madame de Benavides expressed for me, gave me courage to implore her assistance. I often went to her apartment with an intention to speak to her; but the slightest obstacle imaginable restrained me. Mean while, the time which had been prescribed to me drew towards a period; I had received several letters from my mistress, in which she prest me to use every method to gain my brother's consent. My answers did not satisfy her: without my perceiving it, an air of coldness ran through them, which drew many complaints from her; these complaints appeared to me to be unjust, and I reproached her with it. She now believed herself abandoned, and resentment, joined to the commands of her father, determined her to marry the person he proposed to her. She herself in a letter she wrote to me, informed me of her marriage; she reproached me, but it was with tenderness, and concluded with earnestly intreating me never to see her more. I had loved her passionately; I imagined I still loved her, and I could not learn that I had lost her for ever without feeling a real affliction. I was afraid she was unhappy, and I reproached myself with being the cause of it. Absorbed with these reflections, I continued walking in a melancholy manner, in the little wood which you used often to visit; there I was met by madame de Benavides, who, observing my uneasiness, kindly desired to know the cause of it. A secret repugnance which I felt within myself restrained me from telling her: I could not resolve to own to her that I had been in love; but the pleasure of speaking to her of that passion carried it over that consideration. All these emotions passed in my heart without my perceiving the cause: as yet I had not dared to examine into the nature of what I felt for my sister-in-law. I related my story to her: I shewed her the letter which Isabella had wrote me.’

‘Why did you not mention this sooner to me? said madame de Benavides; perhaps I might have been able to obtain the consent of your brother, though he refused it to you. My God! how much I pity you, how greatly I am concerned for her: she doubtless will be miserable.’

‘The compassion which madame de Benavides expressed for Isabella, made me apprehensive that she would think hardly of me, as the person who had made her unhappy. To diminish therefore this compassion, I eagerly told her that the husband of Isabella was a man of birth and merit; that he held a very considerable rank in the world; and that it was highly probable his fortune would be still more so.’

‘You are deceived, answered my lovely sister-in-law, if you think all these advantages can make her happy; nothing can make a mends for the loss of what one loves. It is a cruel misfortune, added she, when we are obliged to act contrary to our inclination, to comply with our duty.’

‘She sighed several times during this conversation; I even perceived that it was with difficulty she restrained her tears. She left me soon afterwards; I had not power to follow her, I remained in a trouble and confusion I am not able to describe. I now for the first time perceived what I had hitherto industriously concealed from myself, that I was in love with my sister-in-law, and I thought I could discover a secret passion in her heart; a thousand circumstances then rushed upon my memory, which before I had given no attention to: her taste for solitude, her indifference for all those amusements which make the delight of persons of her sex and age. Her extreme melancholy, which I had attributed to my brother's bad treatment of her, now seemed to me to proceed from another cause. How many sad reflections now rose in my mind! I found myself in love with a person whom I ought not to love, and this person's heart in the possession of another.’

‘If she loved nothing, said I, my passion although without hope would not be without sweetness: I might pretend to the blessing of her friendship; in that I would place my felicity. But this friendship will not satisfy my heart, since she has sentiments more tender for another. I was sensible I ought to use my utmost endeavours to vanquish a passion so dangerous to my quiet, and which honour would not permit me to entertain. I took a resolution to fly from my too lovely sister; and I returned to the castle to tell my brother that some affairs called me from him, but the sight of madame de Benavides left me no power to follow the dictates of my reason. All my resolutions vanished into air; yet to furnish myself with some pretence to continue near her, I persuaded myself that I was necessary to her, in being sometimes able to calm the tempestuous humour of her husband. About this time you arrived; I found in your air and behaviour somewhat greatly above the condition you appeared in: I treated you with familiarity and kindness. I would have entered into your confidence and have made you my friend. My intention was to prevail upon you afterwards to draw a picture of madame de Benavides for me; for notwithstanding the delusive reasons my passion found for staying with my sister, yet I resolved some time or other to leave the castle: but in this separation so just, so necessary, I was willing at least to have her picture. The manner in which you received the advances I made you, shewed me that I had nothing to hope for from you; and I was gone to bring another painter into the house that unhappy day when you wounded my brother. Judge of my surprise at my return, when I was informed of what had happened. My brother, who was desperately kept a gloomy silence, casting from time to time a terrible look upon madame de Benavides. As soon as he saw me, he called me to his bed-side. Deliver me, said he, from the sight of a woman who has betrayed me; cause her to be conducted to her own apartment, and give strict orders not to suffer her to stir out of it.’

‘I would have said something against this rigorous order to my brother; but he interrupted me at the first word.’

‘Do as I desire you, said he, or never see me more. I was obliged to obey; and, approaching my sister-in-law, I intreated her to let me speak to her in her own chamber. Let us go, said she weeping, execute the order you have received.’

‘These words, which had the air of a reproach, pierced me to the soul: I durst not make her any answer in the place we were then in; but no sooner had I led her to her chamber, than looking on her with that grief and tenderness my heart was full of, what madam, said I, do you confound me with your persecutor; I who feel your trouble as sensible as you do yourself; I who would sacrifice my life to save you? I grieve to say it, but I tremble for you; retire for some time to a place of safety, I will endeavour to have you conducted wherever you please, provided it is a secure asylum from your furious husband.’

‘I know not whether monsieur de Benavides has any design to take away my life, but I know it is my duty not to abandon him, and I will fulfil it, though I perish.’ Then after a short pause me added, ‘I am going, by placing an entire confidence in you, to give you the greatest mark of my esteem it is in my power to give; and indeed the confession I have to make you is necessary to preserve yours for me. But go and attend your brother, a longer conversation may make you suspected by him; return hither as soon as you conveniently can.’

‘I obeyed madame de Benavides, and went to my brother's apartment; the surgeon had visited him, and desired that no one might be allowed to come into his chamber. I flew back again to his wife, agitated with a thousand different thoughts: I was anxious to know what she had to say to me, and yet I feared to hear it. She related to me the manner in which she became acquainted with you, the passion you conceived for her the moment you saw her, the generous sacrifice you had made her, and she did not conceal the tenderness with which you had inspired her.’

‘Ah, interupted I, have I then been dear to the most perfect woman upon earth, and have I lost her?’ This idea filled my soul with such tender sorrow, that my tears which had hitherto been restrained by the excess of my despair, began now to stream in great abundance from my eyes.

‘Yes, continued Don Gabriel, with a sigh, you were beloved. Good heaven! what tenderness did I not discover for you in her heart! Notwithstanding her misfortunes, and the horror of her present situation, I perceived that she indulged with pleasure the thought, that her affection for you was authorised by what you had done for her. She confessed to me, that when I led her into the chamber where you was painting, she knew you; and that she had wrote to you, to command you to leave the castle, but that she could not find an opportunity to give you her letter: she afterwards related to me how her husband had surprised you together, at the very moment when you was bidding her an eternal farewel, that he attempted to kill her, but that you interposed and wounded him in defending her.’

‘Save this unhappy man, added she, you only can preserve him from the fate that waits him; for I know that in the fear of exposing me to the least suspicion, he will suffer the most cruel death, rather than declare who he is.’

‘He is well rewarded for all he can suffer, madam, replied I, by the good opinion you have of him.’

‘I have owned my weakness to you, said she; but you have seen that if I am not mistress of my affections, I have at least been so of my conduct; and that I have taken no steps which the most rigorous virtue could condemn.’

‘Alas! madam, interupted I, it is not necessary that you should condescend to justify yourself to me. Too well am I convinced by my own experience, that it is not always in our power to dispose of our own hearts: I will use my utmost endeavours to obey you and deliver the count de Comminge; but, oh madam, permit me to assure you, that I am more miserable than he is.’

‘I left the room as I pronounced these words, without daring to raise my eyes to madame de Benavides. I shut myself up in my own chamber, to consider what I had to do. I had already taken a resolution to deliver you; but I was doubtful whether I ought not to fly from the castle myself. The torments I had suffered during the relation madame de Benavides had made me, shewed me the excess of my passion for her. It was necessary that I should suppress sentiments so dangerous to our virtue; and in order to suppress them, it was necessary I should see her no more; but it seemed cruel to abandon her in such a distressful situation; to leave her unprotected, in the hands of a husband who believed himself wronged by her. After continuing long irresolute, I determined at once to assist madame de Benavides, and to avoid seeing her as much as possible. I could not inform her of your escape till next day: she seemed to be a little more easy on your account; but I thought I could perceive that her grief was increased, and I doubted not but the declaration I had made of my sentiments was the cause. I quitted her immediately, in order to free her from the embarrassment my presence threw her into. I was several days without seeing her; my brother grew worse, and his physician thought him in great danger. I was obliged to make her a visit to acquaint her with this news.’

‘If I had lost Monsieur Benavides, said she, in the ordinary methods of providence, his death would have less sensibly affected me; but the part I have unfortunately had in it, makes it an insupportable affliction to me. I am not apprehensive of the ill treatment I may meet with from him; I am only afraid of his dying in a persuasion that I have wronged him. If he lives I may hope that he will one day be convinced of my innocence, and restore me to his esteem.’

‘Suffer me, madam, said I, to endeavour to merit yours; I implore your pardon for these sentiments I have dared to let you perceive. I was not able to prevent their birth, or to conceal them from you; I even know not whether I can subdue them, but I swear to you that I will never importune you with them. I had taken a resolution to fly from you, but your interest retains me here.’

‘I confess to you, replied Madame de Benavides, that you have given me great uneasiness; Fortune seemed desirous of taking from me the consolation I have found in your friendship.’

The tears she shed when she spoke to me were more powerful than all the efforts of my reason; I was ashamed of having augmented the miseries of one already so unhappy. ‘No, madam, replied I, you shall never be deprived of that friendship you have the goodness to set some value upon; and I will endeavour to render myself worthy of yours, by my solicitude to make you forget the extravagance I have been guilty of.’

‘In effect, when I left her, I found myself more calm and easy than I had ever been since I first beheld her. Far from leaving her, I endeavoured, by the resolutions I vowed to take when in her presence, to furnish myself with arguments for performing my duty. This method succeeded; I accustomed myself by degrees to reduce my former sentiments to friendship and esteem: I told her ingenuously the progress I made in my cure. She thanked me for it as for some consideble service I had rendered her, and to reward me, gave me every day new marks of her confidence. Still my heart would sometimes revolt, but reason always got the victory. My brother, after languishing a long time, at length began to recover: he would never be prevailed upon to give his wife permission to see him, though she often requested it. He was not yet in a condition to leave his chamber, when Madame de Benavides fell ill in her turn. Her youth saved her this time, and I was full of hope that her illness had softened her husband's heart; for though he had continued obstinately resolute not to see her during his own danger, notwithstanding her earnest entreaties, yet he shewed some solicitude in enquiring for her when she was ill. She was almost recovered, when my brother ordered me to be called to him.’

[To be continued.]

TREATISE ON THE EDUCATION of DAUGHTERS CONTINUED.

Indirect Instructions, and that Children ought not to be urged.

NOW, though we ought not to make a practice of threatning and never punishing, lest our threats become contemptible, yet should not punishment be as often inflicted as threatned; and as to punishments, the pain ought to be as light as possible, but accompanied with all circumstances that may affect the child with shame and remorse; for instance, shew him what you have done to avoid coming to that extremity; appear concerned at it; speak in his hearing of the misfortune of people that are so wanting in reason and honour as to call for punishment; abate of your usual kindness, till you perceive he stands in need of consolation: let the punishment be either public or private, as you shall judge it most for his benefit, either to put him to great shame, or to let him see that you choose to spare him: let a public exposure be in reserve for the last remedy.

Sometimes make use of a discreet person to comfort the child, and say such things to him as will not be proper for yourself to speak; one that may cure him of that false shame, and dispose him to seek your favour; one to whom he may in his concern open his heart with more freedom than he can do in your presence: but above all, let it never appear that you require aught more than the necessary submission; so endeavour to manage that he shall condemn himself, readily and freely, insomuch that it may be your part to mollify the pain he shall have felt: these general rules may be employed as each particular case requires. Men, and more especially, children, are not at all times the same; what is good for them to-day, will be dangerous to morrow: a conduct invariably uniform cannot be useful. The fewer formal lessons we make use of the better; a thousand instructions more beneficial than what lessons afford, may be insinuated by the means of sprightly conversation.

I have seen several children learn to read in diverting themselves; one need only relate some pleasant stories out of a book in their presence, to teach them to know the letters insensibly: after this they will of themselves be eager to get at the source of what has given them so much entertainment. There are two things which do great mischief; one is, that they must presently be put to read in Latin, which robs them of all the pleasure of reading; the other, that they are used to read with a forced and ridiculous emphasis, or accent. It will be right to supply them with a book handsomely bound, even gilt on the edges, with pretty figures in it, and of a good type. Whatever delights the fancy, is an assistance to study: endeavour to choose him one that shall contain a number of stories, short and surprising; this done, fear not but he will learn to read. Neither teaze him to do it exactly well: let him pronounce in his natural way as he speaks, other tones are always bad, and taste of collegiate declamation. When in time, his tongue shall be at liberty, his breast stronger, and the habit of reading more enlarged, he will perform it without trouble to himself, more gracefully, and more distinctly.

They should be taught to write nearly after the same method. When children know a little how to read, one may make it a diversion to them to form their letters, and where there are several of them, it is good to stir up an emulation: they have a propensity to making figures upon paper; assist this inclination a little, without constraining them, and they will learn to form the letters by way of play, and by degrees come to write. One may also incite them, by proposing some kind of reward that shall be agreeable to their taste, and innocent in its nature.

Let me see you write a letter, one may say; acquaint your brother or your cousin with that affair. All this pleases the child, provided no frightful appearance of a set task comes to molest him. St. Austin says, upon his own experience, that a free curiosity allowed, is a much greater incitement to the spirit of a child than formal rules and compulsion derived from fear.

There is one remarkable and great fault in the course of common education; that is, all the pleasure is supposed to lie on one side, all the pain on the other; in study all the pain, in diversion all the pleasure. What will a child naturally do but be impatient under the prescribed rule, and run eagerly to his diversion? therefore let us try to change the order of these things, and make application agreeable under the disguise of liberty and pleasure: let us suffer them to break off in little sallies of play. These interruptions are necessary in order to refresh their minds; let their eyes wander a while; let them digress or trifle a little to disencumber themselves, and after that we may gently bring them back to the subject.

To require an uninterupted application to their studies does them a great deal of mischief: it is common for governors to affect this exact regularity, because it is more for their ease and conveniency than to be obliged to lie in watch for the more serviceable moments. At the same time, whatever diversions we allow them, let us see they are such as have not the least tendency to throw them into passions; whatever will refresh the mind, or afford an agreeable variety, or please their curiosity in useful subjects, or practise their limbs in any commendable art, that is the proper matter of children's diversions; and they are best pleased with such as consist of bodily motion, so they do but change place, a shuttle-cock, a bowl, is enough. Neither need we be at much trouble about what will please them, for they will invent for themselves. It is sufficient to let them proceed their own way, to look on with a pleasant countenance, and to interpose when they seem to grow too warm.

It would be good to give them a notion, so far as they will receive it, of the pleasures which the understanding affords, as conversation, news, histories, and divers games of application that contain some instruction, All this will have its use in time; but we must not force a taste for these things: we must only make them the offer; the time will come when their bodies will be less disposed to motion, their minds more active. In the mean time the care we shall take care to season employments of a serious nature with the relish of pleasure, will be a great means to abate the propensity of youth to dangerous entertainments. It is subjection and uneasiness that excite such an impatience for diversion; where a girl is not uneasy in her mother's presence she will have no such violent desire to get away, and look out for worse company.

As to the choice of diversions, all society capable of doing harm is to be avoided. No boys among girls, nor even girls that have not an orderly turn of mind. All plays that are apt to dissipate or transport the thoughts, or that accustom the body to gestures unbecoming a girl; all frequent excursions from home, and all conversations likely to excite a desire of such excursions, are to be avoided carefully.

So long as we continue unprejudiced by any high entertainment, so long as no violent passions have sprung up in us, we are easily susceptible of delight. Health and innocence will produce it; for they are true sources of it: whereas, they who have unfortunately been habituated to the perceptions of violent pleasures, lose the sense for more moderate ones, and fret themselves in a perpetual uneasy search after joy.

Our taste for entertainment is spoiled, as is our taste for victuals; we so accustom ourselves to things of a quick relish, that ordinary meats and plain, become flat and insipid. Let us then be fearful of those strong sensations which are but preparations to uneasiness and disgust; they are more especially to be feared for children, who are less able to resist what they feel, and love to be affected: let us keep them in the taste for plain things, no high seasoned food for their support, nor entertainments for their delight. Sobriety itself ever bestows sufficient appetite, without the provocation of sauces, which betray us to intemperance. A certain antient hath said, The very best artificer of pleasure is temperance; that temperance which is the health both of body and mind, under whose influence we feel ourselves in a state of gentle and moderate delight, without wanting the contrivance of machinery, or public shows, or expence for its production. A game of our own invention, a book, some task undertaken, a pleasant walk, an innocent conversation, as a refreshment after we have been employed, afford a more pure perception of delight than the finest concert of musick.

[To be continued.]

PHILOSOPHY FOR THE LADIES CONTINUED.

The Natural History of the EPHEMERON, or DAY-FLY.

THERE is nothing more trite and common than the ridicule which persons unused to the study of nature endeavour to throw on those whom a more speculative turn of mind induces to follow her into her inmost recesses, and examine even into the extremest minutiae of her works. The titles of gimcrack, cockle-shell merchant, fly hunter, &c. are lavishly bestowed on them by such as either ignorance, indolence, or a natural want of curiosity, have excluded from the great garden of nature: they find no amusement or instruction in a box of cockle-shells, a bundle of weeds, or a cluster of caterpillars (for so in general terms are all the objects of natural enquiry stiled by them) and therefore conclude that neither is capable of being drawn from them; and consequently, ‘to what use is all this,’ is ever their general cry.

But the real philosopher, the man of clear reflection, and accurate discernment, who traverses every path, and explores every winding of this regular wilderness, will meet not only with entertainment, but also with great improvement from every object that he sees. Each step he takes a text presents itself, from which his genius may draw out a sermon of admirable service to his fellow-creatures. Nor can the apparent insignificance of the subjects in themselves render the lesson they convey the less important, but quite the contrary. For if in the minutest animals we perceive the care and wisdom of an infinite power exerted for their formation and protection; if we perceive them endued with all those faculties which are or can be necessary for their preservation, and those faculties even most punctually employed to the purposes for which they were intended; with what an awe and adoration ought it to turn our thoughts towards the great Creator of them all! with what gratitude should it inspire our hearts for him who has still so much more taken care for us, and bestowed on us faculties and powers so greatly superior to the rest of his creatures! and lastly, with how much self-reproach should it fill us when we consider that from a misapplication of those powers we so frequently defeat the all-wise designs of heaven, and even render them more fallible than the uncorrupted instinct even of the smallest reptile!

In short, there is no object from which the speculative man may not deduce a lesson, or on which he may not moralize with advantage. Nay, useless as the study of natural history may now appear to the unlearned, yet let them seriously reflect from whence they have acquired some of their most valuable improvements, to whom they stand indebted for their most useful arts, and they will find them owing to observations of this kind made by men in the more early periods of the world; and that the greatest part of that genius which man so proudly boasts of is very little more than the noticed instinct of other animals improved upon by his own reason.

To instance only in a very few examples.—Who taught us the art of building but the beaver? who that of spinning but the silk worm? of weaving but the spider? of navigation but the nautilus? are not the faculties of the mind also greatly to be improved by observation of other animals? can the necessity of regular subordination and strictness of government be better pointed out than in that of the bees? do not the ants instruct us in industry and frugality? or can we observe the lion-pismire without being taught a noble lesson of patience and perseverance?

But if reflection and moral contemplation are to be sought for in these researches, what object offers an ampler scope for them than the animal which I am now going to introduce to the acquaintance of my fair readert? for what can possibly afford a more just idea of the real value of time, and the necessity of employing every moment of it to the best advantage, than the observing a creature whose whole allotted period of life is no more than the space of five hours, and that in the general not half attained to, but cut off in the middle by some insidious enemy who lies in wait to destroy it?

This fly (for in the fly-state only is it to be considered in this view) is called by the authors who have written concerning it by the names of the ephemeron, hemerobios, and diaria; all which mean no more than an animal of but a single day's existence. It is a native of Germany, and appears every year for about three days successively, fluttering on the surface of the water at the mouths of the Rhine, the Meuse, the Wael, the Leck, and the Ysel, about the middle of June. But this continued appearance of them is kept up by a regular succession; for those who begin to live and flutter about towards the noon of the first day are dead before night, a new set makes its appearance on the second, and the third in like manner is supplied by a fresh generation. After which no more of them are to be seen, till the succeeding year renews this three day's phaenomenon.

Altho' the life of the ephemeron in its fly-state, which we shall more particularly dwell on hereafter, is so extremely short, yet as it has an existence under another form, and in another element, which continues through a space of three years, it will be necessary that we should dwell a little on its history during that period, and relate the manner of its several changes.

In short, although this animal, when arrived at the state of full perfection, is an enlivened flutterer of the airy regions, yet his original existence is in the waters, where the eggs being deposited by the female, aed impregnated by the male, in the same manner as the spawn of fishes, are scattered over the muddy bottoms of the rivers by the motion of the water, and there deposited in that bed, which is the most proper for their being hatched and brought into life.

As these eggs are not united together by any glutinous or gelatinous substance, nor deposited in clusters as the spawn of the frog, of the watersnail, and of several other insects, but entirely dispersed and separate from each other, it is no very easy matter to ascertain how long it is before the insect contained within them acquires life, and breaks through its shelly integument. It is sufficient to observe, that after a certain period they produce a little worm, with six legs, which at one year's growth is of the size and form represented in the annexed plate, at Fig. I. At this age it is not only without wings, or those prominences which cover the wings, but also without the least signs or vestiges of any such part. When they come to be two years old, the little sheaths of the wings appear very plainly; and the animal, then very greatly enlarged in bulk, appeas as at Fig. II. And when it has reached its third year, at which time it is to undergo its grand metamorphosis, these cases are then as conspicuous as possible, resembling a little flower that increases by degrees, and is ready to break out of its cup. Its appearance is then such as is shewn in Fig. III.

This animal is made great use of by the fishermen, by whom it is called by the name of bankbait: for although they can swim very swiftly, yet it is seldom that they do so, but are always found near the banks of rivers, and there live in the most quiet parts. The more mud there is at the bottom out of which they first rise, the greater number of the worms are usually to be met with. Yet are they very rarely to be found either lying on the mud or adhering to it; but they live within the mud or clay itself, in hollows made oblong and smooth, and which they constantly bore, not obliquely or perpendicularly, but ever parallel to the horison, each several animal living in a separate cell.

The worm of the ephemeron as soon as it hatched from the egg, prepares for the building of these cells or houses, which they make larger and larger as the size of their body increases; so that the full grown worms are always to be found in larger, the younger in smaller tubes. For this purpose nature has furnished them with parts particularly adapted thereto, their two fore-legs being formed in some measure like those of the mole, or mole cricket, and their jaws furnished with two teeth, somewhat like the forcipes or claws of crabs, which are of great service to their making their way into the mud.

If you throw some of them into a little mud mixed with water, you will instantly perceive them begin this work of piercing and boring; and if the quantity of mud you give them is not sufficient entirely to immerge them, they will nevertheless continue to undermine what they have, hiding at one time their heads, at another their bodies, and at others their tails, in the attempt to form new cells.

In these cells then the worm of the ephemeron continues, till the time when it is to undergo its final metamorphosis, which as I have before observed is at the period of three years; previous to which the cases of the wings appear very protuberant on the back, the smooth, and depressed form of the upper part of the body is changed into a more swollen and rounder shape, and the wings themselves become in some degree visible through their external skin.

At the time that this metamorphosis is to begin, which is generally about six o'clock in the evening, the worm quits his cell, and goes into the water, from the bottom of which he immediately makes all the expedition he can to the surface, and there fixing on any thing solid that he can meet with, either wood, stone, earth, a tree, a boat, a beast, or a man, all appearing equally indifferent to him, he appears to be seized all over with a shuddering or trembling motion, when immediately the skin opens on the middle of the back, the slit enlarging towards the fore parts, till it becomes so wide, that the animal is able to thrust his head out at it; after which he draws his legs also out of the skin, as in Fig. IV. whilst the claws, adhering to the cast skin, are in the mean time firmly fixed in their places, which greatly contributes towards enabling him to slip the rest of his body out of its covering. It must moreover be observed that the head and legs are stript of their skin in the same manner that we draw our feet out of our shoes; but that as to the other parts, that is to say the first and second pair of wings, the skin is drawn off from them in such a manner as that they become turned inside out, as we invert a limber pair of gloves, the inward surface or inside of the fingers being pulled out; so that the exuvium, or case which is left behind, bears the form represented at Fig. V.

When it has thus quitted its case, and consequently compleated its change, it appears a perfect fly, with two pair of very fine filmy wings, as at Fig. VI. [*]

From this period then may be dated the commencement of its life, the whole duration of which afterwards is never more than about five hours, in which short space it generates, lays eggs, grows old, and dies. —That is to say if it even reaches to the extent of that very short allotted space; for short as it is, it is frequently cut off before the conclusion of it by the means of some of the very numerous enemies whereby this innocent unhappy little creature is persecuted in the course of it. Fond as it were of the element from whence he sprung, no sooner is his change compleated, than he instantly repairs to it again, and flutters towards its surface, where if he ventures too near, he becomes an easy prey to the trout, and many other kinds of fish, who watch to take him, and to whom he is a most delicious morsel; and if he soars higher into the air, he is as liable to be snapp'd up by the birds, who are no less fond of him. They frequently even seize and devour him whilst he is engaged in the great work of changing his skin; nay, numbers of the worms are destroyed by the inhabitants of the waters, in their very birth, before they can reach the surface to become the tenants of a purer element.

Such, so short, and so full of peril is the life of this harmless little insect; and such, O man! is thine!

Notes

*
The Plate referred to will be given in our Next.
↵

THE LADY's MUSEUM.
The TRIFLER. [NUMBER IX.]

Dear Mrs. TRIFLER,

I Cannot help suspecting that you artfully mean to cajole your fair readers into sense and seriousness, and that you only bait your periodical labours with a Trifler merely to captivate our attention, while you mean nothing less than our acquaintance with all useful and polite literature. Notwithstanding this pretty stratagem of yours, which is like teaching children their letters by gingerbread alphabets, we are resolved to disappoint your endeavours, and the purpose of this letter is to inform you of the very pernicious consequences which must necessarily result from your projected reformation.

There is one general argument which has always appeared to me unanswerable upon this subject: if we poor women furnished our minds with moral and historical truth, and took pains to acquire the true principles of taste and criticism, we should be very apt upon this supposition to discern the deficiencies of our admirers in these articles; and from a total dissimilitude of manners and pursuits, grow quickly disgusted at each other, and so risk our establishments for the sake of accomplishments no longer respected.

Pray, madam, have you ever known any ladies advantageously settled in life on account of their mental qualifications, where the metallic charms were wanting? I question extremely whether even a precedent could be found for so irregular a proceeding, so true it is what the poet sings.

Wit must wear the willow with the bays.

Indeed, my dear, you entirely mistake the point; a woman of knowledge is at present no object of request, and I am afraid literature, like virtue, is insufficient for its own reward—so well satisfied is the whole tribe of Triflers of this maxim, that there is not one of them who would not rather endanger their health and impair their sight by needle-work, than read ten pages of English history, or acquaint themselves with the very rudiments of the religion of their country.

Your ladies of literature were commonly susceptible of tenderness, (for I have looked into a translation of Ovid's Epistles,) and this is a quality the Triflers have totally divested themselves of. I suppose you would endeavour, by enlarging our ideas, to soften and refine our affections, but that would be the most unfortunate thing in the world for us, for I can assure you, we have already more light in our minds than is friendly to our pursuits and desires, and we are not a little incommoded by its impertinent suggestions.

You know that our whole family has a mortal antipathy to every thing that is severe and formal, and I have been told that method and attention are very necessary to obtain the proper fruit of study and application: now, as to the method, we are utter strangers to it, and we have never been accustomed to bestow the least attention upon any thing but the adorning and exhibiting our dear persons—not that we are so averse to letters, as totally to neglect every species of composition, but we manage that affair in so compendious and pleasing a manner, that it becomes a mere amusement. Message-cards afford us a great deal of employment; nor are there wanting very elegant models of that pretty stile of writing.

There is a judicious gentleman in this town who advertises to teach all sorts of penmanship in a very few hours, the Italian hand in nineteen hours, and in proportion all the rest; I am credibly informed, that, in imitation of so worthy an original, there is a lady very shortly expected here from Brussels, who will undertake to teach French in a fortnight, history in sixteen hours, morality in half an hour, and religion in a quarter of an hour.

I have heard it said by a gentleman, that he knew only two books of any use, a bible and almanac; for my part, I think a spelling dictionary, and Grey's Love Letters very ample furniture for a lady's library.

You can say, no doubt, many plausible things in recommendation of your Platonic system, such as, that you do not purpose to convert ladies into philosophers and mathematicians, but only to qualify them for rational conversation; that you can't apprehend any danger that ladies may be more remiss in the proper discharge of all duties, merely because they understand better the obligations they lie under to the performance of them: that ignorance of such matters as are necessary to be known, is not only highly contemptible but even criminal—all this and a great deal more you may urge to the same purpose, but be assured your remonstrances will be infallibly drowned amidst the noise and dissipation of public life,

I am, madam, Your very Humble Servant, PARTHENISSA.

THE HISTORY OF HARRIOT AND SOPHIA CONTINUED.

THE loss of Sir Charles having clouded all Sophia's views of happiness, she earnestly intreated Mr. Herbert's permission to settle herself in that humble station to which providence seemed to call her; and as she believed Mrs. Gibbons might be very useful to her upon this occasion, she resolved to apply to her as soon as she had his answer.

Notwithstanding all her endeavours to bear this shock of fate with patience, a fixed melancholy took possession of her mind, convinced that Sir Charles had loved her, and that by an unfortunate concurrence of circumstances he had been prevented from giving her the utmost proof of his affection; her tenderness no longer combatted by suspicions to his prejudice, gained new force every day, and all his actions now appeared to her in a favourable point of view: so true it is, that when a person is found less guilty than he is suspected, he is concluded more innocent than he really is.

Mr. Herbert, after a long silence, at length acquainted her, that he was ill, and desired her not to leave Mr Lawson's till she heard further from him.

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The shortness of this billet, the trembling hand with which it appeared to be written, filled Sophia with the most dreadful apprehensions. Sir Charles was now forgot, and all her thoughts were taken up with the danger of her worthy friend: she determined to go to him; and although Mr. Lawson and his wife endeavoured to, dissuade her from taking such a journey, and William, urged by Dolly, and his own eagerness to serve her, offered to go and bring her an exact account of the state of his health, yet her purpose remained unalterable.

‘My dear benefactor is ill, said she, and has none but strangers about him: it is fit that I should go and attend him; and if I must lose him, pursued she, bursting into tears, it will be some comfort to me to reflect that I have done my duty.’

She set out early the next, morning in the stage-coach: Dolly wept at parting, and engaged her lover to attend Sophia to her journey's end; that if Mr. Herbert should be worse than they apprehended, he might be near to assist and comfort her.

Sophia, when she saw him riding by the side of the coach, attempted to persuade him to return; but William charmed to have an opportunity of expressing his zeal for her service, would not quit her; and her spirits being too weak to contest this point with him, she was obliged to suffer his attendance.

They reached the place where Mr. Herbert was, in the evening of the third day: he had taken lodgings at the house, of a farmer, where he was attended with great tenderness and care.

Sophia, appeared with so deep a concern upon her countenance, and enquired for him with such extreme emotion, that the good woman of the house concluding she was his daughter, thought it necessary before she answered her questions, to preach patience and submission to her, wisely observing, that we are all mortal, and that death spares nobody, from the squire to the plowman.

She ran on in this manner till she perceived Sophia grow as pale as death, and close her eyes: she had just time to prevent her from falling, and with William's assistance, placed her in a chair, where while she applied remedies to recover her from her swoon, the youth with tears in his eyes, asked her softly how long Mr. Herbert had been dead.

‘Dead! repeated the farmer's wife, who told you he was dead? no, no, it is not so bad as that neither.’

William rejoiced to hear this, and as soon as Sophia shewed some signs of returning life, he greeted her with the welcome, news. She cast a look full of doubt and anguish upon the countrywoman, who confirmed his report, and offered to go with her to the gentleman's room. Sophia instantly found her strength return; she followed her with trembling haste; and, left her presence should surprise Mr. Herbert, she directed the good woman to tell him, that a friend of his was come to see him.

She heard him answer in a weak voice, but with some emotion, "It is my dear child, bring her to me."

Sophia immediately appeared, and throwing herself upon her knees at his bed-side, burst into tears, and was unable to speak.

The good old man holding one of her hands prest in his, tenderly blamed her for the trouble she had given herself in coming so far to visit him; but acknowledged at the same time, that this instance of her affection was extremely dear to him, and that her presence gave him inexpressible comfort.

Sophia entered immediately upon the office of a nurse to her benefactor, and performed all the duties of the most affectionate child to the best of parents.

Mr. Herbert employed the little remaining strength he had in endeavours to comfort her, and in pious exhortations. ‘Weep not for me, my dear child, would he say, but rather rejoice that the innocence of my life has diverted death of his terrors, and enabled me to meet him with calm resignation, and with humble hope. At this awful hour how little would it avail me, that I had been rich, that I had been great and powerful? but what comforts do I not feel from an unreproving conscience? these comforts every one has it in his power to procure; live virtuous then, my dear Sophia, that you may die in peace: how small is the difference between the longest and the shortest life! if its pleasures be few, its miseries are so likewise; how little do they enjoy whom the world calls happy! how little do they suffer whom it pronounces wretched! one point of fleeting time past, and death reduces all to an equality. But the distinction between virtue and vice, and its future happiness and misery are eternal.’

Sophia had need of all the consolation she derived from her reflections on the virtue and piety of her friend, to enable her to bear the apprehensions of his approaching death with any degree of fortitude; but when she least expected it, his distemper took a favourable turn, and in a few days the most dangerous symptoms were removed.

The Bath waters being judged absolutely necessary for the entire reestablishment of his health, he resolved to go thither as soon as he had recovered strength enough to bear the journey.

Sophia at his earnest desire consented to return to Mr. Lawson's, and remain there till he came from Bath, but she would not quit him till he was able to take this journey; and by the sweetness of her conversation, her tender assiduity, and watchful care, contributed so much towards his recovery, that he was soon in a condition to travel with safety.

He accompanied her the first day's journey to Mr. Lawson's; and being met at the inn by this worthy friend and young William, he consigned his beloved charge to their care, and pursued his way to Bath.

Sophia was received with great joy by Mrs. Lawson and her daughters: Dolly hung a long time upon her neck in transports, and as soon as they were alone, informed her that Mrs. Gibbons and her mother were perfectly reconciled; that she had consented to her nephew's marriage, and even shewed an impatience to conclude it: but I prevailed, said she, to have the ceremony delayed till you, my dear friend, could be present; for I could not think of being happy, while, you to whom I owe all, was afflicted.

Sophia embraced her tenderly, congratulated her upon her change of fortune, and gave many praises to her lover, to whom she acknowledged great obligations for his care and attention to her.

Dolly's cheeks glowed with pleasure while she heard her William commended by one whom she so much loved and revered.

The young lovers were married a few days afterwards; and Sophia, who had so earnestly endeavoured to bring about this union, and had suffered so much in her own interest by her solicitude concerning it, was one of those to whom it gave the most satisfaction.

Mean time Mr. Herbert continued indisposed at Bath, and Sophia uneasy, left in this increase of his expences, her residence at Mr. Lawson's should lay him under some difficulties, resolved to ease him as soon as possible of the charge of her maintenance: she explained her situation to Mrs. Gibbons, and requested her assistance in procuring her a place.

Mrs. Gibbons expressed great tenderness and concern for her upon this occasion, and assured her she would employ all her interest in her service. She accordingly mentioned her with great praise to a widow lady of a very affluent fortune, who had established such a character for generosity and goodness, that she hoped if she could be induced to take Sophia under her protection her fortune would be made.

Mrs. Howard, so was the lady called, no sooner heard that a young woman of merit, well born, and genteely educated was reduced to go to service for subsistence, than she exclaimed with great vehemence against the avarice and luxury of the rich and great, who either hoarded for their unthankful heirs, or lavished in expensive pleasures those superfluous sums which ought to be applied to the relief of the indigent. ‘Oh that I had a fortune, cried she, as large as my heart, there should not be one distressed person in the world! I must see this young lady Mrs. Gibbons, and I must do something for her. You have obliged me infinitely by putting it in my power to gratify the unbounded benevolence of my heart upon a deserving object.’

Mrs. Gibbons, when she related this conversation to Sophia, filled her with an extreme impatience to see the lady, not from any mean considerations of advantage to herself, but admiration of so excellent a character. She accompanied Mrs. Gibbons in a visit to her at her country-seat, which was but a few miles distant from the village where they lived; and Mrs. Howard was so pleased with her at this first interview, that she gave her an invitation to spend the remainder of the summer with her, and this in so obliging a manner, that Sophia immediately complied, not thinking it necessary to wait till she had consulted Mr. Herbert upon this offer, as she was fully persuaded he could have no objections to her accepting it, Mrs. Howard being so considerable by her family and fortune, and so estimable by her character.

This lady, who had made an early discovery of Sophia's economical talents, set her to work immediately after her arrival; her task was to embroider a white sattin negligee, which she undertook with great readiness, pleased at having an opportunity of obliging a woman of so generous a disposition, and in some degree to requite her for her hospitality.

Mrs. Howard indeed always prevented those on whom she conferred favours from incurring the guilt of ingratitude; for she took care to be fully repaid for any act of benevolence; and having a wonderful art in extracting advantage to herself from the necessities of others, she sometimes sought out the unfortunate with a solicitude that did great honour to her charity, which was sure to be its own reward. A few ostentatious benefactions had sufficiently established her character; and while her name appeared among the subscribers to some fashionable charity, who could suspect that her table was served with a parsimony which would have disgraced a much smaller fortune; that her rents from her indigent tenants were exacted with the most unrelenting rigor, and the naked and hungry sent sighing from her gate?

Nothing is more certain than what is called liberality is often no more than the vanity of giving, of which some persons are fonder than of what they give. But the vanity of giving publicly is most prevailing; and hence it happens, that those who are most celebrated for their charity, are in reality least sensible to the feelings of humanity: and the same persons from whom the most affecting representation of private distress could not force the least relief, have been among the first to send their contributions to any new foundation.

Sophia knew not how to reconcile many circumstances in Mrs. Howard's conduct, with her general professions of benevolence and generosity; but that lady had been so used to disguise herself to others, that at last she did not know herself; and the warmth and vehemence with which she delivered her sentiments imposed almost as much upon herself as her hearers.

Sophia's amiable qualities however soon produced their usual effects, and inspired Mrs. Howard with as much friendship for her as so interested a temper was capable of. She wished to see her fortune established, and was very desirous of serving her as far as she could, consistent with her prudent maxims, which were to make other persons the source of those benefits, the merit of which she arrogated to herself.

Chance soon furnished her with an opportunity of exerting her talents in favour of Sophia, and of engaging, as she conceived, her eternal gratitude. A country lady of her acquaintance coming one day to visit her, with her son, a clownish ignorant youth, Mrs. Howard was encouraged by the frequent glances he gave Sophia, to form a scheme for marrying her to him; and in this she foresaw so many possible advantages to herself from Sophia's grateful disposition, that she pursued it with the most anxious solicitude.

Mr. Barton, so was the young squire called, having conceived a liking for Sophia, repeated his visits frequently, emboldened by Mrs. Howard's civilities, who took every occasion of praising Sophia, and insinuating that he would be extremely happy in such a wife.

She sometimes left him alone with Sophia, in hopes that he would declare his passion to her: but the rustic, awed by the dignity of her person and manners, durst not even raise his eyes to look on her; so that Mrs. Howard finding the affair did not advance so fast as she wished, rallied Sophia upon her: ill-timed reserve, and hinted her views in her favour, which she considering as an effect of her friendship, listened to with respect and even gratitude, though her heart refused to concur in them.

This conversation passed in the presence of Mrs. Howard's only son, a youth about nineteen, who had come from the university to pass a few days with his mother. As soon as she had quitted Sophia he approached her, and with a look of tenderness and concern, told her, ‘He was sorry to find his mother so zealous an advocate for Mr. Barton, who could not possibly deserve her.’

‘Nor can I possibly deserve him, replied Sophia with a smile; he is too rich.’

‘Love only and merit can deserve you, resumed the young student, sighing, and if love was merit, I know one who might—hope—’

He paused and hesitated, and Sophia, to whom the language of love in any mouth but Sir Charles's was odious, suddenly quitted him, to avoid the continuance of a discourse which she considered as mere unmeaning gallantry.

Mean time, her rustic lover not having courage enough to declare his passion to her, had recourse to the indulgence of his mother, who till that time had never refused any of his desires.

He told her that he never liked any young woman so well in his life as Mrs. Sophia Darnley; and that he was sure she would make a good wife, because Mrs. Howard had told him so, and encouraged him to break his mind to her, but he was ashamed: he declared he would marry no body else, and begged his mother to get her for him.

Mrs. Barton, full of rage against her neighbour, for thus endeavouring to ensnare her son into a marriage, as she conceived unworthy of him, resolved to go to her and load her with reproaches. While her chariot was getting ready, she continued to question her son, and heard a great many particulars from him which convinced her that his affections were more deeply engaged than she had imagined.

After ordering the young squire to be locked up till her return, she flew to Mrs. Howard, and with the most violent transports of rage, upbraided her with the treacherous part she had acted, by seducing her son into a liking for a poor creature who was a dependent upon her charity, and whom she took this method to get rid of.

Mrs. Howard, who held Mrs. Barton in great contempt, on account of her ignorance, and valued herself extremely upon her philosophic command over her passions, listened with an affected calmness to all Mrs. Barton's invectives; and when she found she had railed herself out of breath, she began to declaim in a solemn accent against avarice, and that vile and fordid disposition of parents, who in the marriage of their children preferred the dross of riches to the real treasures of wisdom and virtue. She very charitably lamented Mrs. Barton's want of discernment, and littleness of mind; and concluded that Miss Sophia's, merit rendered her deserving of a husband even more considerable than Mr. Barton.

‘Then marry her to your own son, replied Mrs. Barton, with a sneer; no doubt but he will be more worthy of her.’

‘If my son should declare a passion for Miss Sophia, resumed Mrs. Howard, it would soon be seen how far my sentiments are exalted above yours.’

‘I am glad to hear this, returned Mrs. Barton, for I am very sure Mr. Howard is in love with this wonderful creature whom you praise so much; and since you are so willing to make her your daughter-in-law, I shall be under no fear of my son's marrying her.’

Mrs. Howard, at this unexpected stroke, turned as pale as death, and with a faultering voice, asked her, ‘What reason she had for supposing her son was in love with Miss Sophia?’

Mrs. Barton, who enjoyed her perplexity and confusion, suffered her to repeat her questions several times, and then maliciously referred her to the young gentleman himself, ‘Who, said she, upon finding you so favourably disposed, will, I doubt not, be ready enough to own his inclinations.’

Mrs. Howard was now so far humbled, that she condescended to intreat Mrs. Barton to tell her what she knew of this affair.

‘All my information, said Mrs. Barton, comes from my son, to whom Mr. Howard, considering him as his rival, declared his better right to the lady, as having acquainted her with his passion.’

At this intelligence Mrs. Howards rage got so much the better of her prudence, that she uttered a thousand invectives against the innocent Sophia, which drew some severe sarcasms from Mrs. Barton, who being now fully revenged, rose up to be gone; but Mrs. Howard, sensible that a quarrel upon this occasion might have consequences very unfavourable to her reputation, seized her hand, and led her half reluctant, again to her chair, where, after she had soothed her into good humour, by some flattering expressions, which coming from one of her acknowledged understanding, had great weight. She told her with the most unblushing confidence, that she was now convinced she had been deceived in the character of the young woman on whom she had with her usual generosity conferred so many benefits. ‘I find to my inexpressible concern, pursued she, that this modest, sensible, and virtuous young creature, as I once believed her, is in reality an artful hypocrite, whose only aim is to make her fortune, by ensnaring some unexperienced youth into a marriage. Let us join our endeavours then, my dear Mrs. Barton, to preserve our sons from this danger: this is a common cause, all mothers are concerned in it; we will shew the young dissembler in her true colours, and prevent her imposing upon others as she has done on us.’

Mrs. Barton, who never carried her reflections very far, was so well pleased with Mrs. Howard's present behaviour, that she forgot all the past: these two ladies became on a sudden the best friends in the world, and this union was to be cemented with the ruin of Sophia's fame; such beginnings have certain female friendships, and such are the leagues in which the wicked join.

Mrs. Barton proposed to have her sent for into their presence, and after reproaching her severely, dismiss her with contempt; but the more politic Mrs. Howard, whose views were at once to destroy Sophia's reputation, and to secure her own, disapproved of this harsh treatment, as she called it, and charitably resolved to ruin her with all possible gentleness.

She wrote to Mrs. Gibbons, and acquainted her, that having discovered an intrigue carrying on between Sophia and her son, she thought it necessary to dismiss her immediately out of her family; but that the poor young creature might be exposed as little as possible to censure, she begged she would come herself to fetch her away, and deliver her to her friends, with a caution to watch her conduct carefully.

She recommended secrecy to her for Sophia's sake; and assured her that if it had not been for this discovery of her bad conduct, she had resolved to have provided for her handsomely.

Mrs. Gibbons, whom this letter threw into the utmost astonishment, immediately communicated the contents of it to Dolly and William, with whom she now lived.

Dolly burst into tears of grief and indignation, and earnestly intreated her to go immediately and take Miss Sophia out of a house where her merit was so little understood; but William, who looked farther into the consequences of this affair than either his wife or his aunt, believed it necessary for the justification of Sophia's honour, that Mr. Lawson should wait upon Mrs. Howard, and demand an explanation of those censures which she had cast upon a young lady confided to his care; rightly judging, that if malice was the source of her accusation, she would not dare to pursue it with a man of his character; and if it arose from the information of others, he would be able to detect the falshood of it.

These reasons prevailed with Mrs. Gibbons, who had been very desirous to shew her eloquence upon this occasion, and was resolved, she said, not to have spared Mrs. Howard for her immature conclusions.

William went immediately to his father-in-law, and acquainted him with what had happened. Mr. Lawson was grieved from the consideration of what Sophia's delicate sensibility would feel from such an attack upon her reputation; and this was the worst that he apprehended could happen from calumnies which the purity of her manners and the innocency of her life would be always a sufficient refutation of. A wise and virtuous person, he knew, was out of the reach of fortune, though not free from the malice of it. All attempts against such a one are, as the poet says, like the arrows of Xerxes; they may darken the day, but cannot stifle the sun.

His impatience to take Sophia out of the hands of a woman whom he conceived to be either very malicious, or very imprudent, made him defer his visit no longer than till the afternoon.

When he sent in his name, Mrs. Howard, who had no suspicion of the occasion of his coming, ordered him to be shewn into a parlour, where she suffered him to wait near an hour before she admitted him to her presence; a country curate being in her opinion a person too insignificant to lay claim to any degree of consideration, and besides, this sort of neglect being affected by many persons of quality, to whom it certainly gives great importance and dignity, their imitators never lose any opportunity of exercising it.

Mr. Lawson was at last summoned to the lady's dressing-room, where he expected to have found Sophia, but was glad to see Mrs. Howard alone. She asked him with a little superciliousness, if he had any business with her; to which he replied, with a solemnity in his look and accent that surprised her, ‘That being a friend to miss Sophia Darnley, and the person to whose care she was confided by her relations, he thought it his duty to enquire what part of her conduct had given occasion for those unfavourable suspicions which were entertained of her.’

‘Mrs. Gibbons, madam, pursued he, has communicated to me a letter which she has received from you, wherein there is a heavy charge against miss Sophia; a charge which none who know her can think it possible for her to deserve. There must certainly be some mistake here, madam; you have been misinformed, or appearances have deceived you, and in justice to you, as well as to one of the most virtuous and amiable young women in the world, I am resolved to trace the source of these calumnies, that her innocence may be fully cleared. I beg of you then, madam, let me know what foundation you have for believing that Miss Sophia—’

Mrs. Howard, whom this speech had thrown into great confusion, interrupted him here, to prevent his repeating those expressions in her letter, the meaning of which, though obvious, she durst not avow.

‘I find, said she, that you and Mrs. Gibbons have seen this affair in a worse light than I intended you should; my son has been foolish enough to entertain a liking for this girl, whom I took under my protection, with a view to provide for her handsomely, and she has been wise enough pursued she, with an ironical smile, to give him encouragement, I suppose; but with all her excellencies, I am not disposed to make her my daughter-in-law.’

Mrs. Howard threw in this last softening expression, in hopes it would satisfy Mr. Lawson, and added, that to prevent any thing happening, which might be disagreeable to her, she begged he would take Sophia home with him.

‘Most willingly, madam, said he; but since it seems to be your opinion, that this young gentlewoman has encouraged the clandestine addresses of your son, I think it will be proper to examine first into the truth of these suspicions, that you may not part with worse thoughts of her than she deserves.’

Mrs. Howard being thus prest, and unwilling to enter into an explanation that would expose all her artifices, was forced to acknowledge that she had no other foundation for her fears than the passion her son had owned for her; and having made this unwilling concession, she left him with a countenance inflamed with stifled rage, saying she would send Sophia to him.

Accordingly she went into the room where she was at work, and told her, her friend the curate was waiting to carry her home. Observing her to look extremely surprised, ‘If you consider, said she, what returns you have made me for the benefits I have conferred upon you, you will not think it strange that we should part in this manner.’

‘Bless me, cried Sophia, what have I done to deserve such reproaches?’

‘I cannot stay to talk to you now, said Mrs. Howard; I have explained myself to Mr. Lawson, I am sorry to say, that I now can only wish you well.’

She hurried out of the room when she had said this; and Sophia, in the utmost perplexity and concern, flew down stairs to Mr. Lawson, who was already at the gate waiting to help her into the chaise: she gave him her hand, asking him at the same time, with great emotion, ‘What Mrs. Howard accused her of?’

As soon as they drove away, Mr. Lawson related all that had past between that lady and him, which filled Sophia with new astonishment: she could not comprehend Mrs. Howard's motives for acting in the manner she had done with regard to her; all her conduct appeared to her highly extravagant and inconsistent; she asked Mr. Lawson a thousand questions, full of that simplicity which ever accompanies real goodness of heart.

He gave her some notion of the dangerous character of Mrs Howard, and greatly blamed her for having so suddenly accepted her invitation, without first consulting Mr. Herbert. ‘It is a maxim, pursued he, of one of the wisest of the antients, that in forming new connections of every sort, it is of great importance in what manner the first approaches are made, and by whose hands the avenues of friendship are laid open.’

Mr. Lawson, by this hint, gave Sophia to understand, that he did not think Mrs. Gibbons, a proper person to introduce her into the world. She was now sensible that she had been too precipitate; but her motives were so generous, that Mr. Herbert, whom in a letter she acquainted with the whole affair, easily justified her in his own opinion, though he earnestly, recommended it to her not to let her apprehensions of being burthensome to him draw her into new inconveniencies.

Mr. Lawson having, as he imagined, prevented Mrs. Howard from making any future attack upon Sophia's reputation, by obliging her to acknowledge her innocence, was surprised to hear whereever he went, of the calumnies she invented against her.

Nothing is more common than for persons to hate with extreme inveteracy those whom they have injured; and although Mrs. Howard was convinced, that Sophia would not admit a visit from her son, (who now openly avowed his passion for her;) that she refused to receive his letters, and shunned every place where she thought it possible to meet him; yet pretending to be apprehensive that the youth would be drawn into a clandestine marriage, she sent him away precipitately upon his travels, and this gave a colour to new invectives against Sophia, who trusting only to her innocence for her justification, had the satisfaction to find that innocence fully acknowledged in the esteem and respect with which she was treated by all the persons of fashion in the neighbourhood.

Mr. Herbert, who in every new trial to which she was exposed, found greater cause for admiration of her character, praised the gentleness and forgiving spirit which she discovered upon this occasion; but Mrs. Gibbons was not wholly satisfied with her conduct, ‘You ought to discriminate upon Mrs. Howard, said she, and tell the world how desirous she was to have you married to her friend's son, though she makes such a clutter about her own: indeed you want spirit, miss Sophia,’ added the old lady, with a little contempt.

‘I am not of your opinion, madam, replied Sophia; for in taking revenge upon our enemies, we are only even with them; in passing over their malice we are superior.’

‘Well, well, interrupted Mrs. Gibbons, I have no notion of such superiousness: I always resent injuries, and Mrs. Howard shall feel my resentment for her malice to you. I have not returned her last visit yet, and perhaps I may not this month; this is pretty severe I think.’

Sophia, composing her countenance as well as she could, thanked Mrs. Gibbons for this instance of her friendship to her; but she had no opportunity to observe whether she kept her word, for she was summoned to town by a letter from her mother, which gave her a melancholy account of her affairs.

Mrs. Darnley acquainted her that the gentleman was dead who paid her the annuity which Sir Charles had stipulated for her when he procured him her late husband's place. She desired her to come immediately to town to assist her under her misfortunes; and added in a postscript, as if reluctantly, that Harriot had left her, and was not so dutiful as she could wish.

Sophia read this letter with tears; and, impatient to comfort her afflicted mother, she instantly prepared for her little journey.

All Mr. Lawson's family parted from her with great regret; but Dolly's affliction was extreme, and Sophia amidst so many greater causes of sorrow, felt a new pang when she took leave of her tender and innocent friend.

To spare Mr. Lawson the trouble of conducting her to town, she accepted a place in the coach of a lady with whom she had lately become acquainted, and who professed a particular esteem for her.

On her arrival at her mother's house, she found only a servant there, who informed her that her mistress had taken lodgings at Kensington for the air, having been indisposed for some weeks past.

Sophia ordered her to get a hackney coach to the door, and was hurrying away without daring to enquire for her sister, when the maid told her Miss Darnley desired to see her before she went to Kensington.

"Where is my sister," said Sophia, with a faultering accent.

The answer she received was a stroke of fortune more cruel than any she had yet experienced: her sister, she found, lived in the house which Sir Charles had once offered to her.

Trembling and pale she ordered the coachman to drive thither, and drawing up the windows, relieved her labouring heart with a shower of tears.

[To be continued.]

On reading HUTCHINSON on the PASSIONS.

THOU, who thro' nature's various maze can'st rove,

And shew what springs the rapid passions move;

Teach us to combat anger, grief, and fear,

Recal the sigh, and check the flatting tear;

Why was thy soft philosophy addrest,

All to the vacant ear, and quiet breast?

With ease may peaceful apathy be taught

To those who stagnate in a calm of thought

Whose hearts by love or hate were ne'er possest;

Who ne'er were wretched, and who ne'er were blest:

Who one dull slumber through their lives maintain,

And only dream of pleasures and of pain.

Serenely stupid. So some gentle stream

Steals thro' the winding valleys still the same;

So silent down the muddy channel creeps;

While the soft zephyr on its bosom sleeps.

My fervent soul a nobler art requires,

Not to suppress, but regulate her fires:

Some better guides, who temperately wife

Allow to feel, yet teach us to despise.

To reason's sway subject the soul's domain,

And not subdue the passions, but restrain.

SHALUM, Master of MOUNT TIRZAH, to HILPA, mistress of the Valleys. An Ante-diluvian Love Letter. By a Young Lady.

WHAT thought can represent my vast distress?

What words the anguish of my soul express,

When to my rival you resign'd your charms

And fill'd his richer, but less faithful arms?

These threescore years and ten thy loss I've mourn'd,

While Tirzah's hills my loud complaint return'd:

Those hills which gilded by the sun's bright ray,

Ill suited my sad soul that loath'd the day.

Thick groves I rais'd, and hid my sorrows there,

And left the rest to bounteous nature's care.

Her happy hand in every part appears,

And a new Eden rises 'midst my tears.

Here opening flowers the ravish'd sense invade;

There spreading cedars form a grateful shade;

Soft gliding streams, which murmur as they flow,

And gales that o'er Arabia's odours blow.

Come up then, my belov'd, oh! come and grace

This blissful spot with a young beauteous race.

With sons and daughters let us fill these groves,

Soft pledges of their parent's faithful loves.

Daughter of Zilpah, think on life's short date;

To a poor thousand years 'tis fix'd by fate.

How soon are beauty's transient glories past;

Its fading bloom will scarce four centuries last.

So the fair cedar on the mountains height

Displays its spreading branches to the sight:

When worn with age, it falls, nor thought of more

Till some young shoot, its memory restore,

Which with increasing verdure still may rise,

And like its parent tree, invade the skies.

Think well on this, then haste to make me blest;

Be happy now, and leave to fate the rest.

HILPA, Mistress of the Valleys, to SHALUM, Master of Mount Tirzah. By the same.

O Shalum cease, nor vainly try to move

The heart of Hilpa, to receive thy love.

These praises of my form I well could spare,

Thou know'st me rich, and therefore call'st me fair.

For say, dissembler, does my beauty fire

Thy faithful breast, and raise this soft desire:

Or is it on my wealth thy fancy feeds,

My yellow fields, soft shades, and verdant meads?

Do not the bleating of my numerous flocks

Make a glad eccho on thy lonely rocks?

Can my faint beauties Shalum's bosom warm?

Ah no! my large possessions make the charm.

What tho' thy tow'ring forests strike my eyes

With awful pleasure, and my soul surprise;

Tho' edg'd with clouds, thy waving trees are seen,

And shade thy walks with an eternal green;

Tho' from thy Tirzah spicy breezes flow,

And shed ambrosial fragrance all below:

Yet these but please the sense, nor can prevail

Above the solid riches of the vale.

I know thee, Shalum, happier, wiser far,

Thou art, than the frail sons of Adam are.

Among the lofty cedars, thy abode,

In knowledge blest, already half a God.

Thou mark'st the seasons of the changing year,

Skill'd in the influence of each ruling star.

To thee the difference of each soil is known,

And all earth's various secrets are thy own.

A soul like thine has beauty power to move;

Say, canst thou feel the pleasing pangs of love?

Ah, no! pursue me not, nor hurt my peace,

This artful strain of dangerous flattery cease.

May bounteous nature all thy labours aid;

May'st thou add wood to wood, and shade to shade:

But tempt not Hilpa to renounce her groves,

The silent, soft recess, her fancy loves,

With wedded cares to interupt thy joy,

And the lone sweets of solitude destroy.

The MORNING. By the same.

THE moon, pale majesty of night, retires,

To gild remoter climes with fainter fires:

The shadows fly before the breaking dawn,

Now rise to view each hill and verdant lawn,

Like the sick lamp of life, one parting ray

Each waning star emits, then dies away.

The morning breathes mild fragrance all around,

And kindly dews impearl the flow'ry ground:

Fair streaks of light, the face of heaven o'erspread,

The smiling ether glows with purpled red.

Enliven'd by the sun's all powerful ray,

Glad nature smiles, and hails returning day.

Each plant his life-renewing spirit meets,

Expands its leaves, and gives forth all its sweets;

Touch'd by his kindly warmth the roses blow.

Increas'd their odour, and more deep their glow.

The velvet lillies milder scents exhale,

And lend their fragrance to the passing gale.

The feather'd choir their artless notes renew,

Wing through the air, or warble on the bough:

Swift o'er the fields the peasant takes his way,

And pleas'd, resumes the labours of the day.

These are thy works, oh, great creator, these

The wonders of thy power earth, air, and seas;

Are thine; thy animating breath sustains

Whate'er creation's boundless vast contains.

An ODE. By a LADY.

I.

AH, why my love that pensive air?

Why dost thou droop with secret care?

Big tears fall silent from thy eyes,

Thy bosom heaves with frequent sighs;

And from that dear, that much-lov'd face

Is banish'd every smiling grace.

II.

These cares, these griefs, should all be mine,

Didst thou for greater ills repine;

But tho' we feel the storms of fate,

Tho' various woes around us wait,

Yet love is ours, the smiling pow'r

Can fortune's fiercest rage endure.

III.

In me he reigns without controul,

Possesses all, and fills my soul.

In my fond breast no wishes rise,

But those the charming God supplies;

What can my hope, or envy move,

Who seek no other wealth but love?

THE HISTORY OF THE COUNT DE COMMINGE CONCLUDED.

‘I HAVE some important business, said he, which demands my presence in Saragossa; my health will not permit me to take this journey, I must intreat you therefore to go in my stead; I have ordered my equipage to be got ready, and you will oblige me by setting out immediately.’

‘The Marquis de Benavides is older than me by a great number of years; I have always had the same respect for him as for a father, and he has held the place of one to me. Besides, I had no reason to urge which could dispense with my doing as he desired. I was obliged therefore to resolve to go; but I thought this ready compliance gave me a right to speak to him in favour of Madame de Benavides. What did I not say to soften him! he appeared to me to be shaken; I even fancied I saw tears in his eyes.’

‘I have loved Madame de Benavides, said he to me, with the most ardent passion, it is not yet extinguished in my heart; but time and her future conduct can only efface the remembrance of what I have seen.’

‘I durst not enter into any discourse with him concerning the cause of his complaints; that would have again recalled his former rage; I only desired permission to acquaint my sister-in-law with the hopes he had given me. He granted my request. This poor lady received the news I brought her with a kind of joy.’

‘I know, said she, that I can never be happy with Monsieur de Benavides; but I shall at least have the consolation of being where my duty calls me.’

‘After having again assured her of my brother's good disposition to her, I took my leave of her. One of the chief domestics of the house, in whom I confided, had promised to be strictly attentive to every thing that regarded her, and to give me information.’

‘After these precautions, which I thought necessary, I set out for Saragossa. I had been there fifteen days without having any news from the castle, and was beginning to be very uneasy at this long silence, when I received a letter from the faithful domestic I mentioned. He informed me that three days after my departure, Monsieur de Benavides had discharged him and all the rest of his servants, except one man whom he named to me, and the wife of that man. I trembled as I read this letter, and without troubling myself any further about the business with which I was charged, I hired post-horses to return to the castle. When I was within a day's journey of this place, received the fatal news of the death of Madame de Benavides. My brother, who wrote to me himself, appeared so greatly affected, that I could not suppose he had been accessary to it. He told me, the great love he had for his wife had subdued his resentment, and that he was ready to pardon her when death matched her from him: that she had relapsed a short time after my departure, and her fever encreasing, she died upon the fifteenth day of her illness. Since I came hither to seek some consolation in the company of Don Jerome, I have been informed my brother is plunged in the deepest sadness; that he sees no one, and he has even entreated me to defer seeing him for some time.’

‘I find no difficulty in complying with his request, continued Don Gabriel; those places in which I have seen the unfortunate Madame de Benavides, and where I shall no more see her, would increase my grief. Her death seems to have awakened all my former sentiments, and I know not whether the tears I shed do not more proceed from love than friendship: I have determined to go into Hungary, where I hope either to find death in the war, or to recover the peace I have lost.’

Here Don Gabriel ceased to speak. I was not able to answer him, but with tears; my voice was lost in sighs, Don Gabriel also wept bitterly: at length he left me without my being able to utter a single word. Don Jerome attended him out, and I was left alone. The melancholy relation I had just heard increased my impatience to see myself in a place where I might abandon myself, without interruption, to the excess of my grief.

The desire of executing this scheme hastened my cure: after having been long in a languishing condition, my wound was healed, my strength returned, and I found myself able in a little time to leave the convent.

The parting between Don Jerome and me was on his side full of tenderness and friendly concern; but the loss of Adelaida had left me insensible to all other impressions. I would not acquaint him with my design, lest he should endeavour to oppose it: I wrote to my mother, and sent my letter by Saint Laurent, making him believe that I would wait for an answer, in the place I then was.

This letter contained an account of all that had happened to me since I saw her last: I earnestly asked her pardon for leaving her, as I resolved to do, for ever. I added, that in tenderness to her maternal affection, I chose to spare her the sight of a miserable wretch, who had now nothing left to wish for but death; and lastly, I conjured her not to make any attempts to discover the place of my retreat, and recommended the faithful Saint Laurent to her protection.

When I parted with him, I gave him all the money I had about me, reserving only what was sufficient to defray my expences during my journey. The letter I had received from Madame de Benavides, and her picture, which I wore next my heart, was all the wealth I was possessed of. I travelled with an impatience which hardly allowed me to stop a moment, to the abbey de la F— Upon my arrival I demanded the habit of the order. The father abbot obliged me to undergo the probationary forms; and when they were finished, asked me whether the wretched diet, and other austerities did not appear more than equal to my strength. Absorbed in grief, I had not even perceived the difference of my diet, and the austerities he mentioned: my insensibility was taken for a mark of zeal, and I was received.

The certainty I now had that my tears might flow uninterrupted, and that I might pass my whole life in this sad employment, gave me some consolation; the horrid solitude, the melancholy silence that reigned in this cloister, the mortified countenances of all about me, left me wholly devoted to that grief which was become so precious to me, that it supplied the place of all I had lost. I performed, all the exercises of the cloister without thinking of their severity, for every thing was alike indifferent to me. I went every day into the thickest part of the wood; there would I read over the letter, and gaze on the picture of my Adelaida, bathe them both with my tears, and replacing them upon my heart, return with greater weight of grief.

Three years I led this melancholy life, while time neither alleviated my sorrow, nor brought the period to it which I so earnestly desired, when one morning I was summoned by the tolling of the bell to be present at the death of one of the religious. He was already laid upon the ashes, the last sacrament was going to be administred to him, when he desired to speak to the father abbot.

‘What I am going to say father, said the dying penitent, will animate with new fervour all who shall hear me, since by methods so extraordinary, I have been drawn out of the abyss of sin and misery into which I was plunged, and conducted into the port of salvation; I am unworthy of the name of brother, with which these holy religious have honoured me: in me you behold an unhappy woman, whom a profane passion has led to this sanctified place. I loved and was beloved by a young man of a rank equal to my own; the mutual hatred of our fathers was an insurmountable obstacle to our marriage: I was even obliged for the safety of my lover, to give my hand to another person, and in the choice of my husband, I endeavoured still to give him proofs of the continuance of my passion. The man who could not be supposed to inspire me with any sentiments but those of hatred or contempt, was preferred to every other who addressed me, because the sacrifice I made him should be compleat, and that he might have no cause for jealousy. The Almighty decreed that a marriage contracted with such criminal views should prove a source of misery to me. Although I would never after consent to see my lover, yet my husband and he met and wounded each other before my eyes. Terror and grief threw me into a violent illness; I was scarcely recovered when my husband shut me up in a private apartment of his castle, and caused it to be reported that I was dead.’

‘I continued two years in that melancholy confinement, with no other consolation, than what the compassion of her who daily brought me my food afforded me. My husband, not satisfied with the miseries he inflicted on me, had the cruelty to insult me under them. Oh my God, what do I say! dare I accuse of cruelty the instrument thou wast pleased to make use of for my punishment? these afflictions did not bring me to a just sense of the extravagances of my conduct: instead of weeping for my faults, I wept only for my lover.’

‘The death of my husband set me at liberty. The woman who served me, being the only person who knew the truth of my condition, came to open the doors of my prison, and informed me that I had passed for dead from the moment I entered it. Not doubting but the treatment I had met with from my husband had given rise to very unfavourable suspicions of my virtue, I deliberated whether it was not necessary I should pass the rest of my days in a convent; and I was confirmed in this design when I learned that the only person who could retain me in the world had not been heard of for a long time. I disguised myself in the habit of a man, that I might leave the castle without being known.’

‘The convent to which I resolved to retire was that in which I was educated, and is but a few leagues distant from hence. I was travelling to it when the solitariness of this place striking my imagination as I passed by, I alighted from my chaise, in order to indulge my sad reflections a few moments: a secret impulse which I could not resist led me into your chapel. Scarce had I entered when among the voices that sung the praises of our Lord, I distinguished one too well accustomed to reach my heart. I thought at first that my disordered imagination had deceived me by a fancied resemblance; but when I approached, notwithstanding the alteration which time, grief, and the austerities of a cloister had made in his countenance, I immediately knew that lover so dear to my remembrance.’

‘Great God! what became of me at this sight! what were the cruel agitations of my mind! far from praising the Almighty for calling him to so holy a profession, I blasphemed against him for having deprived me of him: you punished not my impious murmurs, oh my God! and you made use of my own folly and misery to draw me to your self!’

‘I was not able to leave a place which inclosed what I loved; and that we might no more be separated, I discharged my guide, and presented myself, father, to you. Deceived by the eagerness I discovered to be admitted into your cloister, you received me willingly. Alas! what were the dispositions I brought to your holy exercises? a heart filled with a profane passion, and every thought employed on the dear object of its tenderness.’

‘The Almighty, who by abandoning me to my wild affections, would give me greater cause for humbling myself one day before him, doubtless permitted those impoisoned delights which I tasted in breathing the same air, and living in the same house with him I loved. I followed him every where: I assisted him in his labours as much as my strength would allow, and in those moments I thought myself over-paid for all that I had suffered; but yet my imprudent tenderness did not carry me so far as to make myself known to him. But what was the motive that hindered me? the fear of disturbing the quiet of him for whom I had lost my own: but for this fear I should perhaps have attempted to snatch from God a soul which I believed wholly devoted to him.’

‘Two months are now elapsed, since in obedience to a regulation of our holy founder, who was desirous by a continual idea of death, to sanctify the lives of his religious, we have been obliged each to dig his own grave. I followed as usual him to whom I was attached by ties so shameful. The sight of his grave, the ardour with which he dug it, pierced my heart with such an excess of sorrow, that I was obliged to leave him, and retire to the most unfrequented part of the wood, to give free course to my tears. From that moment I was in continual apprehensions of losing him; the idea of his death was ever present to my mind; my tenderness increased, I followed him every where; and if I was some hours of the day without seeing him, I feared I should never see him more.’

‘But now the happy moment arrived when God was pleased to draw me to himself. I went with the man my soul so fondly loved, into the forest to get wood for the use of the house; after some time spent in this employment, I perceived that my companion had left me: anxious and uneasy at his absence, I could not help going to seek for him. After having wandered through great part of the forest, I saw him at length in one of the most retired parts of it, employed in gazing earnestly upon something he had taken from his bosom: he was in so profound a revery, that I came up close to him, and had leisure to look upon what he held in his hand, without his perceiving me. How great was my astonishment when I saw it was my own picture!’

‘I was now sensible, that far from enjoying that quiet I had been so unwilling to interrupt, he was like me, the miserable victim of a criminal passion. I saw the powerful hand of God ready to fall upon him; that fatal passion which I had carried with me even to the foot of his altar, seemed to have drawn the vengeance of heaven upon him who was the object of it.’

‘Full of this terrifying idea I came to prostrate myself before those altars; I implored of God my own conversion, in order to obtain that of my lover. Yes, oh my God, it was for him that I offered up my supplications to thee! for him I shed tears of remorse and grief; it was the desire of his salvation that brought me to thee. Thou hadst compassion upon my weakness; my prayer, profane as it was, thou didst not reject: my heart became sensible of the healing power of thy grace: from that blissful moment I experienced the peace of a soul which is with thee, and desires only thee; thou wast pleased to purify me by sufferings; I was seized with sickness soon after. If the partner of my wild affections still groans under the weight of his profane passion, let him cast his eyes upon me: let him view the wretch whom he has so madly loved: let him reflect upon that tremendous moment to which I am now arrived, and to which he shall shortly arrive. Oh, let him seek God ere he has silenced his mercy to listen only to his justice. But I feel the time of my last sacrifice approaching. I beseech these holy religious to offer up their prayers for my departing soul. I humbly intreat their pardon for the offence I have given them, and I acknowledge myself unworthy to partake of their sepulchre.’

The sound of that adored voice, now undisguised, and always present to my remembrance, made me know Adelaida at the first words she pronounced. What language can convey an idea of what I then felt! all that the most ardent love, all that the tenderest companion, all that the most poignant grief, and wildest despair could inspire, tore my distracted soul that moment. I was prostrate on the ground, like the other religious, while she was speaking: the fear of losing any one of her words restrained my cries; but when I found, that in uttering the last she had expired, the house ecchoed with my agonizing shrieks.

The religious running to me raised me from the ground; I tore myself put of their arms, flew to the corps of Adelaida, and kneeling down beside it, I bathed one of her lifeless hands with my tears. ‘I have lost you then a second time, my dear Adelaida, cried I, and I have lost you for ever. What! have you been so long with me, and did not my ungrateful heart acknowledge you? but we will never more be separated: death, added I, folding her in my arms, death, less cruel than my inexorable father, shall now, in spite of him, unite us for ever.’

True piety is never severe. The father abbot, moved at this light, endeavoured by the tenderest condolences, and the most holy exhortations to soften my grief, and prevail upon me to abandon the corps of Adelaida, which I held fast locked in my arms: finding me deaf to all he could urge, he was obliged to use force; they dragged me from the lovely body into my own cell, whither the father-abbot followed me: he staid with me the whole night, vainly attempting to calm my mind, my despair was increased by the consolations he offered me.

‘Give me Adelaida, said I, why have you separated us? oh, why did not my soul take its flight with hers? Alas! I can live no longer in a place where I have lost her, and where she suffered so many miseries. Permit me, added I, throwing myself at his feet, permit me to leave this cloister; what will you do with a miserable wretch whose despair will trouble your repose? suffer me to retire to some other solitude, there to wait for a final end to all my sorrows. My dear Adelaida will obtain of God that my penitence and prayers may be affectual for my salvation: and oh, father, do not refuse my last request, promise me that the same tomb shall unite our ashes, and I in return engage not to hasten that moment which my soul so ardently pants after.’

The father-abbot moved with compassion for my misfortunes, and perhaps desirous of removing from the eyes of his religious, an object which gave so much scandal to their piety, granted my request, and promised to do what I desired. I left the convent that moment, and came to this solitary wild, where I have lived several years, having no other consolation than that of weeping for what I have lost.

TREATISE ON THE EDUCATION of DAUGHTERS CONTINUED.

Indirect Instructions, and that Children ought not to be urged.

THE simple pleasures are less poignant, less affecting it is true, the others transport the soul, as they stir the springs of the passions; but the first are most eligible, seeing they afford an equal and durable satisfaction without any evil consequences. They are always benign, whereas those others resemble adulterated wines, that please the palate indeed more than the genuine, but create a thirst and hurt the health; in like manner the temperament of the soul is damaged by a pursuit after pleasures of a quick and poignant nature.

All that we can do for children entrusted to our care, is to use them to a plain way of life, to fortify the habit of it in them for as long as we can; to give them timely apprehensions of the inconveniences consequent to other sorts of pleasure, and never to leave them to their own conduct, as is generally done, just at the time when the passions begin to make themselves be felt, and when, of consequence, there is the greatest necessity for restraint.

It must be confessed, that of all the pains of educating none is comparable to that of bringing up a child who is deficient in sensibility: lively and sensible tempers are subject to terrible deviations; passion and presumption hurry them away, nevertheless have they great resources, and frequently are seen to come back, after having ran great lengths. Instruction is in them a concealed bud that shoots out and some times bears fruit, when experience brings its assistance to reason, and the passions are grown cool; at least one finds something in them, by which to make them attentive and awaken their curiosity; something whereby to interest them in what we would teach, and to affect their sense of honour; whereas we have no hold upon indolent tempers, their thoughts are but the wandering of the mind, they are never where they ought to be; there is no touching them to the quick, even by correction; they hear all, they feel nothing. This indolence make the child negligent, and disgusted with every thing he does; here it is that the best scheme of education runs the risk of failing, in case great diligence is not used to obviate the evil from their earliest infancy.

Many people that do not fathom deep enough, conclude from this ill success, that it is nature which performs all in making men of merit, education nothing; whereas, the true conclusion should be, that some tempers ate like some ungrateful soils, upon which cultivation has but small effect; and the matter is made worse when these edecations so difficult to accomplish are obstructed, or neglected, or badly regulated in the first outset.

Further than this we ought to observe that there are some sorts of tempers which we are apt greatly to mistake; they appear at first pretty and promising, because the early graces of infancy throw a lustre over all: there is an inexpressible something of the tender and amiable, that keeps us off from a close examination of the composition of features; every instance of wit in them surprises, because not expected at that age; all the faultiness of judgment is excused, and carries the grace of ingenuousness; we mistake a certain corporeal vivacity, which never fails to appear in children for mental. Hence it is that infancy seems to promise so much and yields so little. One has been remarkable for his wit at five years old, and in proportion as he grew up, fallen into obscurity or contempt.

Of all the qualities of children, there is but one to be depended on, that is, a good reasoning faculty; this grows up with them, provided it be cultivated; the graces of infancy will fade, the vivacity decay, nay the tenderness of heart often be lost, forasmuch as the passions and converse with a designing world, insensibly harden young people, as they come forward on the stage of life.

Try then to discover, beyond these graces of infancy, whether the disposition which you have to direct, be void of curiosity, or too little sensible to generous emulation. Should this be the case, it is scarce possible but that every person engaged in his education, will quickly be discouraged at so fruitless so knotty a task; wherefore we should endeavour immediately to put in motion every spring of the soul of that child, in order to rouze him from his lethargy. Whenever you perceive this difficulty, do not attempt a series of instruction; take great care not to load his memory, this is what would amaze and oppress the brain; fatigue him not with rules and restrictions; spirit him up, far he is fallen into the contrary extreme to presumption; fear not to demonstrate to him, with discretion, what he is capable of doing; be pleased with a little; make him observe even his smallest success; represent to him how needlesly he was afraid of miscarrying in things that he performs well; set emulation to work; jealousy is more prevalent in children than one would imagine, one may see some of them growing lean and pining with a secret anguish, because others are more loved or more caressed than themselves. It is a cruelty too commonly found among mothers, to make them suffer this torment; nevertheless, on pressing occasions, we ought to be skilled in the use of this antidote to indolence. Shew the child other children that hardly do better than he; for examples disproportioned to his weakness would discourage him utterly: from time to time give him little victories over his rivals; bring him, if possible, to laugh freely with you at his own timidity; point out some as fearful as himself that have got the better of their disposition; inform him, but indirectly, as it were speaking of others, that want of courage, and idleness, sti•le the soul; that the listless, and the inattentive, whatever genius they may have, destroy their own faculties and degrade themselves.

But beware of speaking with an austere and impatient tone of voice; for nothing so confounds a dull and faint-hearted child as harshness; on the contrary, bend all your care to season with ease and pleasure proportionable to his temper every task you desire he should perform; and perhaps upon proper occasions it would not be amiss to irritate him by some degree of contempt, and some reproaches, but not by yourself in person; let another do it, an inferior, or another child, without your seeming to know what passes.

St. Austin relates, that one single reproach of a servant wench cast upon his mother Monica when a girl, so shocked her, as immediately to make her leave off drinking wine unmixed, a bad habit which not all the violence and severity of her governess had been able to keep her from: in short, we must endeavour to raise up a taste in the minds of these kind of children, in like manner as is practised with regard to the palates of some sick people; these are permitted to try every thing to cure their want of relish; their fancies are complied with, even at the expence of propriety of physical rule, provided they do not run to a dangerous excess. It is much more difficult to inspire with a taste those who are without one, than to regulate it in others where it is not such as it ought to be.

There is another sort of sensibility, which to excite is still more difficult, and more important, and that is friendship; the moment a child is capable, no time should be lost in turning his affections towards their proper objects, persons who will be of service to him.

By friendship he will be led to every thing that can be desired of him: it is a sure attachment to draw him to his good, provided we know how to make use of it: all that is to be feared is either too excessive, or ill-placed affections.

But there are other children that are born politic, close, unconcerned, but drawing every thing secretly to their own ends: they deceive their parents, whose tenderness makes them credulous; they pretend to love them; they study their inclinations, in order to conform to them; they seem more docile than other children of their age, who act without disguise, as it were upon honour; their suppleness, while it conceals a stubborn self-will, has the appearance of true and innate gentleness; and their real temper, long dissembled, does not entirely display itself till the opportunity of reforming it is past and gone.

If there is a temper upon which education can have no effect, we may say this is it; and at the same time must own, that the number of such is greater than will be easily imagined. Parents cannot quickly come into the belief that their child has a bad heart; and what they will not see themselves, no others will have the courage to try to convince them of, and thus the evil augments continually; the principal remedy would be, to give them entire liberty from their earliest infancy of shewing their disposition: before we correct we must know them thoroughly. Naturally, they are plain and open; but, constrain them never so little, give them but an example of disguise, they never come back to the original simplicity. True it is, that God alone bestoweth a tender and good heart: we can but incite, by examples of generosity, by maxims of honesty and disinterestedness, by manifesting contempt for persons guilty of too much self-love.

We must endeavour, before they have parted with this first simplicity of the most natural motions of the mind, to give them a taste for cordial and reciprocal friendship. This purpose cannot be better promoted than by bringing such persons about them as shall never display any thing harsh, false, low, or interested. It would be right again to command them for any thing they have done out of friendship, provided it be not very wrong placed or carried too far. Their parents likewise should appear full of love and kindness for them; for children often learn of their own parents to love nothing: and besides all this, I am even for cutting off, in their presence, all superfluous compliments to friends, and all sorts of false caresses, as from whence they get a custom of paying with empty shews, persons they ought really to love. There is a defect quite contrary to this we have been speaking of, and which is often to be found in a young woman, and that is, to interest themselves passionately in matters merely indifferent. They cannot see two persons at variance without heartily espousing one side or the other; their affections and aversions run high without proper grounds: in the party they happen to esteem, they can see no defects, in whom they happen to dislike, no one good quality. Now this is not to be directly opposed; for contradiction makes these fancies more obstinate; but we must remark by little and little, to the young person, that we are better acquainted than her with every good quality of her favourite, and with every bad one of the object of her dislike: at the same time, take care to point out, as occasion serves, the inconvenience of some defects in the agreeable person, as well as the convenience of certain advantageous qualities to be found in the person under her displeasure. Do not press the matter, you will find she will come to of herself.

This done, lay before her consideration her strong prejudices in their most unreasonable circumstances, and say gently, that she will hereafter be as sensible of others which at present prevail with her, when they have had their course.

Relate similar mistakes of your own at her time of life; but principally demonstrate, as clearly as you are able, the great mixture of good and evil in every object of our love or hatred, thereby to abate the intenseness of her friendships and aversions.

As to rewards which you shall promise children, never let them consist in matters of dress, or any trifling ornaments, it is doing them a double mischief; first giving them an esteem for what they ought to despise, and secondly disabling yourself from establishing such things for rewards as would in their nature assist your endeavours. Be very careful not to threaten them, with obliging them to study, and keeping them under certain rules: let as little as possible be said about rules; and when there is no avoiding such a practice, let us get into it, without giving any name, but only a reason drawn from convenience for doing so and so at one certain time, or in one place rather than another.

Were we never to praise children when they do well, there would be a hazard of discouraging them; therefore, although praise is somewhat dangerous, on account of conceit, we must venture to make use of it, so far as may animate without making them giddy.

We see that St. Paul, to encourage the weak, frequently intermixes commendations, that his rebukes may be more readily received—the fathers of the church do the same. It is true, to render them useful, it is necessary so to qualify them as to keep clear of exaggeration or flattery, referring every good to God, as the only source thereof.

Recompense children we may by means of innocent plays that have some ingenuity in them; by walking out with them; by improving conversation; by little presents given like so many prizes, such as pictures or prints, or medals, or geographical cartes, or books prettily bound and gilt.

[To be continued.]

ESSAY ON THE Original Inhabitants of Great Britain, CONCLUDED.

HAVING gone through the whole state of the heptarchy, I find, upon a retrospect of that government, that although particular princes are mentioned and particular atchievements are recited, there still seems wanting a chart of the whole, that at one view may give a list and description of the monarchs, their reigns, and their religion. Such a map is exhibited in Mr, Guthrie's History of England, vol. I. page 126.

How much is it to be regretted, that among such a number of monarchs, so few acts of greatness, policy, jurisprudence appear? how intricate and dark, how teizing and immaterial are the several historical accounts, from the invasion of Julius Caesar, to the reign of Egbert, king of the West Saxons, and afterwards sole king of England? The history of the Pagans during that period, produces nothing but blood and slaughter. The history of the christian church, nothing but ridiculous miracles and fulsome enthusiasm. All we perceive is, that the several monarchies were continually at war with each other; the motives and incitement of these wars scarce ever appear. We know that there was a general assembly, consisting of the chief and greatest men in each kingdom: we know that it was called the Wittenagemot, and in that assembly were debated, regulated, and ordered, the affairs of the nation. Such a glimmering of light is very pleasing, as it seems to shew us the rise and bulwark of our freedom, a parliament. This is almost the only interesting point of the heptarchy. The tedious narratives of privileges, revenues, and immunities granted to the church, the endowments of monasteries, and the power of the clergy, are not only unprofitable and disgusting, but totally useless and despicable: at least they must appear so to these times, when the pope can scarce keep up his authority among the roman catholic states. When his power as a prince is no longer dreaded, and his power as a pope held in a very diminutive degree of veneration. When, on the other hand, sense, liberty, industry, and courage, unite and coincide to fortify, preserve, and augment the present glorious and happy state of England.

THE HISTORY OF THE PRINCESS PADMANI.

AKEBAR, the seventh emperor of the Moguls, inherited the virtues and the courage of the illustrious Tamerlane: all the good qualities of the Mogul princes seemed to be united in his person, almost without a mixture of those vices which make us look upon them as barbarians. There has scarce been known a prince of a more penetrating and extensive judgment, of a more generous and intrepid soul, and at the same time, tender, compassionate, and grateful.

Among the many triumphs that marked his glorious reign, the reduction of Chitor was not the least considerable. An Indian Raja, or prince of the race of the famous Rana, who had formerly submitted to the power of Tamerlane, gave umbrage to Akebar, who could not endure that he should hold a kind of sovereignty in his neighbourhood.

This prince was called Rana, after the name of his ancestors, and boasted of being lineally descended from the antient Porus. The territories of the Raja were not above twelve days journey from Dely; Chitor, the capital of his country, was rather a fortress than a town of trade: it is situated on a high mountain, surrounded with water on every side, in the midst of a vast plain. The top of the mountain on which the town is built is a flat. It is about a league and a half in circumference, and half a league over in some places. At the foot of the mountain, the Nug, a pretty large river, and very deep, glides gently along, a rivulet of the best water in the world takes its source in the town, makes a great many windings within it, and at last having formed several natural cascades on the break of the mountain, throws itself into the river. Within the compass of the fortress are several beautiful fields sowed with rice, and watered by the overflowings of the rivulet. It affords provisions enough to supply a tolerable large garrison. A place inaccessible, which wants neither victuals nor water, passes in the Indies for impregnable. However this was the place which Akebar undertook to conquer.

This young emperor's passion for the princess Padmani, the wise of Rana, represented that enterprize easy to him, which every one else thought impracticable. Before he would attempt so dangerous a siege, Akebar, by his ambassadors, let Rana understand, that ambition alone was not the motive of this undertaking, and that he might preserve his country from the ruin which threatned it, by giving up the most beautiful princess of the East, to the most potent monarch of the world.

A proposal of this kind is not so mocking in the Indies, as it would be in Europe, their laws allow divorce; however, Rana had too much tenderness for Padmani, to part with her to a rival, and would hear nothing more upon that subject but the dictates of his own valour and the tears of his wife.

‘Can you find in your heart to abandon me, (says the virtuous princess,) to a tyrant whom I detest? have we not strength enough in Chitor to consume your enemy's forces, and extinguish his flame, by the length of a fruitless siege? at worst, if I must lose my life, I will lose it without regret, provided I am not so unhappy as to survive you.’

Words so moving, determined Rana to prefer an honourable war, to an ignominious peace. He answered the ambassador of Akebar, that he would not advise his master to sit down before Chitor; but if his passion had the ascendant over his reason, Akebar should find in the person of Rana, a true Ragepute, capable of maintaining his rights, and incapable of violating his faith to Padmani.

The emperor was surprised at so haughty a reply; he was not accustomed to meet with any opposition to his will, or be crossed in his designs. ‘Can it be possible, cried he, that there is a man upon earth that dares disobey me?’ He quickly assembled his victorious troops, which had newly conquered two kingdoms.

Nor was Rana less adive, but made preparations for maintaining a long siege in Chitor: he rouzed up, by his ambassadors, the slothful Rajas in his neighbourhood: he gave them to understand, that their negligence must soon expose them to the tyranny of a Mahometan; that the Moguls were a race of people but lately arrived in the Indies, and who grew formidable only by the divisions of the Indians; that if the princes, votaries of Brama, would unite against the sectaries of Mahomet, they might easily destroy them.

Jamee and Tala, both Rajas, and princes of two provinces bordering on Chitor, joined their troops to those of Rana, and came in person to make war against Akebar. They appeared in the field at the head of their armies; but the Mogul, who advanced by long marches towards Chitor, quickly dispersed them. The two brothers had no other remedy but that of retiring into the strong places of their provinces, and there expect the enemy, whose forces they were not able to withstand in the field.

Never was there seen in Indostan a finer nor a more numerous army than that of the Mogul: he spared no cost to shew himself before Chitor in the utmost splendor. The richness of his tents is hardly to be conceived by us in Europe; all was gold about them. He thought, by his magnificent equipage, to dazzle the Princess Padmani, and by the number of his troops to frighten Rana into submission.

Akebar found by experience, that virtue and valour are sometimes proof against the greatest hopes or the greatest fears. The gallant Indians beheld without emotion, from the top of their mountain, the magnificence and prodigious extent of the enemy's camp. The Mogul in the beginning of the siege, acted at once the soldier and the lover: he shot arrows into the town which ried letters for Padmani; the princess took no notice of them: he pushed the siege like one in despair. He fired terribly upon the place from several batteries; but his cannon shooting upwards, had little or no effect.

The Indians from their ramparts insulted the Mahometans, and reproached them with their want of bravery, though animated to the fight by more passions than one.

A Portuguese historian tells us, that the siege of Troy was acted over again in that of Chitor: he adds, that it lasted twelve years, and that Padmani had time to grow old, while the Mogul endeavoured to win her by his arms This is an exaggeration which the Mogul Chronocle does not confirm. The siege lasted at most but two years, and then concluded by a very extraordinary adventure.

Akebar, wearied out by so obstinate a resistance, made shew of raising the siege of Chitor, and wrote to Rana a very obliging artful letter. He commended the Raja for his courage, but desired he would grant him two favours, before he quitted an enterprize which he had undertaken to his confusion; first, that the Raja would give him a sight of the princess, whom he had not known but by public same; next, that he would permit him to go into Chitor, and see the only place in the world capable of resisting his power.

The Raja granted him the second demand very freely, but refused the first. He contented that the Mogul should enter Chitor, attended by only fifty of his officers, but would not promise that he should see Padmani.

Akebar, accepted the Raja's offer; and having received hostages for the security of his person, he entered Chitor with a smaller number of attendants than was allowed him. The emperor received from Rana all the respect and all the distinction due to his rank. He was regaled in the palace after the Indian manner. The entertainment was civil on both sides; but Akebar, who possessed the most persuasive eloquence, had the art to make Rana grant him more than he had promised. When he saw the Indian warmed with wine, he intreated him to send for Padmani for one moment. The Raja was willing, but they had great difficulty to get the princess to consent. At last in compliance to her husband, she shewed herself, but disappeared in an instant. This indiscretion of Rana cost him dear: Akebar's passion was much more inflamed upon sight of the princess, however he had command enough over himself to dissemble it: he made Rana believe that he was resolved to raise the siege from a place which had already given him but too much trouble, and prudently forbore to intermix in his discourse any praises of Padmani, but such as were cold and indifferent.

Rana, thus deceived by appearances, treated his most cruel enemy without the least distrust: he received his presents, and gave him others in return. Akebar bestowed on the prince a scymetar adorned with diamonds, and Rana made the emperor accept of some jewels, and now the hour of their parting drew near. Akebar walked towards the gate of the fortress, followed only by forty of his attendants; Rana, to shew his respect, insisted upon waiting on him to the gate. During their walk, Akebar renewed his kind protestations. At last they came to the gate of the fortress, where the Mogul, as a farther testimony of his friendship, would put about the neck of Rana one of those large pearl necklaces which in India the men wear as well as the women. He took care to string it with some of the strongest twist; and dragged him by this collar out of the gate, while his forty soldiers opposed the guard, who made a motion to rescue their prince. The Mogul forced the Indian to mount a horse; and after having received some discharges from the musquets on the ramparts, they conducted Rana alive to the emperor's camp.

In the mean time the uproar made at the gate put the whole town into a consternation: the people thought the enemy had surprised it; and certainly had the Mogul been but a little better provided with an armed force to second his design, he might easily have carried the place.

Fame, which ever magnifies, brought to Padmani's ears the news of a sudden eruption of the enemy, and that her husband was missing in the tumult. The gallant princess did not suffer herself to be overwhelmed with this unexpected disaster; she immediately got on horseback, and with her lance in her hand, appeared at the head of her troops, resolved to conquer or die. She did not learn the truth of Akebar's treachery, and the forcing away of Rana, till she came upon the very spot: she perceived plainly enough that she had been the true cause of his misfortune, but she thought sit to conceal that part. ‘He is dead, she cried, that, dearest husband is dead, whom my tenderness has undone. Let us think no more of recovering him by a dishonourable composition, but revenge his death by seeing the authors of it fall in heaps about us.’

Padmani, without shedding a tear, though pierced with the sharpest sorrow, walked round the ramparts, gave all the necessary orders, encouraged the soldiers, and animated the principal leaders. In fine, she shewed herself as much superior to the men in prudence and courage, as she surpassed in beauty all those of her own sex.

Akebar had now flattered himself that he should quickly become master of the fortress, and gave the besieged to understand, that if they did not deliver up the place, and the princess, he would first cause Rana's head to be struck off, and conclude his revenge by sacking the town, and putting the inhabitants to the sword. The brave Amazon answered, that her husband having fallen into the hands of a perjured man, she was no longer in doubt of his death; but still there remained Rageputes enough of his nation to revenge their sovereign: that for her part, she would employ all the authority heaven had given her over her people, to raise up to the Mogul enemies yet more formidable than Rana; and that the principal leaders of her army had sworn to lose their lives rather than surrender the place.

Akebar was not ignorant of the firmness of the Rageputes in all their resolutions; he chose therefore to raise the siege, and endeavour to obtain the princess by way of negotiation. An ambassador was sent to Padmani, loaded with rich presents, and the most passionate letters, Akebar represented to the princess, that she had given proofs enough of the fidelity due to her husband; that it was now time to make some condescension in favour of a great emperor, and her own interest; that her tenderness for Rana could not better appear than by procuring the liberty of her captive husband; that by redeeming Rana from his captivity, she might make herself the greatest queen in the world.

They shewed her at the same time letters extorted from the captive prince, in which he conjured her to make herself happy by setting him at liberty. The heroine rightly apprehended, that Rana's was only a forced consent, and that her own glory depended upon an inviolable fidelity to him; yet she thought it not unlawful to play the hypocrite, and deceive a deceiver, who had robbed her of her husband. She let the Mogul understand, that she began to waver in her resolution, and that ambition had shaken her constancy; that if her vows did not bind her indispensibly to Rana, she would think herself happy in being sultaness to so great a prince; but that she had sworn to her first husband, by all their gods, that she would never be the wife of another, without an express consent from his own mouth; that the emperor might chuse either to suffer Rana to come to Chitor, or permit Padmani to go and demand her husband's consent, in the place of his captivity.

Akebar embraced the last proposal, and consented to let the princess come with a good guard to pay her husband a visit. A castle in the neighbourhood of Agra was Rana's prison: it is impossible to express the impatience of Akebar for the arrival of a princess at his capital for whom he had expended such vast treasures, and exposed himself to so many dangers. Couriers upon couriers were dispatched to entreat her not to defer her departure. The emperor sent her presents every hour of jewels, fruits, and a mysterious kind of nosegays, which are made use of in the east to express, by matching of flowers, the sentiments of the heart.

The princese got ready her equipage with all possible speed; the most sumptuous pallanquins were prepared for her journey. These are a kind of Indian chaises, in which people of quality are carried on the shoulders of ten or a dozen slaves; they are long enough to sleep in, as in a litter: those for the men are open at top; but the women's are close, and of a much larger size. Four may sit conveniently in one of them; so that there is need of twenty slaves to bear those in which the princesses are carried.

Padmani shut up eight of the bravest of her subjects in the two pallanquins, and enjoined them a profound silence during the journey; for her own part she remained at Chitor, and sent away the pallanquins with a good guard. The project was executed with so much secrecy that the whole town was deceived. The people were all in tears at the supposed departure of their princess, and followed the pallanquins in crouds out of the town. Mean time Padmani keeping very private in her palace, had the pleasure to see the sorrow of her people for their imaginary loss.

As soon as the emperor was informed that the princess was set out for Agra, he appointed several persons to meet and compliment her. The princess's first eunuch, who managed the intrigue, and was shut up in the pallanquin, in which the princess was supposed to be, made answers for her. Among other things, he let the emperor know, in the name of Padmani, that if she met with the least interruption in her journey, or was hindered from proceeding directly to her husband, without going through the capital; or even, if she was disturbed in her conversation with Rana, that she was determined to stab herself with a dagger which she brought for that purpose, and held ready in her hand for fear of any surprise.

Akebar had not a thought of making the least opposition to the princess's will. He sent her word, that she should be at full liberty to see Rana, to discourse with him, and bid him adieu. The nearer the pallanquins approached Agra, the more couriers were dispatched to wait on them. They were met by them at every village, and still the eunuch gave answers to the letters of Akebar. About half a day's journey from Agra, and three or four leagues from the castle where Rana was prisoner, they met a magnificent equipage, which the emperor had sent to receive the princess. The Rageputes arrived about the evening at the place where Rana was prisoner.

The two pallanquins only, and some officers of Padmani's guard, were permitted to enter the castle; these officers, together with the Rageputes shut up in the pallanquins, dispatched the governor of the castle, who first advanced to receive the princess; afterwards becoming matters of the guard, they delivered Rana from his imprisonment. They mounted him on a very fleet horse; and, as they had posted change enough on the road, the raja soon arrived at Chitor, where he made Padmani all the acknowledgments due to his deliverer.

Mean time Akebar was waiting impatiently in a garden for the arrival of the princess. When word was brought him that Rana had made his escape, and that some armed men had been concealed in the pallanquins instead of Padmani, he commanded the messenger's head to be struck off who brought this news; but coming to himself a moment after, he was contented to forbid him his presence for ever. "Pursue, pursue Rana," cries he; but Rana was got too far on his road to be overtaken. As to the Rageputes, who had served as a convoy to the pallanquins, after having marched all night with great expedition, they found themselves about the morning in the territories of a raja, and a friend to the prince of Chitor, and at last got safe into their own country.

As soon as Rana was returned to his fortress, he wrote an insulting letter to Akebar; he reproached him with his perfidiousness, and rallied him on the ill success of his amours; he haughtily defied him to come a second time to try his fortune against the citadel of Chitor; and added, that after having been baffled and outwitted by a woman, he might very well expect to be vanquished by an army of Rageputes, who waited his arrival with impatience. Rana did more than insult his enemy with letters; he erected in the market-place of Chitor a pillar, on which were engraven these words, Never trust the Moguls who have betrayed you.

The behaviour of Rana, and the indifference of the princess Padmani, provoked Akebar to such a degree, that he was no longer master of himself. Once more he assembled his troops; he augmented his artillery; he prepared machines; in a word, he made such provision for the siege of Chitor, that he believed the taking of it infallible. In this assurance he surrounded the place on every side; he raised platforms, on which he planted his engines: the assaults were furious, and were equally sustained.

The Mogul was now no more that amorous prince, who seemed tender of the lives of his princess's people; but an emperor enraged to the last degree, who came to avenge a personal affront. The two principals were continually attentive; one to push the siege, and the other to defeat it. Rana scarce ever quitted the ramparts, where he encouraged his men, and repaired the breaches. Akebar, on his side, often mounted the platforms, and gave his orders for forming the attacks. One day as Akebar was taking a view of the place from one of those platforms, almost equal in heighth with the walls of Chitor, he perceived an officer walking carelesly on the ramparts; he took aim with his fusee, and shot the raja dead upon the spot. Two days after the emperor had an account that he had killed his rival; that his body was burned in great pomp; and that the generous Padmani, according to the custom of the Ragepute princesses, had thrown herself into the flames, and mingled her ashes with those of her husband. Chitor still made some resistance; but at last was forced to yield to the valour and fortune of Akebar.

THE LADY's GEOGRAPHY.

DESCRIPTION of the Island of CEYLON. [Continued from Page 480.]

THIS country, though mountainous, is watered by a great number of very fine rivers which fall from the mountains:—most of them are too full of rocks to be navigable, but they contain fish in great abundance. The river of Mavelagongue, which is the principal of them, has its source in the Picus Adami, of which we shall give a description hereafter; it traverses the whole island towards the north, and falls into the sea at Trinquemale. Its breadth is about a cross bow shot: the rocks, which render it very little navigable, afford harbour and retreat to a great number of alligators. It runs within a quarter of a league of the town of Candi; but as the rapidity of its waters will not admit of any bridge being built over it, it can only be crossed in little canoes. It is moreover a point of policy amongst the inhabitants, who are far from desirous to render travelling commodious in their country; but rather chuse to embarrass the roads as much as possible. In some places this river flows for leagues together without meeting any interruption from the rocks. But the Ceylonese in general reap very little advantages from the waters, either in the way of commerce, or for the conveyance of goods.

Excepting the province of Ouvah, and the districts of Oudipollat and Dolusbang, the whole island is covered with wood. It is well peopled about the centre, but very indifferently towards the borders. The inhabitants do indeed shew many places where they pretend heretofore to have had very considerable cities, the names of which the places retain to this day; but there are scarcely the vestiges of any buildings remaining in them. Knox, who traversed the island several times, takes notice of only five which can deserve that title; and in which the king has palaces, although they are all in ruins, excepting that which he particularly inhabits. Of these cities Candi, or Conde, is the chief. It has the advantage of being placed in the centre of the island; so that it may be approached with equal facility from every part of it. Its form is triangular; and, according to the custom of the country, the king's palace occupies the eastern angle of it. It is fortified only to the south, because the access to it is more open there than from any other quarter. This fortification, however, is nothing more than a rampart of earth about twenty feet high, which crosses the valley from one mountain to another. All the avenues to the city, for two or three miles distance, are closed up with barriers of thorn, and a continual guard always kept at them; and the great river which comes down from the Picus Adami, passes within a quarter of a league of it towards the south.

The next city is Nellemby-neur, about twelve miles south of the preceding. Allout-neur stands to the north-east of Candi, where the king keeps large magazines of corn and rice in reserve against the time of war. Badoula, which is the fourth city, is two days journey from Candi, towards the east of the province of Ouvah. In this province the best tobacco in the island is cultivated: it is very well watered; but wood is scarce in it. Rice and cattle, however, are in abundance in it; with respect to which, however, this very singular circumstance is observable, that the cattle reared there cannot live for any considerable time when transported into any other province: the occasion of which, is attributed to a certain shrub, which is found in all the other provinces, and not in this.

The fifth and last of these cities is Digligyneur, situated also to the east of Candi. In this city the king has kept his court ever since the year 1664, when a revolt of his subjects drove him to quit Candi; and with his departure began the ruin of that city. It is situated in the province of Hevoiattay, a country which is covered with mountains and rocks, that render the soil of it extremely infertile. Yet has the king chosen it for his residence, as a place of security, by being in the neighbourhood of a very high mountain called Gauldua, which may, on any occasion, afford him a safe retreat; and where as much rice may be gathered as will amply maintain the garrison of three forts, which defend the entrance to it. It is extremely sleep on all sides; and so invested with rocks, woods, and precipices, that a handful of men might stand their ground there against very numerous armies.

As to the towns and villages of Ceylon, altho' they are very numerous, there are few of them that are worth a traveller's attention. The most remarkable are those which are consecrated to their idols, in which some of their Devals, or temples, may be seen. The inhabitants give themselves very little trouble about making their streets strait, or preserving any regularity in their houses; each family living in a seperate building, which is most usually surrounded with a hedge and ditch. The Ceylonese never build in the high road, as they do not chuse to be observed by passengers. Their largest villages do not contain above a hundred houses. Their usual number is about forty or fifty, although there are some which consist of only eight or ten. Besides which, they quit them whenever sickness happens to be in any degree frequent amongst them, or that two or three people chance to die within any small space of time. They then imagine that the devil has taken possession of the place, and therefore immediately abandon their lands and habitations, in order to go in search of some more fortunate dwelling.

The king's palace at Digligy-neur, is surrounded with a rampart of earth, cased with thatch, to prevent the rain's beating it down. This inclosure is full of various irregular buildings, most of them low, and covered with stubble, excepting some few, whose roofs are tiled. These latter have two stories, with open galleries round them to let in air, surrounded with ballusters, some of ebony, and others of painted wood. The windows also are inlaid with plates of silver and ebony; and the top of each edifice adorned with vases of earth, or moresque. These several buildings form a kind of labyrinth, to which there are a great number of very handsome gates, two of which have draw-bridges to them. The porticoes of these are of a most admirable relief; and, even to the very locks and bolts, are decorated with carved work. At each of these doors, and at every passage, are placed centinels, which are regularly relieved day and night.

The common houses of the inhabitants are little, low, and thatched. Nor are they allowed to build them with more than one story, nor to cover them with tiles, nor even to whiten the walls of them with lime, though they have a kind of white clay which they might employ with advantage to this use. As the country is very hot, they for the most part neglect the plaistering of their walls, contenting themselves with the branches and leaves of trees. They have not even chimneys in their houses, but make what fire is necessary for the preparation of their victuals, in a corner of their apartment, which blackens the floor very much. The grandees have houses very handsome and commodious, consisting for the most part of two buildings opposite to each other, and united by a wall, which forms a square court. These walls are surrounded with borders of clay, rubbed over with cow dung, which renders them impenetrable by the rain. Their domestics and slaves inhabit the houses round them.

As to the temperature of the air, it is very unwholsome in the southern parts, though all the rest of the country enjoys a very pure and healthy air. The vallies are, for the most part, marshy, and full of fine springs. Those which have these qualities are looked on as the best, because the rice, which is the principal subsistence of the inhabitants, requires a great deal of moisture.

The variety which is observed in the air and rains in the different parts of this island are very remarkable:—when the west winds begin to blow, the western parts have great falls of rain, and this is the proper season to plough and till the ground; and yet at the very same time the eastern parts of the island enjoy very dry weather, and gather in their harvest:—On the contrary, when the wind blows from the east, they plough and till in the easterly parts, and gather in the corn in the opposite ones, towards the west.—Thus the business of ploughing and harvest employs the islanders almost all the year round in different seasons of the year.

This division of rain and drought is made about the middle of the island; and it frequently happens that there is rain on one side of the mountain of Cauragahing, whilst it is extremely hot and dry on the other side of it. It is also remarked, that this difference is no less violent than it is sudden: for on the quitting a very wet spot of ground, you shall come immediately into a soil the heat of which shall scorch and burn your feet.

The southern parts of the island, however, are not subject to this great quantity of wet weather:—for there will sometimes continue there for three or four years together so great and constant a drought, that the ground shall be incapable of receiving any kind of culture. It is even difficult to dig any wells thereabouts deep enough to get water that can be drank; and even the very best that is to be got retains an acrimony and brackishness, which renders it extremely disagreeable.

On the south of Candi, and at about fourteen or fifteen leagues from Colombo, is a mountain, which is looked on as the highest in the island, and which, from its height and form, which is nearly that of a sugar-loaf, is very distinctly to be seen not only all through the island, but even at upwards of a dozen miles out at sea. This is the famous Picus Adami, whereof all the travellers, who have ever been in this country, have spoken with so much admiration. On a large flat stone, which is at the top of it, is an impression resembling that of a man's foot, but upwards of twice the natural size of one. The general superstition is, that this mark was left there by the foot of our first parent; from whom therefore the mountain receives its name. In short, were we to recount all the fabulous things that the Ceylonese introduce in their history of this mountain, it would be only abusing the patience of our fair readers.— let it suffice then to give a plain description of the place, such as it is, only adding, that these people look on it as a meritorious action to go and pay their adorations to this foot; especially on the first day of the year, which falls with them in the month of March: at which time are to be seen immense processions of men, women, and children, who have undertaken this pilgrimage.

Before you come then to the foot of the mountain, you meet with a very large and pleasant plain, watered with a great many rills which fall from the Pic, and form at the bottom of it a pool to which the Gentiles frequently make a pilgrimage, never failing to bathe themselves in it, and wash their cloaths and linen also therein, from a persuasion that that water has a virtue to efface all their sins. After this first act of superstition, they clamber to the top of the mountain, by the assistance of iron chains affixed thereto; and without which it would be impossible to get up, so very steep is it, although there have been steps wrought out in many parts of it. The way to the top is at least a quarter of a league. At a certain distance from the summit are erected two stone pillars, surmounted by another stone, which lies across them, and to which is suspended a large bell, made of metal, having its clapper pierced with a hole big enough to pass an iron thong through it, which all the pilgrims are obliged to pull, and striking one stroke on the bell to try whether they are purified; because these idolaters imagine, that if they are not so, the bell will give no sound. This imaginary misfortune, however, never happens to them. The summit of the mountain presents a plain surface, of an hundred and fifty paces in length, and an hundred and ten in breadth; in the middle of which is the flat stone which it is said bears the impression of a gigantic human foot, two palms long, and eight inches broad. There are some trees planted about this stone; and to the left of it are a few huts, whither the pilgrims retire. On the right hand there was formerly a very fine pagod, whereof the Ceylonese relate wonders; and Baldeus describes sixty-eight statues and figures, which are to be met with in different cavities of the mountain. From the Picus Adami, as we have observed before, issue most of the rivers which water the island of Ceylon.

NATURAL HISTORY of CEYLON.

This island produces a great quantity of rice: in the cultivation of which the industry of the inhabitants renders itself extremely conspicuous; for when we come to consider how necessary water is in the culture of that grain, and at the same time recollect that great part of the island is extremely mountainous, it will appear wonderful that it should be so fertile as it is. The manner, however, that the Ceylonese have contrived for rendering it so, is by levelling the sides of these mountains at certain stages, from three to eight feet in breadth, so as to form a kind of staircase from the bottom of the hill to the uppermost of these stages, in which they sow their rice. Now as the island is very much visited with rain, and that there is besides a great frequency of springs on the mountains, they have found means to dig large reservoirs nearly on a level with the highest springs; from whence the water is made to fall on the uppermost rows, and from them gradually to the others, so as to keep them continually supplied with water. Some of these reservoirs are half a league in length, some less, and their depth usually from two to three yards.

There are several kinds of rice distinguishable in the island of Ceylon, which are defined by different names, although they differ very little in their taste; and indeed scarcely in any thing more than the length of time they take in ripening. Some is seven months in coming to perfection, whilst some will ripen at six, five, four, or three months end. That which is soonest ripe is the best tasted; but does not yield so plentifully. There is even a kind which ripens in dry ground, and is therefore sowed in those places where it is not in the power of art to convey water. This would be a very great treasure to the inhabitants of the eastern parts, were it not much inferior to the other kinds both in taste and smell.

Besides the rice, this island furnishes various sorts of grain; which, although by no means approaching to it in goodness, are nevertheless a very good resource in times of scarcity. They have also great quantities of excellent fruits; but they might reap much more advantage from them, if they were sufficiently fond of them, to bestow some care on their cultivation. But as they pay very little regard to those which have nothing agreeable in them but their taste, and cannot serve them by way of food when the grain is at any time deficient, the only trees which they plant are those that produce nutritive fruits. The other kinds grow of themselves: and what still diminishes the care of the inhabitants, is, that in all places where nature produces any delicious fruits, the officers of the country tie a label round the tree in the king's name, with three knots at the end of it; which being done, no one dares touch it, without running the hazard of a very severe punishment, and sometimes even of death. The fruit when ripe is generally carried in a white linen cloth to the governor of the province; who, selecting the finest, wraps it up in another linen cloth, and sends it to court, keeping the rest for himself, and returning none to the proprietors.

THE LADY's MUSEUM.
The TRIFLER. [NUMBER X.]

MADAM,

IN a life of sixty-four years, alas how times are altered! when I was young, what dread and reverence were paid to omens, dreams, visions, blue burning candles, knives and forks across each other, salt spilt by aukwardness, and every kind of prognostic that led into the avenues of fate! The present times, or rather the last twenty years of my existence, treat these important points as trifles. Owls screech unheard. I myself dream and repeat my dreams unregarded. Thieves appear in the watch-lights, and we lose a marrow-spoon the next day; no matter, nothing foretold our loss. My elder sister, bed-rid and very old I confess, assures me, that her curtains have been drawn aside three times within these five weeks, by something in the shape of a dog without a head; but she, poor woman, is looked upon as doating. Jett, my little spaniel, I am sure, often sees something that comes from the other world; but Jett's a dog, and can only bark at it.

What a pity it is, madam, that we cannot at the same time when we abhor the superstitions of popery, retain that veneration, I had almost said duty, to celestial warnings, which, no longer ago than the protestant reign of good queen Anne, I can very well remember, had an influence over every action of our lives.

It was then, madam, that a winding-sheet in the candle, or a cinder coffin jumping out of the fire, sent many a wicked maid to her prayers and repentance for a whole week together.

It was then, madam, that doctor Aaron Sandford, the star-gazing haberdasher, of Bednal green, and doctor Duncan Campbell, the deaf and dumb conjurer, in Buckingham Court, were followed and revered with as true devotion as the methodists are in these wicked days.

Witches indeed have pretty well kept their ground, notwithstanding the thunder of an act of parliament, and the execution of poor Thomas Colley, only for stifling Ruth Osborne, the witch of Tring, in a pond of water. It is not six months ago since I read an account in one of the news-papers of a witch in Northumberland. The best people in the parish assembled to take her; they surrounded her house boldly, and in a body; they burst open the door, but they found she was flown, probably up the chimney, and upon a broomstick.

My mother and my grandmother have often informed me of many wonderful noises, apparitions, and visions, that have been seen and heard in our family. My honoured parents were not only pious matrons but great believers; and shall I degenerate? All good stars forbid! yet I foresee that with me must die the usual family-veneration for supernatural causes.

My two grand-daughters are incorrigibly obstinate and careless: they give each other knives and scissars, without considering the consequence, that such kind of instruments invisibly cut love and affection. Sukey, the eldest, never fails to quit the room as soon as I begin to read my fate in coffee-grounds, and her sister Nancy seems not to pay the least regard to Childermas-day.

What can I do? pray madam, assist me in correcting these two girls, and in teaching them to stand in awe of spirits, hobgoblins, fairies, death-watches, and Will i'the wisp.

I am, Madam, Your most Humble Servant, GRACE PYTHONESS.

THE HISTORY OF HARRIOT AND SOPHIA CONTINUED.

THE first thought that struck the amazed Sophia was, that Sir Charles, either following the motions of his natural inconstancy, or in revenge of her supposed contempt of him, had married Harriot. Certain that she had now lost for ever this lover, who with all his real or imputed faults, she had never been able to banish from her heart, she resigned herself up to the sharpest agonies of despair, and had already arrived at her sister's house before she was able to stop the course of her tears.

A servant in the livery of her own family opened the door. This circumstance surprised Sophia, who pulling her hat over her eyes to conceal her disorder, asked him, with some hesitation, if his mistress was at home.

The fellow replied, he believed she was, and opening the coach-door, shewed her into a parlour, telling her, with a smart air, that he would enquire of his lady's woman whether she was visible yet or no.

Sophia having summoned all her fortitude to enable her to go through this severe trial with dignity, had time enough to recollect and compose herself before any one appeared; and now several circumstances rushed upon her memory which in the first transports of her astonishmentt and grief had escaped her attention.

Mrs. Darnley, in her letter, had not mentioned Harriot's marriage, but barely said she had left her. The servant who delivered her message called her miss Darnley; and though she lived in a house that belonged to Sir Charles, yet it was scarcely suitable to the quality of his wife.

A few moments reflection upon these appearances made the generous Sophia change the object of her concern. The misfortune for which she had grieved so much, seemed light, compared with that she apprehended: she wept no longer for the inconstancy of her lover; she trembled for the honour of her sister; and her greatest fear now was, that Sir Charles was not married.

While she was absorbed in these melancholy thoughts, Harriot's maid entered the room, who after glancing over Sophia, with a supercilious eye, (for she was very simply drest,) asked her, ‘If she had any business with her lady.’

‘Tell her, replied Sophia, that her sister is here.’

The girl blushed, courtesied, and flew to acquaint her mistress; and Sophia was instantly desired to walk up stairs.

She found Harriot in her dressing-room, in an elegant dishabille, having just finished her morning's work, which appeared in a suit of ribbons made up with great taste.

As soon as she saw Sophia, she rose from her chair, and saluted her with affected dignity; but at the same time with an air of embarrassment that encreased every moment: so that being unable to bear the sweet but penetrating looks of her sister, she resumed her work, altering and unripping, without any apparent design, yet affecting to be extremely busy, and to shew how perfectly she was at ease, talked of the most trifling matters imaginable, while Sophia gazed on her in silent anguish, anxious to know the truth of her situation, yet dreading to have it explained. At length she told her that she was going to Kensington to her mother, and desired to know if she had any message to send to her.

Harriot suddenly interupting her, as if she feared some further questions, began to exclaim against her mother's unreasonable temper, saying, that she had offended her violently only because she had it not in her power to comply with some very extravagant expectations which she had formed.

‘Sister, said Sophia, I am wholly ignorant of your affairs; I know not what cause of discontent you have given my mother, but I see there is a great alteration in your condition of life, and I hope—’

‘What do you hope, pray miss? interrupted Harriot, reddening: I suppose I am to have some of your satirical flings; your temper is not altered I find.’

‘Dear Harriot, resumed Sophia, with tears in her eyes, this causeless anger confirming her suspicions, why do you reproach me with being satirical? is it a crime to be anxious for your happiness?’

‘I wish you would not trouble yourself about me, replied Harriot, I know best what will make me happy; you should not pretend to instruct your elders, miss Sophy; I am older than you; you know, you have often upbraided me with that.’

‘Sister, said Sophia calmly, you desired to see me, have you any thing to say to me?’

‘I know, answered Harriot, that I shall meet with ungrateful returns for my kindness, nevertheless I shall act like a sister towards you, and it was to tell you so that I wished to see you: I very much doubt whether, if you were in prosperity, you would do the same by me.’

‘Have I behaved so ill in adversity then, said Sophia, that you form this harsh judgment of me, sister?’

‘Pray don't upbraid me with your behaviour, miss, said Harriot; other people may have behaved as well as you, though they are not prudes.’

‘You say you are in prosperity, sister, said Sophia, but perhaps you and I have different notions of prosperity: let me know the truth of your situation, and if I find you happy according to my notions of happiness, you will soon be convinced that I can take a sister's share in it.’

‘I am not obliged to give an account of my conduct to you, replied Harriot, who had listened to this speech with great emotion; and I must tell you, sister Sophy, that if you go on taking this liberty of questioning and censuring me, I shall not care how seldom I see you. As to my mother, I know that it is my duty to do every thing for her that is in my power; and this I have offered to do already.’

Saying this, she rang the bell, and her maid appearing, she gave her some orders which necessarily required her attendance in the room; so that Sophia, finding she could have no further discourse with her sister, rose up and took leave of her with an aching heart. Her griefs all aggravated by the apprehension of her sister's dishonour, and the hatred which she felt for Sir Charles, as her seducer, struggling with a tender remembrance, her gentle bosom was torn with conflicting passions, and she proved but too well the truth of that maxim, That philosophy easily triumphs over past and future evils, but the present triumph over her.

Mrs. Darnley received her daughter with unusual tenderness: she felt how much she stood in need of her filial care; and her behaviour was dictated by that interested kindness which only gives in expectation of receiving back doublefold.

Sophia saw her pale and emaciated, and was greatly affected with the sight: she would not mention her sister, for fear of discomposing her; but Mrs. Darnley soon introduced the subject that was most in her thoughts, and exclaimed against Harriot's undutifulness and want of affection with the most violent transports of passion.

‘I have been the best of mothers to her, said she, melting into tears; I have always indulged her in all her wishes, and impaired my circumstances to support her extravagancies, and how has she returned this kindness! would you think it, my dear Sophy, though she is in affluent circumstances, and I, by the loss of my annuity, am plunged into all my former distresses, she has refused to pay those debts which I contracted during the time she lived with me; and thinks it sufficient to invite me to reside in her house, where, no doubt, I should feel my dependence severely.’

‘Sir Charles, said Sophia sighing, does not act with his usual generosity; if he has married my sister, why does he suffer you to be in distress?’

"Married your sister!" repeated Mrs. Darnley, in astonishment.

‘Ah, madam, resumed Sophia, is she not married then to Sir Charles?’

‘Why, is it possible that you can wish him to be married to Harriot?’ said Mrs. Darnley.

‘Alas! cried Sophia, ought I not to wish it, when I see her in his house?’

‘Oh, resumed Mrs. Darnley, I perceive your mistake; but that house is not Sir Charles's now; Lord L— bought it of him, with the furniture, some time ago; it might have been yours, and without any offence to your virtue too, yet you thought fit to refuse it: but I will not pretend to reprove one so much wiser than myself—’

‘Well, madam, interrupted Sophia eagerly, then it is not to Sir Charles that my sister is married, to whom is she married?’

"You have seen her, have you not?" said Mrs. Darnley, looking a little confused.

‘I have indeed seen her, said Sophia, but she did not explain her situation to me.’

‘And do you imagine, resumed Mrs. Darnley peevishly, that she would be less reserved with her mother? and if she was afraid of telling you the truth, is it likely she would own it to me?’

‘Then I fear it is bad indeed with Harriot, cried Sophia, in a melancholy accent, since she has so much to conceal from a mother and a sister.’

‘You were always censorious, Sophy, said Mrs. Darnley, with some passion; for my part, I am resolved to think the best. If Lord L—is married privately to your sister, her character will one day be cleared to the world, and she thinks no prudent person can blame her, for chusing to bear for a time a few undeserved censures, rather than to struggle with poverty and contempt.’

Sophia, now convinced of Harriot's unhappy conduct, burst into tears. Mrs. Darnley after looking at her in silence a moment, said, with some confusion; ‘Then you do not believe your sister is married, Sophy?’

‘Ah, madam, replied Sophia, you do not say that you know she is, and whatever reasons there might be for concealing her marriage from the world, certainly there are none for hiding it from you.—In vain, added she, with still greater emotion, would your parental tenderness seek to deceive yourself.’

‘Reproach me no more with my tenderness for your sister, interrupted Mrs. Darnley, angrily; I am too much affected with her ingratitude already.’

‘I am sorry she is ungrateful, said Sophia; but oh! my dear mama, it is not fit you should accept of her assistance.’

‘I hope, said Mrs. Darnley, calling down her eyes, that I know what is fit for me to do as well as my daughter.—But Sophy, added she, after a little pause, I am sorry to tell you, if you do not know it already, that if you have still any thoughts of Sir Charles, you deceive yourself; I am very well informed, that a match has been proposed to him, and he has given so favourable an answer, that it is expected the marriage will be concluded, as soon as he comes from Paris: I heard it all from one of the young lady's relations.’

This was a severe stroke to poor Sophia, who had just begun to breathe again, after the anguish she had suffered, in the belief that Sir Charles had forsaken her for her sister, and added perfidy and baseness to his inconstancy.

Mrs. Darnley, who saw her turn pale, and her eyes swimming in tears, while she struggled to conceal her emotions, could not help being affected with her distress, and endeavoured to console her.

Sophia, more softened by this tenderness, suffered her tears to flow a few moments unrestrained; then suddenly wiping her charming eyes, ‘Pardon this weakness, madam, said she; this indeed is not a time to weep for myself, your sorrows claim all my tears.’

‘Aye, I have sorrows enough, Heaven knows, said Mrs. Darnley, my debts unpaid, my annuity gone, what have I to trust to?’

‘Providence, interrupted Sophia, your piety and my industry. Alas! my dear mama, your greatest affliction is not the loss of your annuity, or the debts with which you are encumbered, it is my sister's unhappy fall from virtue. That parent, pursued she, who sees a beloved child become a prey to licentious passions, who sees her publicly incur shame and reproach, expelled the society of the good and virtuous, and lead a life of dishonour, embittered with the contempt of the world, and the secret upbraidings of her own conscience; that parent can best judge of your anguish now: I have only a sister's feelings for this misfortune! but these feelings are strong enough to make me very unhappy.’

Mrs. Darnley appeared so much moved with this discourse, that Sophia pursued it, till she brought her mother to declare, that she would rather suffer all the inconveniencies of poverty, than give a sanction to Harriot's guilt, by partaking of its reward.

Sophia, to relieve her anxiety, laid down a plan for their future subsistence, and proved to her, that by her skill in several little useful arts, it would be easy for her to supply her with all the necessaries of life. "We will first, said she, pay your debts."

"How is that to be done?" said Mrs. Darnley, hastily.

‘The furniture of your house, said Sophia, the plate, and other pieces of finery, which Sir Charles Stanley presented to you, will, if converted into money, not only pay your debts, but provide a little fund for present expences, and a reserve for future exigencies; mean while, my industry and care will, I hope, keep want far from you. I have friends, who will find employment for my little talents; and if I can but make your life easy and comfortable, I shall think myself happy.’

Mrs. Darnley, with tears in her eyes, embraced her daughter, bid her dispose of every thing as she pleased, and assured her she would endeavour to bear her new condition of life with patience and resignation.

Sophia immediately wrote to a gentleman of the law, who had been an intimate friend of her father's▪ and he undertook to manage their little affairs in town. A few days afterwards he brought them fifty pounds, which was all that remained from the sale, after every demand upon Mrs. Darnley was paid.

She read over the accounts with great emotion, bitterly regretting every trinket she had parted with, and told Sophia, that it was absolutely necessary they should settle in some village near town, for she could not bear the thoughts of exposing her poverty to her acquaintance, and of being seen in a worse condition than formerly.

Sophia, who thought her declining health a better reason for not residing in London, hired in an adjacent village, at a very small rent, a little house, or rather cottage, so neat, and situated so happily, that an imagination lively as hers was, and a little romantick, could not fail of being charmed with it. To this place she removed her books, and being provided by her friend Dolly, with an innocent country girl for a servant, she conducted her mother to her rural abode, and had the satisfaction to find her pleased with it, novelty having always charms for her, and here for a few days, it supplied the place of those other gratifications to which she had been accustomed.

In the midst of these cares, Sophia did not forget her unhappy sister: she wrote several letters to her, in which she employed all the power of virtuous eloquence to bring her to a sense of her errors, but in vain.

Harriot did not deign to answer her, but in a letter to her mother, she complained of the injurious treatment she received from Sophia, and earnestly intreated her to leave her sister, and reside with her.

Although Mrs. Darnley refused this offer with seeming steadiness, yet her discontent was but too apparent. A life of retirement, which often obliged her to seek in herself, those resources against languor and melancholy, which she used to find in the dissipations of the town, could not be grateful to one who had never accustomed herself to reflection, whose mind was filled with trifles, and its whole stock of ideas derived from dress, cards, and every other fashionable folly.

To be capable of enjoying a rural life, there is something more necessary than a good understandin: innocence and purity of manners must contribute to give a relish to pleasures, which are founded in reason, virtue, and piety.

Hence it was, that Sophia, in the bloom of youth, found happiness in the solitude of a village, while her mother, in a declining age, panted after the vanities of the town.

In vain, did Mr. Herbert fill the letters he wrote to Mrs. Darnley, with maxims of morality and pious admonitions; he experienced here the truth of that observation, that it is a work of great difficulty, to dispossess vice from a heart, where long possession seems to plead prescription.

Sophia, who knew her mother's taste for living at ease, that she might be able to gratify it, applied herself diligently to her work, which was a piece of embroidery, that had been bespoke by a benevolent lady, in order to give her present employmen; and, by exhibiting it as a proof of her ingenuity, to procure her more. She likewise exercised her invention in drawing little designs for fanmounts; and always chose such subjects as conveyed some moral lesson to the mind, while they pleased the imagination.

Some of these drawings were disposed of, by the lady her friend, so advantageously, that Sophia was encouraged to pursue her labour; and Mrs. Darnley, flattered by the prospect of more easy circumstances, began to enlarge her scheme of expence, made little excursions about the country in a post-chaise, talked of hiring a better house, and of passing two months at least in London during the winter.

Mean time Harriot became more earnest in her solicitations to her mother, to come and live with her; her situation began to be so generally suspected, that she was in danger of being wholly neglected.

She wrote to her in a strain of tenderness and duty, that revived all the ill-judging parent's affection, who invited her to make her a visit in her little retreat, and promised her a favourable reception even from Sophia herself.

Sophia was indeed far from opposing this visit; she was rather desirous of drawing her sister thither frequently, with a hope that her example and her arguments, might one day influence her to change her conduct.

Harriot received this invitation with joy; for such was the depravity of her mind, that she exulted in having an opportunity of displaying the granduer of her dress, and equipage to her sister; to her who had made virtuous poverty her choice, and shewn that she despised riches, when they were to be purchased by guilt. The pride of human nature (says an eminent writer) takes its rise from its corruption, as worms are produced by putrefaction.

The wretched fallen Harriot was proud! the diamonds that glittered in her hair, the gilt chariot, and the luxurious table; these monuments of her disgrace contributed to keep up the insolence of a woman, who by the loss of her honour was lower than the meanest of her servants, who could boast of an uncorrupted virtue.

Sophia was busily employed upon her embroidery, when Harriot, from her gay chariot, alighted at her door; she entered that humble abode of innocence and industry, in a kind of triumph, and accosted her sister with a haughty expression of superiority in her looks and air, as if she expected the splendor of her appearance should strike her with awe.

Sophia received her with the modest dignity of conscious virtue; and Harriot, tho' incapable of much reflection, yet soon perceived the miserable figure she made, in the presence of such a character, and stood silent and abashed, while Sophia contemplated her finery with an eye of pity and of anguish.

Harriot, at length recovering herself, asked for her mother, who that moment entered the room. The sight of her daughter's equipage, had thrown her into an agreeable flutter of spirits, and she readily pardoned the fine lady, all the faults of the ungrateful child.

Harriot emboldened by so kind a reception, proposed to her to accompany her to town, promising to make her abode with her agreeable, by every instance of duty and affection.

Mrs. Darnley blushed, and was silent. Sophia fixed her eyes upon her mother, anxious and impatient for her answer; she cast a timed glance at Sophia: she read in her speaking eyes her sentiments of this proposal; and turning to Harriot, she told her faintly, that not being satisfied with her conduct, it would be very improper for her to countenance it, by residing with her.

Harriot burst into tears, and exclaimed against her sister's malice, who, she said, acted like her most cruel enemy, and sought to ruin her character, by estranging herself from her company, and preventing her mother from taking notice of her.

Sophia, with great gentleness, proved to her, that the loss of her reputation, was the necessary consequence of her living in a manner unsuitable to her circumstances; that her mother and her, by complying with her request, could not preserve her from censure, but would incur it themselves.

‘You call me cruel, Harriot, said she, for estranging myself from your company; but consider a little, whether it is not you that are both cruel and unjust. Why would you deprive me of the only reward the world bestows on me, for a life of voluntary poverty; you have exchanged a good name for dress and equipage; and I, to preserve one, subject myself to labour and indigence: you enjoy your purchase; but I should lose mine, were I to have that complaisance for you which you require. Leave me my reputation then, since it is the sole recompence of those hardships to which I willingly submit; and if you wish to recover yours, be contented to be poor like me.’

Sophia, finding her sister listened to her, tho' it was sullenly, and with down cast eyes, expatiated in a tender manner upon the errors of her conduct, and the fatal consequences that were likely to follow.

Harriot at length interrupted her, with a pert air, and said, ‘She would not be taught her duty by her younger sister;’ then turning to her mother, ‘I hope madam, said she, my sister will not have so much power with you, as to make you forbid my coming here.’

She put her handkerchief to her eyes, as she said this; to which Mrs. Darnley replied, with great vehemence, ‘That no person on earth should ever prevail upon her to cast off her child.’

Sophia was silent, and observing that her presence seemed to lay them under some restraint, she rose up, to retire to her work, telling her sister, as she passed by her, ‘That far from hindering her visits, she would rather encourage her to repeat them often, that she might be convinced it was possible, to be happy in a cottage.’

Harriot laughed, and muttered the words romantick and affectation, which Sophia took no notice of, but left her at liberty to converse freely with her mother.

Mrs. Darnley talked to her at first in a chiding strain, and affected to assume the authority of a parent; but, a slave to her appetites, she could not resist any opportunity of gratifying them; and Harriot found it no difficult matter to force a present upon her, to supply those expences which her extravagance, and not her wants, made necessary.

Harriot now came often to the village, and gave it out, that she was upon the best terms imaginable with her mother and sister, not doubting but the world would cease to suspect her, since Sophia approved her conduct.

The frequency and the length of her visits made Sophia entertain hopes of her reformation, since the time she spent with her mother, was taken from that dangerous and immoral dissipation, which forms the circle of what is called a gay life. For it is with our manners as with our health; the abatement of vice is a degree of virtue, the abatement of disease is a degree of health.

Mr. Herbert being perfectly recovered, filled Sophia with extreme joy, by the account he sent her of it, and of his resolutlon to come and live near her.

While she impatiently expected his arrival, and sent many a longing look towards the road, near which her little cottage was situated, she one day saw a gentleman ride by full speed, who in his person and air had a great resemblance to Sir Charles Stanley. Her heart, by its throbbing emotion, seemed to acknowledge its conqueror; for poor Sophia was still in love: she loved, though she despaired of ever being happy; and by thus persisting in a hopeless passion, contradicted that maxim, that love like fire, cannot subsist without continual motion, and ceases to be as soon as it ceases to hope or fear.

Sophia, not able to remove her eyes from the place where she fancied she had seen Sir Charles, continued to look fixedly towards the road, and was beginning to believe she had been mistaken, when a servant in Sir Charles's livery rode by also, and put it out of doubt that she had really seen the master.

This unexpected incident awakened a thousand tender melancholy ideas in her mind; and finding herself too much softened, she had recourse again to her work, to divert her imagination from an object, she had vainly endeavoured to forget.

[To be concluded in our next..]

THE JUDGMENT of PARIS. A POEM. Sent to the Author of the Lady's Museum, by a Friend.

‘Nobis forma placet; sapientia, regna, valete.’

DAUGHTERS of Jove, immortal Nine, inspire

This artless bosom with celestial fire:

Graces that in the cheeks of Venus shine,

Bloom in my numbers, and inform each line.

So may I challenge the contested bays,

And charm the ear, when beauty claims the lays.

On a green turf reclin'd, lo! Paris lies,

And from his pipe melodious sounds arise:

His music sweetly charms the hours away,

While beauty's pow'r employs his tuneful lay.

He sung, when wounded by Alcmena's eyes,

How in a borrow'd form Jove gain'd the prize:

And how, when rifling Leda's charms, he press'd

(Conceal'd in snowy plumes) her softer breast.

Of Heav'n's great Lord he sung each fam'd amour,

Of god's subdu'd by love's superior pow'r;

The birds are mute, and listen to his song,

Or in soft echo's his sweet notes prolong.

The wond'ring sheep a while forget to feed,

And stop attentive to his tuneful reed:

The gods too hearken, and his song approve,

But most he charm'd the almighty ear of Jove.

"And now, he said, may all our discords cease,

"Nor female jars disturb celestial peace;

"See there the judge of beauty; now agree,

"Ye lovely rivals, to his just decree.

The heav'nly beauties his command obey

And, conscious of her charms, each wings her way.

The golden ball descends, the destin'd prize,

And each alternate meets his wond'ring eyes.

First Jove's great queen, with proud commanding air

Graceful, not beautious, draws majestic near.

Respect she gains, but ne'er the heart can move;

All must admire, but none presume to love.

"Do then, she cry'd, these beauties faintly shine?

"And can those childish charms contend with mine?

"To me, presumptous! dare they rivals prove?

"To me? the sister and the wife of Jove!

"If crowns, if pow'r, if titles, honours, praise,

"The regal purple, or the hero's bays,

"Have charms to move—Behold! I give 'em all:

"All shall await thee for that golden ball.

"And heav'n's great queen thy every step shall guard;

"Honours shall court thee, kingdoms shall reward.

"Unskill'd you are from what a race you spring,

"That shepherd's dress perhaps conceals a king.

"'Tis I must seat thee on thy injur'd throne,

"And make rebellious crouds their monarch own.

"I'll make each vanquish'd tyrant tribute pay,

"And every nation stoop beneath thy sway.

"But if these offers fail to move thee, dread

"An injur'd queen's just vengeance on thy head;

"A sure resentment my repulse shall wait,

"My smile is heaven, but my frown is fate.

Thus Juno spoke;—see Pallas next appear:

Pallas with decent steps drew slow'ly near.

"No study'd phrase, she said, my cause requires;

"Wisdom the truth, tho' unadorn'd, admires;

"Nor shall I venture, like a treach'rous guide,

"The dang'rous turnings of my paths to hide;

"Nor tempt with honours, nor allure with joy;

"Honours will fail, and pleasure soon will cloy.

"Virtue and wisdom, attributes of Heav'n,

"Those sister-beauties, those to me are giv'n:

"Virtue alone, true happiness can give,

"And wisdom only teach us how to live.

"These are my gifts: I also join th' fight,

"And guide th' godlike hero's blows aright.

"I, crown'd with lawrels from successful war,

"Lead him triumphant in th' gilded car.

"Nor less my beauty, tho' conceal'd with care;

"Nor, tho' more manly than my sex, less fair.

"Mine is each wining art, and ev'ry charm,

"That with soft passion can th' bosom warm.

"Behold these hands! do they to Juno's yield;

"One waves the weapon, and one grasps the shield.

"And view this face, which gods in vain adore;

"This breast, which none have ever view'd before.

"A weighty breast-plate this soft bosom bears,

"This virgin brow a massy helmet wears.

"Speak shepherd, be in this one suit my friend,

"Thee virtue, valour, wisdom shall attend.

"Th' admiring gods look down, well pleased to see

"The image of themselves appear in thee.

She spoke, the shepherd doubts; the dubious scales

Hung wav'ring, nor disclose who most prevails.

But when bright Venus drew aside her vail,

The shepherd's eyes, o'erpow'r'd with beauties fail.

As when Sol, late eclips'd, illumes the skies,

His beams dart pow'rful on the weaken'd eyes.

Our dazzled sight shrinks from the glitt'ring ray,

And droops beneath th' o'erwhelming tide of day.

The powerful cestus negligently plac'd,

With diamonds buckled round her slender waist.

Her sparkling eyes with killing lustre glow,

And her fair cheeks unbidden beauties show.

Unstudy'd charms her winning motion grace,

And modest nature purpled o'er her face.

Thus in soft music she allures his ear,

"Ah! why that bashful blush, those signs of fear?"

(For now the shepherd felt the tender heat,

And his fond heart irregularly beat;

His quicker pulse, and trembling nerves, confess'd

The rising tumults of his raptur'd breast.)

"Can aught forbidding in these eyes appear?

"Or love inspire th' ungentle passion, fear?

"Paris, then hear, and oh! if ever love

"Had charms, that could thy tender bosom move,

"Grant me this suit, or henceforth may you find

"Th' Idalian nymphs, to all your vows unkind.

"Oh! were I skill'd thy list'ning ear to move,

"And sweetly form'd to bend the soul to love,

"Then smiles and winning words the prize might gain,

"Nor others triumph, while I sue in vain:

"Nor yet, if looks the secret soul confess,

"When Paris judges, need I fear success.

"Thine are love's triumphs, and the nymph who views

"That radiant form, but coldly can refuse.

"Yet in thy breast, perhaps, love never reigns,

"Stranger to all its joys, and all its pains;

"The half-consenting blush, the glance betray'd,

"And the soft whisper of the yielding maid;

"The flame inspiring touch, the melting eyes,

"And the ten thousand tender niceties,

"That lovers only feel — to none is known

"The bliss of madness, but the mad alone.

"But if some happy nymph has found the art

To point her charms aright, and wound thy heart,

"Thy longing eyes shall not in vain adore,

"But she alike shall taste my mighty pow'r.

"I am the queen of love, 'tis I inspire

"The rising sigh, fond thought, and soft desire;

"In the fair cheek bid speaking blushes rise,

"And the kind languish grace the yielding eyes:

"Bid tender wishes warm the virgin's soul,

"And the fair bosom grant without controul.

"Had only Helen pow'r thy heart to gain,

"E'en Helen's self should joy to ease your pain.

"Helen! the prize to which ambition soars;

"Helen! whose charms each wishing heart adores,

"Jove's beauteous daughter shall thy conquest be,

"And lose ev'n crowns and fame — the world for thee!"

The boy transported with a joyful pride

Sprung up, and in a sudden rapture cried,

"O give me, Goddess, charms like thine to view,

"Fame, wisdom, valour, trifling toys, adieu!"

The following Life of VANDYCK is published from a Manuscript, communicated to the Author of the LADY's MUSEUM by a Person of Distinction.
THE LIFE OF Sir ANTHONY VANDYCK.

ANthony Vandyck was born in the city of Antwe•p, in the year 1599; his father was a merchant of linen cloth; his mother employed herself in embroidery, which requiring some small knowledge in design, she taught her son in the best manner she could the first rudiments of drawing, in which he made so quick progress, that he soon became capable of giving instructions to his former tutor: his mother conceived so great hopes of his future advancement in the arts, that she persuaded his father to place him with Rubens, who was the most celebrated painter of that time. Vandyck soon became a favourite of his master's, not only for his good behaviour and ingenious disposition, but from the real advantage he was likely to find in having a scholar that would so soon be capable of assisting. him. The first thing Rubens set him about was to make a drawing after his picture of the battle of the Amazons, in which he succeeded so well, that, from that very drawing, the print which is so much admired was engraved: after this Rubens thought it time to instruct him in the art of colouring, that he might likewise be of assistance to him in painting. He first employed him in copying his works, in which he acquitted himself so well, that his master after giving a few touches, sold them as his own performance. He soon after made so great progress that he executed great works in colours from his master's designs, and afterwards from his own invention, particularly the history of Achilles [*], which was intended for a suit of tapestry. It is reported that Rubens got no less then ten pounds a day by the labours of his ingenious disciple[†]. Rubens began now to be not a little alarmed at the extraordinary talents he discovered in his disciple; and with good reason, fearing he might rival his renown, advised him (after bestowing great commendations on some portraits Vandyck had just finished) to apply himself entirely to the study of portrait-painting; and at the same time continually recommending to Vandyck those who applyed for their portraits to himself, he in a great measure stifled that true spirit and genius of painting which ought to have been exerted in the invention and composition of history. Thus Titian (but a little more barbarously) banished Tintoret from his house; a practice often used by the great masters, but as unsuccessful as malicious. For strength of genius, like a spark of fire, will at last blaze up, and perhaps with greater force from its meeting with opposition. The first picture Vandyck painted after he had withdrawn from the school of his master, was for the church of Dominick: the subject was that of our Saviour bearing the cross on his knees, accompanied by the two Marys, with soldiers conducting him to Mount Calvary: this work is much in the style of his master.

He now began to think it time to visit Italy, and accordingly set out for Venice, where he applied himself wholly to the study of the Venetian art of colouring, particularly the works of Titian and Paul Veronese, the same fountains that had before so liberally supplied his master. He copied many historical pictures for his improvement, and painted portraits for his subsistence; but the former producing no money, and the latter not sufficient for his expences, he thought fit to remove to Geneva, where he found the greatest encouragement for his talent of portrait-painting. Notwithstanding which, being determined to visit Rome, he undertook that journey, and at his arrival there is entertained in the court of cardinal Bentivoglio, a great favourer of the Flemish nation, having himself lived there a considerable time, and writ the history of that country. In return for the civility he received, he drew his patron's picture, whole length, which is now in the Palazzo Piti at Florence, and esteemed one of the best of Vandyck's works: he drew also, for the same cardinal, Christ dying on the cross.

Sir Robert Shirly arriving at Rome about this time, with the character of ambassador from Abba, king of Persia, to Gregory XV. Vandyck drew his picture and his wife's, both in the Persian habit, which bizar kind of dress gave a new lustre to the usual graces of his painting.

There was many of Vandyck's countrymen at that time studying at Rome; and it was a custom amongst them, that a new-comer should always invite his countrymen and brother students to a supper, where in the midst of their mirth they used to give him a nick-name, by which he was ever after to be known. This kind of revel Vandyck refused, which they took so ill at his hands, that since he would not submit to receive any other name, they were resolved to give him that of Ambitious, and they took all occasions to condemn in him his pride and his art together.

In reality, Vandyck had a certain stateliness and gravity in his air, which might easily be mistaken for pride: his manner of behaviour, the richness of his habits, with the number of his servants, seemed all too high for his employment. This fault (if it is one) is very pardonable, having been used to such magnificence, in the school of his master Rubens, whilst he was there, conversing mostly with noblemen, and people of the higher fashion; and being himself of a temper somewhat elevated, he was naturally led to model himself on their behaviour.

The true reason of Vandyck's journey to Rome, appears to be, not so much to study, as to shew his excellence in his art; but meeting with too much hatred and ill-will from his countrymen, and not so much encouragement from others as he expected, he left Rome, and returned to Genoa, which he used to call his home, and there his reputation and profit were very considerable. He drew most of the noblemen and senators of the place, particularly the family of the Raggi.

[To be concluded in our next.]

Notes

*
Those pictures were in Dr. Mead's possession, and sold at his sale.
↵

†
This was a very considerable sum in those days.
↵

THE TALE of GENEURA.
From the Italian of LODOVICO ARIOSTO, in the Fifth Book of his ORLANDO FURIOSO.

THE noble Rinaldo sailing to England, whither he was sent on an embassy by the emperor Charlemagne, a violent storm arose, which continuing two days and nights, drove him, at last, on the coast of Scotland: His fleet arriving safe, he ordered his retinue to meet him at Berwick, he himself, without any attendants, struck into the famous forest of Caledonia, not without a hope of meeting with some adventure worthy his courage and virtue.

While he was pleasing himself with this expectation, sometimes riding, and sometimes walking a slow pace leading his horse, night drew on, and he now began to think it necessary to go in quest of a lodging. Perceiving an abbey at some distance, he remounted his horse and rode up to it. The abbot and his monks, seeing a stranger of a noble appearance at their gate, came out, and with great civility invited him to pass the night there.

Rinaldo gratefully accepted their offer; and being conducted to a chamber, and an elegant repast served to the table, as soon as he had satisfied the cravings of an appetite made eager by travel and long fasting, he enquired of the good fathers what noble exploits in arms had been lately performed in their neighbourhood, and whether a warrior might hope to find any occasions there of signalizing his valour?

'Tis certain, replied the abbot, that many great and wonderful adventures have been atchieved in this forest, but as the place, so are the actions obscure, and buried in oblivion: however, if honour be your pursuit, the present time affords you a fit opportunity to acquire it; the danger, indeed, is great, but if you succeed, eternal fame will be your reward. The young and beautiful Geneura, the daughter of our king, is accused by a knight named Lurcanio, of having violated her chastity; and it is provided by our Scottish laws, that all damsels, of what rank soever, who are publickly charged with incontinence, shall suffer the punishment of fire, unless a champion be found who will undertake their defence, and fight with the accuser.

Geneura, in consequence of this law, has been adjudged to die, and only a month's space allowed her to procure a defender of her life and honour. The king, anxious for his daughter's safety, but more for her reputation, has caused it to be proclaimed throughout his dominions, that by whatever person (provided his birth be not absolutely base) his daughter shall be delivered from the danger that threatens her, to him he will give the princess in marriage, with a portion suitable to her high rank and quality.

This enterprize, noble stranger, is worthy your youth, your courage, and generosity: the law of arms requires all true knights to undertake the defence of injured and oppressed ladies; and, surely, a fairer than Geneura is not to be found from one extremity of the globe to the other; nor, if common opinion may be relied on, a chaster.

And is it possible, said Rinaldo after a little pause, that this fair princess is condemned to die for having generously rewarded the passion of a faithful lover? Cursed be the makers of so hard a law: more cursed they that are influenced by it. For me it matters not whether Geneura be justly or unjustly accused; what has been imputed to her as a crime, were I her judge, she should be applauded for, had she taken care to have avoided discovery; but, as it is, I am resolved to defy her accuser to combat, and I trust shall be able to deliver her from the unjust and cruel punishment she has been doomed to.

The abbot and monks, overjoyed that they had procured a champion for their princess, bestowed a thousand praises on Rinaldo for his generous design; and he, full of impatience to begin the glorious enterprize, being furnished by his hosts with a guide, set out early the next morning for the Scottish court, leaving the good fathers charmed with his courage and gallantry, and offering up repeated prayers to heaven for his success.

As they were pursuing their journey through bye-roads, for the greater expedition, a cry, as of some person in distress, rouzed all their attention. Instantly Rinaldo clapped spurs to his horse, and galloping towards the place from whence the noise proceeded, he came to a deep valley, surrounded with trees, through the branches of which he perceived a young maid struggling to free herself from the hands of two russians, who were attempting to murder her. Transported with rage at this sight, the generous Rinaldo flew to the relief of the distressed damsel; his appearance so terrified the intended murderers, that they left their prey, and fled with the utmost precipitation.

Mean time the maid recovered from her fright, thanked her deliverer with a transport of joy and gratitude, and was beginning to acquaint him with the story of her misfortunes, when he, who had not alighted, being eager to pursue his journey, commanded his guide to take her up behind him; and as they travelled, having at leisure observed her countenance and behaviour, he was so much struck with the beauty of the one, and the soft and gentle modesty of the other, that his curiosity was awakened, and he became solicitous to know by what means she had been brought into so cruel a situation.

His request being inforced with kind assurances of future protection, the damsel, with a low voice, and eyes cast down in a graceful confusion, began in this manner:

Since you, my generous deliverer, have commanded me to relate my misfortunes, prepare to hear a tale more full of horror, an act of greater villainy and baseness than Athens, Thebes, or Argos ever knew. Ah! 'tis no wonder that our barren clime is curst with a long winter's ceaseless rage, Phoebus disdains to shine upon a land where such inhuman crimes are perpetrated; deeds black as darkness, and fit to be covered with everlasting night; unhappy as I am, I bore but too great a share in those I am going to relate.

From my earliest youth I was brought up in the palace with the daughter of our king, honoured with a near attendance on her person, and happy in the possession of her affection and esteem. Long might I have enjoyed this delightful situation; but love (ah! that ever so sweet a passion should prove the source of so much misery) love interrupted my tranquility, subjected my whole soul, and gave me up to guilt, to shame, and unavailing penitence.

The duke of Alban was the object of my virgin wishes, my youth and person pleased him; skilled as he was in every deluding art by which the false and the designing part of his sex betray the unexperienced of ours, is it any wonder that I was deceived? Fond of believing what I wished, and judging of his passion by my own, I yielded to his desires, and vainly hoped this sacrifice of my honour would secure to me for ever the possession of his heart.

Our guilty commerce lasted some months, during which time I always received his visits in a summer apartment belonging to the princess my mistress, into which, as it was now the most rigid season of the year, she never entered; and being also in a part of the palace little frequented, and the windows opposite to some ruined houses, my lover could come thither unobserved, and by the help of a silken cord which I let down to him, easily ascend the chamber.

All sense of virtue being now subdued, and my whole soul sunk in a dear lethargick dream of pleasure, I never once suspected that as my passion increased, that of my lover was decreasing. Ah! my too violent love favoured his deceit, or soon I might have perceived that he feigned much, and loved but little.

At length, notwithstanding my prepossession, his coldness became visible; I sigh'd, I wept, I reproach'd; alas! how unavailing are all endeavours to revive a decaying passion, satiated by possession, and constant only to inconstancy.

Polynesso, so was my faithless lover named, languished in secret for the bright Geneura, my royal mistress; I know not if this passion commenced before my ruin was completed, or whether her more powerful charms was the cause of his infidelity; but certain it is, that relying on the fervent love I bore him, he made no scruple to confess his flame even to me, urging me by all the arguments his wicked mind could suggest, to move the heart of Geneura in his favour.

Ah my lord! judge if this cruel man was dear to me, ever solicitous to procure his happiness, and soothed by his assurances that ambition was the prevailing motive of his address to the princess, in which, if he succeeded, he vowed to keep me still his, and that I should share with her his person and his heart, I consented to all he proposed; and following his instructions, took all opportunities of praising him to my mistress.

The duke of Alban was the constant subject of my discourse; I extolled his valour, his generosity, his illustrious birth, the manly graces of his person, the mingled sweetness and dignity of his manners; the charming theme transported me out of myself. With eager pleasure I ran over all his virtues, dwelt with delight on every imputed charm; scarce could my tongue keep pace with the overflowings of my love-sick fancy, fond of the dear indulgence of talking in a personated character of him I loved.

But when, in compliance with his injunctions, I ventured to insinuate his passion for her, then only did I speak with coldness and restraint; slowly the unwilling words found way, checked by my rising sighs, and prefaced by my blushes. My emotions could not have been hid from an interested observation; but the princess was not only wholly indifferent to Polynesso, but indulged a secret passion for the all-accomplished Ariodant.

This young knight, an Italian by birth, came with his brother to the court of Scotland, either in pursuit of glory, or to transact some secret business with the king. To the graces of his form, than which nature never made one more lovely, is added a mind fraught with whatever is most great and excellent in mankind; his valour never yet found an equal in our land; his is the prize at every tournement, his the foremost honours of the field: in peace the ornament of our court, in war the defender of our country.

The king, to whom he had indeared himself by a thousand services, loaded him with riches and honours, and gave him the first employments in the kingdom; the hill of Sicily burns not with fiercer fires, nor glows Vesuvius with more ardent flames, than those which the bright eyes of our princess kindled in the heart of Ariodant.

I soon discovered that Geneura approved, encouraged and returned his passion; and being, as you may easily imagine, not greatly concerned at this obstacle to the desires of my faithless duke, I acquainted him with all I knew, and from the apparent impossibility of his ever succeeding in his attempt, drew arguments to induce him to give it over.

Polynesso, naturally haughty and vindictive, could not bear with patience, the thoughts of being rejected for a stranger, every way, as he conceived, his inferior; disdain, shame, rage, by turns, engrossed his soul, and banished thence every softer passion; his love for Geneura was now converted to the most obstinate hatred, and he resolved to accomplish her ruin by the blackest treason that ever was conceived in the heart of man.

His scheme of revenge concerted, in which I, alas! tho' ignorantly, was to act the chief part, he one day accosted me with an air more tender and affectionate than usual.

My dear▪ Dalinda, said he, generous and kind as you have been to me, well may you think yourself injured by my inconstancy, but as trees, you know, when cropt by the pruner's hand, shoot out into fresh luxuriant branches, so on the root of my passion for Geneura, young buds of fondness rise, and all the ripening fruit is yours.

Nor do I languish so much for the possession of Geneura's beauties, as I disdain to be thus rejected and contemned; and, lest this grief should prey too forcibly on my heart, do thou, my fair, indulge my sick fancy with a kind deceit, and in the dress of that too haughty charmer, receive me to thy arms.

When the princess is retired to bed, put on her robes, adorn thee with her richest jewels, with her girdle bind thy swelling bosom, let her coronet glitter on thy beauteous brow, and beneath it let thy hair descend in graceful curls like hers; then, in her borrowed form, attend my coming at the well-known window; thus shall my pride be gratified, and my capricious fancy pleased.

Without reflecting on the insidious purport of this request, I promised to comply with it; and, for many succeessive nights, received him in the habit he prescribed. Having thus wrought me to his wish, his wicked arts were next played off on Ariodant.

Before the duke had any knowledge of his passion for the princess, he had lived in strict friendship with this young knight, and thence took occasion to reproach him with the breach of it, by presuming to address the princess.

In you, said he, I little expected a rival as well on account of your attachment to me, as the improbability of your succeeding in your attempt; for you are not now to be told of the mutual passion that has long joined Geneura's heart and mine, nor that I intend soon to ask the king's consent to espouse her; why then do you fondly thrust yourself between me and my almost certain happiness? how differently should I act were I in your place?

Why this to me, my lord? replied Ariodant hastily; 'tis you who have betrayed our friendship, you have commenced my rival, not I yours. I claim a prior right in fair Geneura, as having loved her first, and have been happy enough to inspire her with an equal flame; this you might have perceived, had you not been blinded by obstinacy; since then the laws of friendship demand one of us to yield, be yours the task, as having less right to persist, and less hope of succeeding than myself. In riches indeed you are my superior; but the king's favour is equally shared betwixt us, and in the heart of Geneura the advantage is wholly mine.

What errors does not love occasion? replied the duke; each thinks himself the happy object of her wishes, and yet 'tis certain that only one is loved: thus then let us decide the contest; he who can give the most certain proofs of her affection shall be left by the other in the free and undisturbed possession of it: but first, let us bind ourselves by the most solemn oaths not to disclose each others secrets.

To this Ariodant, with trembling impatience agreed, and the artful duke went on in this manner:

'Tis now almost five months since the beauteous Geneura rewarded my ardent love with the possession of her person; oft has the conscious queen of night lent me her shades to guide me to my charmer, and seen me happy in her arms.

'Tis false, by Heaven, interrupted Ariodant, transported with rage; not that cold queen, whose name thou hast profaned, is chaster than my Geneura. Traitor, with my good sword I'll prove thou lyest; take notice I defy thee to mortal combat, and will with thy dearest blood, wash away the slanders thou hast thrown upon my princess.

Moderate your rage, said the calm villain, I mean to give you proofs, convincing proofs, of what I have said; your own eyes shall be witnesses of the favours I enjoy.

The unhappy Ariodant, pale, trembling, and lost in speechless grief and horror at those fatal words, stood for some moments fixed in racking thought, like the sad statue of despair; then raising his eyes, overflowing with tears, to heaven, and passionately striking his groaning breast, And can it be, he cried, that my Geneura, that princess whom I loved, whom I adored with such pure reverence as mortals pay to Deities, should become the prey of loose desires, and give her faithful Ariodant to death? Oh! 'tis impossible, though a God spoke it, I should say 'twere false.

Incredulous man, said Polynesso, have I not offered to give thee proofs that cannot be denied? Thy eyes shall see the favours she bestows on me.

I take you at your word, resumed Ariodant impatiently, give me to behold her guilt and I am satisfied.

To-morrow night, said the duke, I have an appointment with her; I will conduct you to a place from whence, unperceived, you yourself shall behold me ascend her chamber window, and judge by the reception she gives me, if I am happy in her favour.

To this the almost distracted Ariodant consented; and, at the appointed time, followed the duke to those ruined houses I mentioned before, and there stood concealed from view: being doubtful of Polynesso's intentions, he had ordered his brother Lurcanio to arm and go with him, directing him to stay at a convenient distance, so as to be within call if any treachery was offered him, but not in sight of Geneura's window; for he would have no witness of her guilt but himself.

The duke, having placed Ariodant most conveniently for his purpose, advanced and gave the usual sign; unhappy as I am I heard, and eagerly obeyed the welcome summons; adorned in Geneura's richest robes, and covered with the veil that princesses only wear, I appeared at the window and threw the silken ladder over to my lover.

Lurcanio, either fearing for his brother's safety, or desirous of prying into his secrets, quitted his appointed station, and unperceived by him, walked softly forward till he came within ten paces of Ariodant; and now my faithless duke was seen by both the brothers, (though known only to Ariodant) to ascend the ladder and gain the chamber window, at which I met him with a tender embrace, wandering over his lips and eyes with eager kisses.

This sight so enflamed the soul of Ariodant with rage and grief, that drawing out his sword, and fixing the pummel of it in the ground, he was going to rush with all his force upon the point, had he not been prevented by Lurcanio, who perceiving his rash design, sprang to him in an instant, and having thrown aside the fatal instrument of death, received his sinking brother in his arms.

Ah miserable brother! said Lurcanio, by what wild fury art thou possest, to fall thus meanly for a woman? Now cursed, for ever cursed be all the kind; may they all perish in one wide ruin, blown as they are, like clouds, with every blast of wind: and this fair mischief that has betrayed thee, let us devise some glorious vengeance for her: let not thy noble life be sacrificed to her falshood; her's is the crime, be her's the punishment; proclaim her guilt aloud, accuse her to the king; my eyes as well as thine have seen her infamy, and with my sword I'll make good thy assertion.

Ariodant, whose soul was torn with various and conflicting passions, smiled gloomily at the mention of revenge; a-while he seemed to bury every thought of grief and of despair in that one hope of sacrificing the guilty princess to his wrongs; but alas! the cureless wound remained behind; Geneura, base as she appeared, he loved with such unceasing fondness, that wholly unable to endure her loss, and dreading no hell like that within his bosom, once more he resolved to die.

To Lurcanio, however, he dissembled his design, and went home with him at his request; but early the next morning he departed, leaving no traces behind him from whence it might be gathered to what place he was gone.

Lurcanio dreading the fatal effects of his despair, was pierced to his inmost soul at the news of his flight: the king and the whole court took part in his affliction; no methods were left untried to discover where he was; messengers were sent in search of him to the utmost extremities of the kingdom; but all returned without any success.

At length a peasant came to court, and at his request was introduced to the princess, who informed her, that as he was travelling to the city he met Ariodant; that this unhappy knight obliged him to follow him and be witness of a deed he was going to perform; that obeying his orders they journeyed on together till they came to a steep rock that hung pendant over the sea, fronting the Irish island.

Ariodant, said the peasant, ascending this rock, commanded me to observe well what he did, to give you an account of it, and tell you his last words; which were, that he had seen too much: then springing furiously from the top of the rock, he precipitated himself into the sea. Terrified at the dreadful sight, I hastily turned back, and travelled hither to bring you the fatal news.

Geneura, overwhelmed with grief and amazement for the death of her lover, and the strange message he had sent her, abandoned herself to the most violent excesses of despair; she beat her beauteous bosom, tore her hair, and in the wildness of her woe, a thousand times invoked the dear loved name of Ariodant; repeated the mysterious words he uttered, and as often called on death to end her.

The news of his death, with the sad manner of it, spread grief and consternation through the whole city; even the remotest parts of Scotland felt and lamented the loss of their valiant defender; the king and the whole court bewailed his loss with the sincerest sorrow: but Lurcanio, superior in grief, as more nearly interested in the dear deceased, mourned his unhappy brother with all the tenderness of fraternal love, and all the warmth of friendship.

Revolving in his mind the fatal adventure of the window, which had been the cause of his brother's distraction; the desire and hope of revenge afforded some relief to the poignancy of his woe; and obstinately bent to sacrifice the princess to the manes of his Ariodant, he presented himself before the king and council, and accused her of incontinence, relating all that Ariodant and he had seen, and the fatal effects it had upon him: he then reminded the king of the Scottish laws against unchastity, and loudly demanded justice on the princess.

Horror and amazement seized the soul of the unhappy father! Geneura, tho' dearer to him than life, tho' innocent in his opinion, he has not power to screen from the danger that threatens her; the laws indeed permit the accused to have a champion to fight in her defence; by whom, if the prosecutor (who is obliged to maintain by force of arms the truth of his assertion) is worsted, she is declared guiltless of the crimes laid to her charge.

To this only remedy the king has recourse, and causes it to be proclaimed throughout his dominions, that if any knight of noble birth will undertake the defence of his daughter, and by force of arms shall vanquish her accuser, on him he will bestow the princess, with a dower suitable to her quality.

Notwithstanding this proclamation no knight has yet offered himself for the enterprize, deterred therefrom by the known valour of Lurcanio: the king, no less anxious for Geneura's reputation than her life, caused all her maids to be brought to a trial, who with one voice declared they never were privy to any intrigue of their royal mistress.

Alarmed at these proceedings, and dreading the consequence of a further scrutiny, I urged the duke to take some measures for our common security: he, with dissembled kindness, praised my secrecy and affection, and sent two men to conduct me to a castle of his at a great distance from the court.

Wholly relying on his faith, I put myself under the protection of those two villains, whom the duke, desirous of removing for ever the only person who could discover his guilt, ordered when they came to a convenient place, to murder me: happily for me chance conducted you that way; you delivered me from my impending fate, and while it shall please heaven to preserve my unhappy life, it shall be spent in grateful acknowledgments to my protector.

This account of Geneura's innocence was extremely welcome to Rinaldo; for though confiding in his own courage he was not without hopes of delivering her, guilty as she appeared; yet the certainty he was going to fight in a just cause, animated him with double fires, and gave him almost a confirmation of victory.

Now clapping spurs to his horse, he rode on with such eager haste, that the noble town of St. Andrews soon appeared in view. There the combat was to be performed; the guards had already surrounded the lists, the challenger's trumpet had sounded, and the unhappy king, pale, trembling, and full of eager anxiety, listened with a beating heart, and fear-check'd wishes for an accepting answer.

Mean time Rinaldo, having left the frighted Dalinda at an inn, with repeated assurances of gaining her pardon, in case he vanquished the princess's accuser, advanced towards the city-gate: here he was met by a young page, who informed him that an unknown knight, clad all in sable armour, was arrived; that he had demanded the combat with Lurcanio, and declared he would die, or free the princess from her ignominious sentence.

Rinaldo, impatient to unfold the mystery, thundered at the city-gates, which being opened, he rode eagerly to the lists; there beholding the combatants engaged, he forced his way through the press, and crying aloud that they should cease the fight, demanded an instant audience of the king.

The marshals of the field thereupon parted the two champions, and Rinaldo was immediately conducted to the king; to whom he related the whole story of Polynesso's treachery, as he had received it from Dalinda; adding that he would prove the truth of it by force of arms, and begged that he might be allowed to defy the traitor duke to single combat.

The noble form of Rinaldo, but chiefly the pleasing purport of his speech, gained him absolute credit with the king. Scarce could the raptured parent restrain the wild exultings of his joy of this confirmation of his Geneura's innocence; dearer than life or empire was she loved by him, and freely would he have sacrificed both to save her honour: he hesitated therefore not a moment in permitting the requested combat, but ordered duke Polynesso to be called.

He, by his office of high constable, having the ordering of the combat, was riding proudly about the field, exulting in his successful treason, and anticipating, in his own mind, the ruin of the fair and injured Geneura. Ignorant though he was of the design of this summons, yet coward guilt suggesting the worst he had to fear, with a disordered air, and eyes expressive of the various apprehensions that struck his conscious soul, he met the reproachful look of his king, and the fierce glances of Rinaldo.

That noble warrior repeating in a few words the treasons he had been guilty of, challenged him to the field: Polynesso denied the accusation, but accepting the proferred combat, because he could not avoid it, retired to arm himself, while Rinaldo, fraught with the pious prayers and blessings of the king, entered the lists, and ordered his trumpet to sound.

At the third blast the duke appeared; pale terror and dismay were pictured in his face, his fainting heart throbbed with the conscious pangs of guilt, and horrors of impending fate: confused, distracted, not knowing what he did, he darted forward at the signal given to begin the fight; but his weak lance, ill guided by his trembling hand, fell harmless to the ground.

Not so the great Rinaldo; he, with calm courage, and brave, yet unassuming confidence, meditated the wound, and rising all collected to the blow, threw his famed lance with such unerring skill and force, that it pierced quite through the armour of Polynesso, and hid its fatal point within his side.

The traitor fell, Rinaldo eagerly dismounted, and approaching him, unlaced his helmet. With faint low voice he called for mercy, and thinking to deserve it, confessed unasked the wrong he had been guilty of to Geneura; then, as if life had been only lent him till he had cleared her innocence, scarce had he uttered another prayer for mercy, but death supprest the coward supplication, and he lay a breathless coarse at the feet of Rinaldo.

The people, transported with joy that their princess was not only delivered from death, but restored to her former sanctity of character, made the air resound with their acclamations.

Rinaldo being conducted to the king, untied the beaver of his helmet, and was immediately known to be that famous knight of Italy, whose noble exploits were noised over all the habitable world.

The king embraced him in a rapture of joy and gratitude; the nobles crouded round the deliverer of their princess, loaded him with blessings, and strove to exceed each other in praises of his invincible valour.

These congratulations over, all eyes were turned upon the unknown knight in black armour, who had so generously undertaken the defence of Geneura against her accuser Lurcanio; pensive he stood during the fight between Polynesso and Rinaldo, his eyes fixed upon the combatants, with eager attention he had listened to the dying words of the treacherous duke, and while the multitude in loud shouts expressed their joy, and the king and court were paying honours to the glorious victor, he stood apart from the throng, absorbed in thought, and wholly insensible of the tumult around him.

The king caused him to be conducted to his presence, and acknowledging himself greatly obliged to his generous intention, pressed him to let him know in what manner he could repay the obligation.

The knight made no answer, but bowing low, and throwing off his helmet, the king and court, with the utmost astonishment, beheld the lovely face of Ariodant; wonder and joy kept them all silent for a while; at length the king recovering from his surprize, clasp'd the young warrior to his breast with a tender embrace:

Is it possible, said he, in a tone of voice expressive of the strongest transport, that I behold again my Ariodant, the gallant defender of my dominions, and the brave champion for my daughter's honour? him whom I lamented as dead, whom my whole kingdom mourned for: tell me by what strange yet happy chance I now behold thee living, whose death was so confidently affirmed, and so universally believed.

Ariodant knowing the king was acquainted with the whole story of his love, replied without reserve:

The peasant, my lord, whom I detained to be a witness of the sad effects of my despair, and to bring the news of it to the princess, informed her truly that I cast myself from the rock into the sea; but that natural repugnance we have all to death, when near, however we may despise its terrors at a distance, impelled me, involuntarily, to use measures to preserve a life which a moment before I had been so desirous of losing.

As soon as I rose again upon the surface of the waves, I applied myself to swimming, at which I was very expert, and soon reached the neighbouring shore, faint, weary, and almost breathless. I threw myself down amidst the rushes, and was found in this condition by an ancient hermit, whose cell was at a small distance.

Thither he conducted me, and in a few days his charitable cares restored me to my strength; but, alas! my mind was tortured still with various passions; love, hate, despair, and eager thirst of vengeance, by turns possessed me; in vain I sought to banish the idea of Geneura from my soul, it still returned with double force; nor could her infidelity, of which, mistaken wretch that I was, I thought I had such convincing proofs, weaken the power of her resistless charms.

Thus languishing, with a cureless wound, I heard the news of her accusation by my brother, and the danger to which her life and honour were exposed; at that moment, forgetting the injuries I had suffered, insensible to all the ties of consanguinity and friendship, and only solicitous for her safety, I determined to fight with my brother in her defence, pleasing myself with the thought, that if I did not free her, I should at least have the satisfaction of dying in her cause, and thereby proving how much superior to Polynesso was my love, who though favoured as he was by her, he wanted courage to defend her.

Having provided myself with armour that might effectually conceal me, I came hither full of fury against my brother, whom I could not but consider as my worst enemy, since he was the accuser of the still adored Geneura.

The arrival of the brave Rinaldo happily prevented the continuance of a combat, which must have ended in the death of one brother, and eternal remorse to the other.

With joy I behold the princess delivered from the ignominious death with which she was threatened; but oh! with far more rapture do I congratulate your majesty on this discovery of her innocence: Happy Rinaldo, to be at once the defender of her life, and restorer of her honour: As for me, I sought only to preserve her from death; and if that was denied me, to have the satisfaction, at least, of dying in her defence, by the hand of a friend and brother.

The king who loved him before for his virtues, was so charmed with this generous proof of his passion for his daughter, that he easily yielded to the solicitations of Rinaldo and the noblemen of his court, to bestow the princess on so faithful a lover; and endowing her with the dutchy of Albania, which, on Polynesso's decease, reverted to the crown, he gave her hand to Ariodant in the presence of the whole court, and the nuptials were soon after celebrated with the utmost magninificence.

Rinaldo having obtained Dalinda's pardon, who retired into a monastry, took leave of the king and happy lovers, and pursued his voyage to England.

TREATISE ON THE EDUCATION of DAUGHTERS CONTINUED.

Of the use of History for Children.

CHILDREN are very fond of strange stories: it is common to see them in high delight, or in tears, at the recital of adventures: fail not to take advantage of this propensity; whenever you find them disposed to listen, tell them some short pretty fable, and let it be one relative to the animals, innocent and ingeniously composed: give them for what they are, fables; and explain the moral design of them.

As for the heathen stories, it will be happy for a girl to remain totally ignorant of them all her life-time; because they are impure, and abound with impious absurdities; but if you cannot prevent an acquaintance with some, do your endeavour to inspire an abhorrence of them.

When you have told one story, stay till the child asks for another, leaving as it were a craving upon him to be further informed; at length when his curiosity becomes excited, then have some select pieces of history to relate, in a compendious manner: let there be a connection between them, and tell a particular part one day, and another the next, that he may be held in suspence, and in impatience to hear the conclusion.

Animate your accounts with a lively tone of voice and expression; and make the personages speak: children of a lively imagination will fancy they both hear and see them: for example, recite the story of Joseph; make the brothers speak like brutish people; Jacob, like a fond afflicted father, Joseph, in his character, taking pleasure, when become the ruler over Egypt, in keeping himself from being known by his brethren, then putting them in dread of him, and at last discovering himself.

This natural representation, joined to the wonders of the history, will charm a child, provided he is not cloyed of such things, but left to ask for them, or be promised them under the notion of reward; and when he is grown wiser, and provided we never offer them by way of a task, nor oblige them to a repetition; for this is a force upon him, and what will destroy all the pleasure he takes in these historical pieces.

However, it is to be observed, that if he hath any degree of facility in speaking, he will be naturally prone to relate to those he loves, whatever stories have given him the greatest entertainment; but you are not to set him this for a rule: you may get some person that is free with him to pretend a desire to hear the story; the child will be quite delighted to tell it, and do not seem to mind him, nor take any notice of his mistakes; when he comes to be better practised, then you may with gentleness observe to him what is the best manner of telling a tale, to make it short, plain, and natural, by the choice of such circumstances as best set forth things as they truly were. If you have a number of children, use them by degrees to represent the several personages in the history they have learned: let one be Abraham, another Isaac, &c. this personating will delight them beyond other plays, and give them a habit of thinking and speaking serious matters with pleasure, and fix the transactions indelibly in their memory,

We ought to endeavour to give them a greater taste for sacred history than for any other; not by commending it as the finest, which perhaps they would not readily believe, but by bringing them to perceive it without a word said. Point out to their observation of what importance it is; how singular, marvellous, replete with natural paintings and nobly spiritous; the articles of the creation, the fall of Adam, the deluge, the call of Abraham, the sacrifice of Isaac, the adventures of Joseph abovementioned, the birth and flight of Moses, are not only proper to awake the curiosity of children, but at the same time that they discover the origin of religion, they also lay the foundations of it in the young mind.

It would argue a profound ignorance of the essence of religon, not to see that it is entirely historical: for by a web of marvellous facts, do we find its establishment, its perpetuity, and all that ought to engage us to the belief and practice thereof.

Let it not be imagined that we have any intention that people should dip into science when we propose these histories to them; for they are brief, various, and proper to please the most ordinary understandings. God, who best knows the spirit of man whom he created, hath thrown religion among popular facts, which far from overcharging the simple, assist them rather to conceive and retain the sense of its mystery: for instance, tell a child, that in God three co-equal persons make but one single nature; by hearing and repeating these terms, he will remember them; but, I doubt, not conceive the sense of them. Tell him then, how when Jesus Christ came out of the water of Jordan, the Father caused these words to be heard from heaven: ‘This is my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased, hear ye him.’ Add, that the Holy Spirit descended upon our Saviour, in a bodily shape, like a dove, and you will make him sensibly perceive the Trinity in a passage which he will never forget: here are three persons whom he will ever distingush by their different actions; you have but to teach him, that all taken together constitute but one God.

This example suffices to show the use of history, which, though it seems to be a prolix method of instruction, is in reality the most compendious, and avoids the dry way of catechisms, wherein the mysteries are disjoined from the facts; and we may know, that in the antient times they taught by means of history. The admirable method of teaching which St. Austin prescribes, was not of that father's introduction; it was the universal practice of the chuch: this consisted in demonstrating, by a series of historical facts, religion to be as old as the world, Jesus Christ expected in the old testament, Jesus Christ reigning in the new: this is the bottom of christian instruction.

This requires somewhat more time and application than the method of teaching to which some people confine themselves; however, by this series of history we are brought to a true knowledge of religion; whereas, when unacquainted with it, we have but confused notions of Jesus Christ, the gospel, the church, and of the foundation of those virtues with which the name of christian ought to inspire us.

The historical catechism printed a little while ago, a plain book, short, and much clearer than the common catechisms, includes all necessary to be known on that head, and of this no one will say that it requires a great deal of study.

To the passages I have beforementioned, let us add, the going thorough the Red Sea, the sojournment of the people in the desert, where they eat the bread which fell from heaven, and drank of the water which Moses, by the stroke of his rod, made to spring out of the rock.

Represent to them the miraculous conquest of the promised land, on which occasion the waters of Jordan turned back toward their source, and the walls of a city fell down of themselves in the view of the besiegers. Paint in natural colours the conflicts of Saul, and of David; shew the last, while yet a stripling, without arms, and in his dress of a shepherd, the vanquisher of that proud giant Goliah. Let not be forgotten the glory and wisdom of Solomon, his decision of the dispute between the two women about the child; but then describe him fallen from that height of wisdom, dishonouring himself by ease and indulgence, the almost unavoidable consequence of extreme prosperity.

Make the prophets speak to the king, in the name of the Lord; let them read futurity as a volume; appear humble, of austere life, and suffering continual persecution for the truth's sake.

Place in its due point of time the first destruction of Jerusalem; describe the temple burned, and the holy city ruined for the sins of the people: relate the captivity in Babylon, where the Jews bewailed their beloved Sion: before their return bring in the pleasing relations of what befel Tobit, Judith, Esther, and Daniel.

It would have its usefulness, if children were brought to declare their thoughts on the different characters of these Saints, to know which affected them most: one would prefer Esther, another Judith: this would create a little contention, and so more strongly impress the stories upon their minds, and help to form their judgment.

After this, bring the people up to Jerusalem, and let them repair the ruins thereof; then form a lovely picture of the peace and prosperity of the city; in a short time after, give the portrait of that cruel and impious Antiochus, who died in hypocritical penitence.

Describe the victories of the Maccabees, under the reign of that persecutor; likewise the martyrdom of the seven brethren, of the same family. Proceed to the miraculous birth of John the Baptist; then in course recount that of Jesus Christ; after which it will be proper to select out of the gospels all the most striking passages of his life, his preaching at the Temple at 12 years of age, his baptism, his retreat into the wilderness, and temptation, his calling his Apostles, the miracle of the loaves, the conversion of that woman sinner that anointed his feet with precious unguent, washed them with her tears, and dried them with her hair.

Tell how he taught the Samaritan woman, how cured the man born blind, raised Lazarus from the dead; shew Jesus Christ entering triumphant into Jerusalem, shew him upon the cross, and at length rising out of the Sepulchre.—After this it should be remarked, with how much familiarity he consorted with his Disciples for forty days together, even till they beheld him ascend up into Heaven; —besides this, the descent of the Holy Ghost, the stoning of St. Stephen, the conversion of Paul, the calling of the centurion Cornelius, the travels of the apostles, and particularly of St. Paul, are exceedingly engaging: chuse out the most wonderful stories of the martyrs, and something in general of the heavenly life of the primitive Christians, interspersed with instances of the courage of young virgins, the astonishing austerities of the hermits, the conversion of the emperors and of the empire, the blindness of the Jews, and their terrible punishment, which lasteth to this day.

These narrations will, in a delightful manner, impress on the tender and lively imagination of a child an entire series of religion from the creation of the world to our days; give them noble ideas of it, and such as will never be effaced; they will perceive likewise in that history the hand of God ever lifted up to deliver the righteous, and to confound the wicked.

They will be used to see God, the efficient cause, in all things, drawing interceptibly into his designs those of his creatures that seem most repugnant to them.

But as to this collection of extracts, let it consist of such as afford the pleasantest, the most magnificent images; for we should by all means so manage it, that children may find religion charming, lovely, venerable; whereas their common notion of it is as of something melancholy, flat, and doleful.

Besides the inestimable benefit of thus teaching them religion, all these delightful narrations, so early infused into their memories, awaken a curiosity to be informed of things in their nature serious, render them sensible to the pleasures of the understanding, and interest them in whatever parts of history happen to bear any relation to such as they have already learned.

Yet, I say again, great care must be taken never to lay it down for a rule, that they must attend to you, must remember all; much more, never to prescribe stated lessons: no, let pleasure effect every thing.

Do not urge them, and you will bring it to bear: even for ordinary understandings, the point is not to overcharge them, but wait the gradual rise of their curiosity.

But it will be objected—to relate these several parts of history in a lively, concise, natural, and pleasing manner, where are the governesses capable of it? To which I answer, that, in proposing it, I mean that people should endeavour to procure for their children persons of good parts, and put them as much as possible into this method of teaching, and so every governess will perform according to her talent: but still, whatever her capacity is, matters will not go quite so wrong, when this natural and plain method is in practice.

To their narrations they may add the sight of prints or pictures, representing the sacred stories: prints will serve for general use. But if there should be an opportunity of shewing the children good pictures, let it not be neglected; for the glow of colours, and size of figures as big as the life, strike the imagination with much greater force.

THE LADY's GEOGRAPHY.

DESCRIPTION of the Island of CEYLON. [Continued from Page 720.]

ALL the kinds of fruits which the Indies in general produce, are found in this island; it has however some peculiar to itself; among which one of the most particular is the Jacks, a fruit which is of very great service in food; it grows on a very high tree, is of a greenish colour, covered over with prickles, and is about the size of a loaf of eighteen pounds weight. Its seeds, or what they call its eggs, are disposed in the inside of it, like the seeds of a gourd. They eat the jacks as we eat cabbage, and its taste is not extremely unlike it. When it is ripe it may be eaten raw, and one of them is sufficient for six or seven people. The grain or eggs resemble chesnuts very much, both in colour and taste; they may be eaten either boiled, or roasted in ashes: one jacks produces two or three quarts of them, and the inhabitants always keep store of them by them.

The Jombs is another fruit which is peculiar to the island: it has the taste of an apple, is very full of juice, and is no less wholesome than agreeable. Its colour is white, mixed with red, in a manner that appears to be the work of an elegant pencil. There are also several wild fruits which are to be met with in their woods, as, the Mucroes, which are round, of the size of a cherry, and of a very agreeable taste. The Dongs, which resemble black cherries; the Ambellos, which may be compared to our gooseberries; the Carollas, Cabellas, Tookes, and Jollas, which may pass for so many sorts of very good plumbs, and the Paragiddes, which are not unlike our pears.

The island of Ceylon produces three trees, which, though their fruits are not indeed fit to eat, are no less remarkable for other conveniencies: the first, which is named Tallipot, is very strait, and in heighth and thickness nearly resembles the mast of a ship; its leaves are so large, that a single one will cover fifteen or twenty men, and shelter them from the rain. They grow stronger as they dry, without becoming less pliable or manageable. Nature could scarcely have bestowed any gift on the inhabitants more valueable than this; although the leaves are so very extensive when open, they can be folded up like a fan, and being then not thicker than one's arm, weigh very little in the hand. Their shape is round, but the Ceylonese cut them into triangular pieces, wherewith they cover themselves when they travel, taking care to place the pointed end before them, which therefore makes its way the easier through the shrubs. The soldiers make tents of them.

These leaves grow at the top of the tree, like those of the cocoa; but, what is very extraordinary, it bears no fruit till the year of its death, at which time alone, it puts forth large branches, laden with very beautiful yellow flowers, but of a very strong and offensive smell, which changes into a round, hard fruit, of the size of our largest cherries, but which are good for nothing but to sow. Thus the Tillipot bears but once, but then it is so loaded with fruit at that time, that one tree is sufficient for the sowing of a whole province. Yet the smell of the flowers is so insufferable near houses, that they seldom fail to cut down the tree so soon as it begins to put forth buds, especially as at that time, if they are cut, there is found within them an exceeding good sap, which may be reduced to meal, and made up in cakes, that have the taste of white bread. This is also another resource for the inhabitants when the rice harvest happens to turn out indifferently.

The second of these trees is the Kitula, which grows as strait as the cocoa, but not so tall, and by many degrees slenderer. Its principal singularity consists in its yielding a kind of liquor which is called Tellegie, very sweet, wholesome, and agreeable, but without any strength. The liquor they collect twice a-day, and from some of the best trees three times; the quantity of the whole frequently amounting to six quarts in a day. They boil it up till it acquires the consistence and appearance of dark powder sugar; and this the inhabitants call Jaggory. With very little more trouble they might render it as white as sugar, to which, in every other respect, it is no way inferior in goodness. The manner of getting this liquor is as follows:

When the tree comes to its maturity it puts forth, towards its extremities, a little button, which changes into a round fruit, and is, properly speaking, the seed. This button they open, putting into it various ingredients, such as salt, pepper, citron, garlic, and various kinds of leaves, which prevent it from ripening so soon as it would otherwise do. Every day, at certain times, they cut off a little piece towards the end of this, from which place the liquor flows out in abundance. As this button ripens and withers, others grow lower and lower every year, till they at length reach the bottom of the branches; but when this comes to be the case, which is in about eight or ten years, the tree ceases to bear, and presently after dies.

Its leaves resemble those of the cocoa-palm, and are covered with a kind of bark extremely hard and full of filaments, which are employed in the making of ropes: they fall during the whole time that the tree is growing; but when it has arrived at its full dimensions, they remain on it for many years, and when they do fall, are never supplied by any others.

The wood, which is seldom above three inches thick, serves as a velopement to a very thick pith; it is extremely hard and heavy, but very apt to split of itself. The colour of it is black, and looks as if it was composed of inlaid work. The Ceylonese make pestles of it to beat the rice withal.

The third extraordinary tree, and indeed what renders this island so extremely valuable to the Dutch, is that which bears the cinnamon: it is called in the language of the country Corundagouhah. It grows in the woods indiscriminately with other trees, and, what is somewhat extraordinary, the Ceylonese set no extraordinary value upon it. This tree is of a middling bulk, its bark is the cinnamon, which appears white when on the trunk, but which they take off, and dry it in the sun. The islanders gather this only from the smaller trees, although the bark of the larger ones smell as sweet, and have as strong a taste. The wood has no smell; it is white, and about the hardness of deal, and is used for all kinds of purposes. Its leaf is not unlike that of the laurel, but when it first begins to put forth is of a bright scarlet, and rubbed between the hands has more the smell of a clove gillyflower than that of the cinnamon. The fruit, which usually ripens about September, is like an acorn, but smaller, and has less both of smell and taste than the bark. They boil them in water, in order to extract an oil from them, which swims at the top, and, when congealed, becomes as hard and as white as tallow, and of a very agreeable smell. The inhabitants anoint their bodies with it, and also burn it in their lamps, but no candles are made of it, but for the King.

With respect to animals, the island of Ceylon produces a great variety; viz. cows, buffaloes, swine, goats, deer, hares, dogs, jackalls, apes, tygers, bears, wild bears, elephants, lions, horses, and asses; but no sheep. Amongst the fallow beasts they have one called the Memima, which is no bigger than a hare, but much resembles a deer; its colour is grey, spotted with white, and its flesh is excellent. The Ganvera is a kind of wild buck, which has a very sharp chine, its four feet white, and half the legs of the same colour. Knox gives an account of his having seen one, which was kept in the king's magazine, together with a black tyger, a white deer, and a spotted elephant.

The apes are not only in prodigious abundance in the woods, but also of many various kinds, whereof there are some very different from any that are to be found in other countries. Some of them are as large as our spaniels, with grey hair and black faces, and long white beards, reaching from ear to ear, which give them greatly the appearance of old men. There are others of the same size, but differing in colour, their bodies, faces, and beards, being all of a bright white. But as this difference of colour does not seem to form any specific difference in the animal, they are both alike named Wanderous: they do but little mischief, keeping constantly in the woods, where they feed entirely on leaves and buds.

There is another sort, called Killowan, which are beardless, but have a white face, and long hair on their heads, which descend and divide like those of the human species: this kind are extremely mischievous, from the continual ravage they commit amongst the grain. The Ceylonese are extremely fond of the flesh of all their kinds of apes, as well as of that of their squirrels, whereof they have also several different species.

The variety of ants in the island of Ceylon is no less admirable than their abundance. That which they call Coumbias, and Tale-Coumbias, are very much like ours in size, with this difference, that the first are reddish, and the others, which are black, are only to be found in rotten trees, and have a very disagreeable smell.

There is a third kind, called Dimbios, which are large and red, and make their nests on the branches of large trees, in leaves which they amass together, to the bulk of a man's head. Several nests are sometimes found on one tree, and the fear of a thousand dangerous things will then prevent any person from attempting to climb up it.

The Coura•atches are a fourth kind of ants; they are large and black, live under ground, and form holes there, nearly of the shape of rabbit-burrows, and the fields are so full of these holes, that the cattle are in perpetual danger from them of breaking their legs.

A fifth sort are the Codd as: they are of a very fine black, much about the size of the former, and live also in the earth; but they frequently make excursions in very numerous parties, without any one knowing the peculiar period of their expedition. They bite cruelly if hurt or put out of their way, but otherwise, if unmolested, they are very harmless and inoffensive.

But the most numerous, and at the same time the most extraordinary of all the kinds of ants is, that which they call the Vacos. The ground is covered with them: they are of a middling size, have a white body, and red head, and devour every thing that comes in their way. They eat cloth, wood, the straw wherewith the houses are thatched, and, in short, every thing but iron and stone. No one dares to leave any thing in an uninhabited house; they get up along the walls, making a rhind of earth as they go along, which they continue through the whole extent of their way, to what height soever they arrive. If this arcade happens to break, they all immediately return back again, to repair their building, and continue their march assoon as they have completed the work. The inhabitants easily perceive their approach by the sight of these little vaults, and are obliged to use continual precaution to destroy or drive them away. In places which are without houses, they raise up little mountains of earth, of four, five, or six feet in height, and so strong, that it is not easy to destroy them, even with a spade. These little huts, which are called Humbosses, are composed of vaults or arcades, and built of very fine earth, which the people make use of for the fabrication of their idols.

The Vacos multiply prodigiously, but they also die by myriads, for when they acquire their wings, they take their flight in such inconceivable numbers towards the west, that they almost obscure the sky, and rising to so great a height as to be quite lost to the view, they cease not their flight till they drop down dead, exhausted with fatigue; they then become a prey to birds of many kinds, and chickens in particular will feed on them more readily than on even the rice.

[To be continued.]

THE LADY's MUSEUM.
The TRIFLER. [NUMBER XI.]

To the AUTHOR of the TRIFLER.

MADAM,

MY brother, who is a great scholar, and writes A. M. after his name, desires me to acquaint you, that having with much labour and pains translated the enclosed dialogue from the Greek, he is willing to communicate it to the world in your paper, that the trifling part of your readers, which he supposes to be by far the greater number, may learn that there were trifling, that is idle people, in the time of Socrates, and may be corrected by the wise admonitions of that great divine. My brother is determined to keep himself concealed, that he may silently, and without envy, enjoy the reputation of this performance; and therefore recommends it to you to be particularly careful that no mistakes are made in the spelling and pointing.

I am your humble servant, UNKNOWN.

P. S. My brother says Socrates was not a divine, but a philosopher.

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN SOCRATES and ARISTARCHUS.

SOCRATES one day observing Aristarchus to look thoughtful and melancholy, said to him, ‘My friend, something seems to lie heavy upon your mind, you should share the burden with your friends; perhaps we may be able to assist you.’

To which Aristarchus replied, ‘Indeed, Socrates, I am in great perplexity. You know that on account of the war a great multitude have forsaken the open country, and fled into the Piraeum; and there are come to my house so many helpless sisters, nieces, and cousins, that I have not less than fourteen gentlewomen— Now from our landed estates we get nothing, for the enemy is master there; nor from rent of houses, inhabitants are so thin in the city; furniture no body will buy; and money there is none to be borrowed: one may as soon expect to find it in walking along the streets as to borrow any.—It is grievous, Socrates, to stand and see our relations perish; it is impossible to support such a number of them in such times.’

Socrates hearing all this, replied, ‘And how comes it to pass that Reramo, who has a great family to maintain, not only finds means to provide himself and them with all necessaries, but likewise has so much to spare that he even grows rich by what he vends?’

‘Good reason, replied the other, because he keeps slaves, and I gentlefolks.’

‘And of these two sorts of people which may you reckon the most valuable, his slaves or your gentlefolks?’ said Socrates.

"Surely mine," says Aristarchus.

‘But then is it not a disgrace, says the philosopher, that while he is thriving by the means of a parcel of slaves, you should be driven to extremity with those that are so much their betters?’

‘Oh! but, says the other, he feeds handicraftsmen, I people who have been genteelly brought up.’

‘I suppose you mean by handicraftsmen, replied Socrates, those who are skilled in preparing the useful things of life.’

"Yes, I do," said the other.

"Is meal in that number?"

"Undoubtedly."

"And bread?"

"Most surely."

‘And cloaths for both sexes, coats, gowns, cloaks, linen?’

‘A• questionless, these are all most useful 〈…〉 ’

‘Probably, continued Socrates, your people are not at all skilled in making any of these things?’

"O yes, one or other in all or most of them?"

‘Possibly then, said Socrates, you don't know that by means of one single article Nausicydes, the mealman, not only maintains himself and several servants, but likewise a great number of hogs and cows; and hath so thriven as even to be named for serving the expensive offices of the state: and that Kerybus, by his business of a baker, supports a large family; nay lives in plenty:— then there's Demeas, the taylor, and numbers of Megareans that get a fine livelihood by mercery ware.’

‘Defend me! says the other, these fellows are owners of many purchased slaves, whom they force to work, and by their labours they thrive; but I tell you, I have none but gentry and my relations.’

‘Pray now, because they are gentry and your relations, says Socrates, do you think they have nothing to do but to eat and sleep? or among people of the like condition do you reckon those that live after that manner, to pass their time more happily than others that both know and practise the necessary employments of life? or do you apprehend sloth and idleness to be more conducive towards a man's learning what he ought to understand, or remembering what he has learned, or to his health and strength of body, or, in fine, toward his attaining or preserving the requisites of life? while industry and care are nothing worth. You confess they have been taught to do some of these works—why—because they were things of no service, or such as they must never put their hands to; or rather on the contrary, as what they might one day labour in, and profit by—for which makes men the most virtuous—living in idleness, or being engaged in a useful business?—or honestest, the being employed, or lazily to be talking how they shall live? Yet more, it is my opinion, that neither you love them, nor they you—not them, for you really feel them very burthensome to you; they love not you, for they must see you are quite weary of them—from whence 'tis a great chance but dislike and enmity will spring up more and more, while kindred and affection fades away. Now could you contrive to make yourself their director and protector in some kind of profitable employment, you would then be fond of them, finding them useful to you, and they would love you, because they would perceive you had pleasure in what they did; and then, reflecting with satisfaction on all former benefits, the obligation to them would be enhanced, and you would grow friendlier and dearer to each other every day.’

‘If any thing scandalous was proposed to be done, death is rather to be chosen; but now these women know to perform what is very laudable, very becoming their sex—and whatever we know how to do, that we do with the greatest facility and pleasure. Wherefore make no hesitation to press them to what will be of service to yourself and them; and it is my opinion they will with pleasure agree to the proposal.’

‘By all the gods! said Aristarchus, you give me such admirable advice, Socrates, that I, who lately dared not think of borrowing, being sure that when that money was gone I should never be able to discharge the debt, am now resolved to venture upon it to begin our undertaking.’

Accordingly, money was raised, a quantity of wool laid in, the women worked, even while they eat their dinner, they worked till supper time: sorrow was turned into joy; instead of sour glances they looked with chearfulness on each other; they loved him as their guardian, he them as a set of useful relations.

Some time after he came again to Socrates, and with pleasure in his face gave him an account of their proceedings, and added, ‘They now accuse me as the only person that eats idle bread in the house.’

‘Well, says Socrates, and don't you tell them the fable of the dog? Upon a time when animals could speak, a sheep talked to her master in this manner, 'We are vastly surprised that to us, who afford you wool, and lamb, and cheese, you never allow any other food but merely what the earth produces: whereas your dog, by whom you get nothing, comes in for a snap of every sort of victuals you eat yourself.' The dog overhearing this, cries, 'Aye, but 'tis to me you owe your safety, that you are neither stole by the rogues, nor devoured by the wolves: was not I to watch over you ye durst not go to pasture for your lives;' this convinced the sheep of the dog's merit. Tell them, therefore, that you, like the dog, are their guardian and careful overseer, by whose means they live to follow their employments with pleasure and safety.’

THE HISTORY OF HARRIOT and SOPHIA CONCLUDED.

SOPHIA was not deceived when she imagined she had seen Sir Charles, it was really he who had rode by her window, and it was her little abode he was in search of, though in his extreme eagerness he had overlooked it.

He had left England with a hope that change of scene, and a variety of new objects, would efface the idea of Sophia from his heart, and restore him to his former tranquility; but amidst all the delights of Paris he found himself opprest with languor: no amusements could entertain him, no conversation engage his attention; disgusted with every thing he saw and heard, peevish, discontented, and weary of the world, he avoided all company, and had recourse to books for relief; but Sophia was too much in his thoughts to render study either instructive or amusing. He past whole days in solitude, feeding his melancholy with the reflection of a thousand past circumstances, which served to soften his mind, and make him feel his loss more sensibly.

When he reflected on her exalted virtues, her wit, her elegance, the attractive graces of her person, and the irresistable sweetness of her manners, he lamented his hard fate that had put such a treasure out of his reach; but when his conscience told him that it had once been in his power to have become possessor of this treasure, that he had trifled with that innocent affection till he had alienated it from himself to another object; his anguish became insupportable, and he sought to relieve it by rousing his indignation against her, for her preference of so unworthy a rival.

He called to mind her interview with this happy rival in the field, and concluded he was far more favoured by her than himself had ever been, since her discourse to him had produced so tender and passionate an expression of acknowledgment as that he had beheld.

These circumstances, which his imagination dwelt upon in order to lessen his regret, added to it all the stings of jealousy; so that, almost frantic with rage and grief, he was a hundred times upon the point of committing some desperate action.

A violent fever was the consequence of these transports, which, after confining him a long time to his bed, left his body in a weak and languishing condition, and his mind sunk in an habitual melancholy.

His physicians recommended to him the air of Montpelier, and he was preparing to set out for that place when he happened to meet with a gentleman who made him alter his resolution.

This person had been his governor, and now attended Mr. Howard in the same quality.

Sir Charles, who had a slight acquaintance with Mrs. Howard, was prevailed upon, notwithstanding his aversion to company, to receive a visit from her son: he invited the young gentleman to dine with him, and he having not yet forgot the lovely Sophia, drank her health after dinner by the name of miss Darnley.

Sir Charles, who could not hear that name without a visible emotion, told him he knew two young ladies so called, and asked whether it was the eldest or the youngest sister that he meant?

Mr. Howard replied, ‘That he was ignorant till then that miss Darnley had a sister.’

‘Yes, she has a sister, said his governor, who is much handsomer than herself, and for whom a youthful passion would be far more excusable.’

The young gentleman, who knew his governor talked in that contemptuous manner of Sophia in compliance with his mother's humour, in revenge avowed his admiration of her in the most passionate terms, and, forgetting that Sir Charles had said he was acquainted with her, described her excellencies with all the enthusiasm of a lover.

Sir Charles listened in silence; and when the other had done speaking told him, with an air of forced gravity, that it was easy to see he was very much in love.

This, indeed, was his real opinion; nevertheless he felt no emotions of jealousy or resentment against a rival whom he believed was as unhappy as himself: he asked him with a seeming carelessness if miss Sophia was not to be married to the son of a rich farmer in the village where she lived? and waited his answer with an agitation of mind which appeared so plainly in the frequent changes of his colour, that Mr. Howard must have observed it, had not the question given him almost as much concern.

After a short pause he replied, ‘That he never heard she was going to be married;’ but, added he, sighing, ‘I remember I have seen a very handsome young man at Mr. Lawson's, who perhaps —’

‘Aye, aye, interrupted his governor, smiling, he was the favoured lover no doubt, you have nothing to do but to forget her as soon as you can.’

The youth sat pensive and silent for some time, then suddenly rising, took leave of Sir Charles and went away; his governor prepared to follow him, but the baronet, anxious to hear more of Sophia, detained him to ask several questions concerning her acquaintance with Mr. Howard.

Sir Charles found his old friend had lost no part of his former candor and sincerity: though by the trust reposed in him he was obliged to discountenance as much as possible the passion of his pupil for a young woman so much his inferior in rank and fortune; yet having seen and conversed with Sophia, he did justice to her extraordinary merit, and acknowledged that Mrs. Howard had treated her harshly.

He related to Sir Charles in what manner Mrs. Howard had invited her to her house, and the suspicions she entertained of Sophia's encouraging her son's passion, and design to ensnare him into a clandestine marriage. ‘Suspicions, added he, which her subsequent behaviour entirely destroyed, for the youth was rash enough to avow his passion openly, and solicited her by frequent letters and messages to grant him an interview, which she absolutely refused, and this conduct did her honour and procured her great esteem; yet it is very likely that her affections are otherwise engaged, and that she has some difficulties to encounter, for she looks thoughtful and melancholy, and affects retirement more than persons of her age generally do.’

Sir Charles was thrown into so profound a reverie by this account of Sophia, that he heard not a word of what his friend afterwards said which had no relation to this interesting subject, and scarce perceived when he went away.

After reflecting a long time with mingled grief, resentment, and compassion, upon her melancholy, which he supposed was occasioned by some disappointment in the affair of her marriage with the young farmer, and which probably her want of fortune was the cause of, he suddenly formed the generous design of removing this obstacle to her union with the person whom she preferred to him, and, by making her happy, entitle himself to her esteem, since he had unfortunately lost her heart.

The novelty of this resolution, and its extraordinary generosity, filled him with so many self-flattering ideas, as suspended for a while his jealousy and his grief.

Instead of going to Montpelier he set out immediately for England, and during his journey was continually applauding himself for the uncommon disinterestedness of his conduct.

Nothing is more certain, than that the motives even of our best actions will not always bear examination: we deceive ourselves first, and our vanity is too much interested in the deception, to make us wish to detect it. Sir Charles either did not or would not perceive the latent hope that lurked within his bosom, and which, perhaps, suggested the designs he had formed.

How must such an instance of generous passion, thought he, affect a mind so delicately sensible as Sophia's! she who had once loved him, and what was more than probable, had not yet entirely forgot him.

He never asked himself, why his imagination dwelt upon these pleasing images? why he prosecuted his journey with such eager haste, as if the purport of it was to receive, not to resign for ever the woman he so passionately loved?

When he arrived at his own house scarce would he allow himself a few minutes rest after his fatiguing journey: he hastened to Mr. Herbert's lodgings, to prevail upon him to justify by his concurrence the designs he had formed in favour of Sophia.

Mean time the secret and powerful impulse by which he was actuated, kept his mind in a continual tumult. He hoped, he feared, he wished: he was all anxious expectation, all trembling doubt; he heard with grief that Mr. Herbert was at Bath; for now he knew not how to get access to Sophia, who being ignorant of his intentions, and offended by his behaviour, might possibly refuse to see him.

He went to the house where Mrs. Darnley lived when he left England; he was surprised to see it shut up. This incident perplexed him more, and rendered him more impatient.

He returned to his house, ordered his horses to be saddled, and set out immediately for Mr. Lawson's; where he arrived before he had resolved how to introduce himself, or who he should enquire for.

However, upon the appearance of a servant at the door, he asked for Mr. Herbert; which Mr. Lawson hearing, came out himself, and, though he did not know Sir Charles, politely requested him to alight, telling him, he had just received a letter from Mr. Herbert, which acquainted him that he was perfectly recovered, and that he was on the way to London.

Sir Charles accepted Mr. Lawson's invitation, and alighting, followed him into a parlour, but in such perturbation of mind that he scarce knew what he did. The good curate, surprised at the pensiveness and silence of his guest, was at a loss what to say to him, or how to entertain him: he gave him an account of Mr. Herbert's illness, which seemed to engage his attention very little; but happening to mention Sophia in the course of his relation, the young baronet started as from a dream, and turned his eyes upon him with a look of eagerness and anxiety, but said not a word.

Mr. Lawson paused, as expecting he was going to ask him a question, which Sir Charles perceiving, said with some confusion, ‘I beg your pardon, Sir, you mentioned miss Sophia, I have the honour to know her, pray how does me do?’

‘I hope she is well, Sir, replied Mr. Lawson, I have not seen her a long time.’

"Then she does not board with you now," said Sir Charles, with a countenance as pale as death, dreading to hear something still more fatal.

As Mr. Lawson was going to answer him, William, not knowing his father-in-law had company, entered the room abruptly; but seeing the baronet, he bowed, apologized for his intrusion, and instantly retired.

The various emotions with which this sudden and unexpected sight of his rival filled the breast of Sir Charles, caused such a wildness in his looks, that Mr. Lawson, in great astonishment and perplexity, asked him if he was taken ill?

Sir Charles, endeavouring to compose himself, replied, "That he was very well, but in a faultering accent asked, who the young gentleman was that had just left the room.

Mr. Lawson told him he was his son-in-law.

‘Your son-in-law! cried Sir Charles, eagerly, what! married to your daughter! is it possible?’

Mr. Lawson knew enough of Sophia's story to make him comprehend now who this young gentleman was, who discovered so extraordinary a concern upon this occasion; and, charmed to have an opportunity of doing her service by removing those suspicions which he had been told had produced so fatal a reverse in her fortune, he gave the baronet a circumstantial account of his daughter's marriage: sensible that he was too much interested in this detail to make him think it impertinent, he introduced it no otherways than by declaring himself under the greatest obligation to miss Sophia, who, having honoured his daughter with her friendship, had been the chief instrument of her present happiness.

While the good curate related all the circumstances of an affair which had had such melancholy consequences, the baronet listened to him with an attention still as the grave; his eyes were fixed upon his with a look of the most eager anxiety, and he scarce suffered himself to breathe for fear of losing any of his words.

In proportion as his doubts were removed, his countenance expressed more and more joy; and when, upon his reflecting on all that he had heard, it appeared plainly that the fatal meeting which had caused him so much anguish, was the effect of Sophia's solicitude to serve her friend, and that the passionate action of the youth was an acknowledgment of gratitude, not an expression of love, he was not able to conceal the excess of his joy, but, rising up in a sudden transport, he took the curate's hand, and pressing it eagerly, ‘You know not, said he, Mr. Lawson, how happy you have made me; but where is miss Sophia, is she gone to Bath with her good friend Mr. Herbert?’

‘No, Sir, replied Mr. Lawson; she lives with her mother. You know, I suppose, that Mrs. Darnley has lost her annuity by the death of the gentleman upon whom it was charged.’

‘I never heard it till now, said the baronet, whose tenderness was alarmed for his Sophia; tell me I beg you what is her present situation.’

‘Her eldest daughter has left her, said Mr. Lawson, and she has retired with miss Sophia to a village about five miles from hence, in the road to London, where that excellent young lady supports her mother and herself by the labour of her hands.’

"Angelick creature!" exclaimed Sir Charles, with his eyes swimming in tears. Then, after a little pause, he desired a direction to the place where Mrs. Darnley lived, and took a kind leave of Mr. Lawson, telling him he hoped soon to visit him again.

Sir Charles, although he galloped as fast as it was possible, found his horse went too slow for his impatience; so eager was he to see Sophia, and gain her pardon for the unreasonable conduct which his jealousy and rage had made him guilty of.

The account Mr. Lawson had given him of the part she had taken in his daughter's marriage with the youth whom he had considered as his rival, not only removed the torturing pangs of jealousy, which he had so long felt, but made him view several circumstances in Sophia's behaviour in a light favourable to his own ardent wishes.

He fondly fancied that the melancholy in which he had heard she was plunged, was occasioned by a tender remembrance of him; and that the hope of still being his, might have been the chief cause of her rejecting the addresses of Mr. Howard.

How different were these ideas from the gloomy ones which had hitherto perplexed his mind! he seemed like a man waked from a frightful dream of despair and death, to a certainty of life and joy.

Amidst these transporting reveries he had passed by Sophia's house, without perceiving it to be the same he had been directed to; and when he had reached the end of the village, he looked about for it in vain, and saw no one of whom he could enquire for it but an old woman, who was sitting under a tree near the road, making up a nosegay of some flowers, such as the late season produced.

He stopped his horse, and asked her if she knew where Mrs. Darnley lived? At the mention of that name she rose as hastily as her feebleness would permit her, and told him, she knew the house very well; and, if he pleased, would go and shew it him. ‘I am making this nosegay for the sweet young gentlewoman her daughter, said the old woman; I carry her flowers every day; heaven bless her, she is my only support. There is a great many fine folks hereabouts, from whom I could never get any relief; but since she came hither I have wanted for nothing. Pray let me shew you her house; old and weak as I am, I would walk ten miles to do her service.’

Sir Charles, alighting from his horse, ordered his servant to lead it to the nearest public house, and wait for him there; he told the old woman, he would accept of her offer, and walk along with her. Then taking two guineas out of his pocket, he gave them to her, in reward, he said, for the gratitude she expressed for her young benefactress.

The good woman received his bounty with a transport of surprise and joy, and pleasingly repaid him by talking of his beloved Sophia; of whom she related many instances of tenderness and charity towards the poor of the village, and filled him with admiration of that true benevolence, which, even in the midst of indigence, could administer to the greater wants of her fellow-creatures.

When they came within sight of Sophia's little cottage, the old woman, pointing to it, told him, Mrs. Darnley and her daughter lived there: upon which the baronet, dismissing her, walked up to it with disordered haste. A row of wooden pales led to a small grass-plat before the door.

As he approached, he saw Sophia sitting at a window at work. He stopped to gaze upon her; she appeared to him more lovely, more engaging than ever. He wished, yet dreaded her looking up, lest her first thoughts upon seeing him being unfavourable, she should resolve to refuse his visit. He went forwards with a beating heart, and cautiously opening the little gate, reached the door of this humble habitation unheard and unseen by Sophia; the door flew open at his touch, poverty has no need of bolts and bars, and every good angel is the guard of innocence and virtue.

The noise he made in entering, and the sound of her name, pronounced in a tender accent, made Sophia hastily turn her head. At sight of Sir Charles, she started from her chair, her work fell from her trembling hands, she looked at him in silent astonishment, unable, and perhaps unwilling to avoid him.

The baronet, whose heart laboured with the strongest emotions of tenderness, anxiety, hope, and fear, had not power to utter a word; and while her surprise kept her motionless, threw himself at her feet, and taking one of her hands, pressed it respectfully to his lips, tears at the same time falling from his eyes.

Sophia, whose gentle mind was sensibly affected with this action, and the paleness and langour which appeared in his countenance, found it impossible to treat him with that severity which his capricious conduct seemed to demand of her; nevertheless she drew away her hand, which he yielded with reluctant submission.

"I hoped," said she, in an accent that expressed more softness and grief than anger or disdain, ‘that I should be spared any farther insults of this sort from you; those I have already suffered has sufficiently punished me for my weak credulity.’

Sir Charles, when she began to speak, rose up; but continued gazing on her with the most passionate tenderness, while every word she uttered seemed to pierce his heart.

‘I will not, pursued Sophia, gathering firmness as she spoke, ask you, why you have intruded upon me thus unexpectedly? or why you assume a behaviour so little of a-piece with your past actions? I only beg you to believe, that I am not again to be deceived; and although I am persuaded my good opinion is of no consequence to you, yet I will tell you, that if it is possible to regain it, it will be by never more importuning me with visits, which my situation in life makes it very improper for me to admit of.’

Sophia, when she had said this, went out of the room, without casting a look back upon Sir Charles, who followed her in great disorder, conjuring her only to hear what he had to say.

As she was passing to her own chamber, she was met by her mother, who, seeing Sir Charles, was filled with surprize and joy; and perceiving that Sophia was avoiding him, said to her with an angry accent, ‘Where are you going? what is the meaning of this rudeness?’

Sophia, without answering her, retired to her own room, not without great perturbation of mind; for there was something in the baronet's looks and words that seemed to merit a hearing at least; but she dreaded the weakness of her own heart, and was fully persuaded that any condescension on her side would give him too great an advantage over her.

Mrs. Darnley, finding her endeavours to retain her were fruitless, advanced towards Sir Charles with great obsequiousness, congratulated him upon his return, and thanked him for the honour he did her in visiting her in her poor little habitation.

Sir Charles saluted her respectfully, and took a seat. ‘There is a sad alteration, Sir, said she, in my poor affairs since I saw you last. I never thought to have received you in such a hovel. You have heard, I suppose, of my misfortune.’

Sir Charles, who was in great confusion of thought, and had scarce heard a word she said, replied carelessly, ‘Yes, madam, I am sorry for it.’

The coldness of this answer cast a damp upon those hopes which she had eagerly admitted upon seeing him again; and, impatient to be relieved from her tormenting anxiety on account of this unexpected visit, she asked him abruptly, whether she might wish him joy, for she heard, she said, that he was going to be married.

Sir Charles, rouzed by this question, replied hastily, ‘Who could have told you any thing so unlikely? Married! no, madam, there never was any foundation for such a report.’

"Indeed I believe so," said Mrs. Darnley, almost breathless with joy to find him deny it so earnestly. ‘To be sure people are very envious and ill-natured, and those who told me, no doubt, designed to do you an ill office.’

‘And they have succeeded, said Sir Charles, sighing, if they have been able to persuade miss Sophia, that after having aspired to the possession of her, I could descend to love any other woman. I came to implore her pardon, madam, pursued he, for all the extravagancies of my past conduct, and for that unreasonable jealousy which was the source of them, could I have been so happy to have prevailed upon her to have heard me.’

"What!" interrupted Mrs. Darnley eagerly, ‘and was my daughter so rude as to leave you without hearing what you had to say, I protest I am ashamed of her behaviour; but I hope you will be so good to excuse it, Sir; I will insist upon her coming in again.’

‘No, madam, said Sir Charles, holding her, for she was hurrying away, miss Sophia must not be constrained: I cannot bear that.’

Mrs. Darnley unwillingly resumed her seat, and inly fretting at her daughter's obstinacy, trembled for the event of this visit.

Sir Charles, after a silence of some minutes, suddenly rose up, and took his leave. Mrs. Darnley, in great anxiety, followed him to the door, and said, she hoped to see him again. He answered only by a low bow, and walked away full of doubt and perplexity.

Sophia's steadiness in refusing to hear him, banished all those flattering ideas of her tenderness for him, which he had so eagerly admitted; for he concluded that if her heart had not been steeled by indifference, she would, notwithstanding her just reasons for resentment, have been rejoiced to give him an opportunity of justifying himself.

He had reached the house where his servant was attending with the horses, without having determined what to do. To return to town without seeing Sophia again, and being assured of a reconciliation, was misery which he could not support; and he dreaded making a new attempt to see her, lest he should receive more proofs of her insensibility and disdain.

In this perplexity the sight of Mr. Herbert alighting from a stage-coach, was a relief as great as it was unexpected; and in the sudden joy he felt at meeting with a man whose interposition could be so useful to him, he forgot that his former behaviour must necessarily have given rise to strong prejudices against him, and ran up to embrace the good old man with extreme cordiality.

Mr. Herbert was surprised, and repaid his civilities with great coldness: upon which the young baronet, in some confusion, desired to have a few moments conversation with him.

They walked together down a meadow; and Sir Charles, having with a candor and sincerity becoming the rectitude of his intentions, related all those circumstances which had concurred to excite his jealousy, and with that powerful eloquence which passion inspires, expatiated upon the motives of his conduct, a conduct which he acknowledged laid him open to the most unfavourable suspicions; Mr. Herbert, convinced of his sincerity, and full of compassion for the torments which his mistaken jealousy had caused him, undertook to make his peace with Sophia, and assured him he would very shortly wait upon him in town.

This would not satisfy the anxious lover; he declared he would not leave the place till he was assured of his pardon; and Mr. Herbert, who certainly was not displeased with his obstinacy, could with difficulty persuade him to wait only till the next day for an account of his success.

Sir Charles unwillingly took the road to London, and Mr. Herbert hastened to congratulate his beloved charge upon the agreeable prospect that was once more opening for her.

Mrs. Darnley had, during this interval, been employed in reproaching poor Sophia for her behaviour to Sir Charles. In the vexation of her heart she exclaimed in the severest terms against her pride and obstinacy; she told her, she might be assured Sir Charles would never attempt to see her again; that it was plain he was disgusted with her bad temper.

She burst into a passion of tears while she enumerated the glorious advantages of that rank and fortune, which, she said, Sophia had thrown from her; and among many motives which she urged ought to have determined her to act otherwise, that of being able to out-shine her sister was one.

Sophia answered only by sighs: she herself was not absolutely satisfied with the unrelenting severity with which she had treated Sir Charles. The more she reflected upon his behaviour, the more she condemned herself for not hearing what he had to offer in his own defence. She had once thought it probable that he had been deceived by the report that was spread through Mrs. Gibbons's folly of her encouraging the addresses of her nephew, and his extravagant conduct might be occasioned by jealousy: a fault which a woman is always disposed to pardon in a lover. While she revolved these thoughts in her mind, Mrs. Darnley perceived her uneasiness, and added to it by new reproaches.

Mr. Herbert's arrival put an end to this tormenting scene. Sophia first heard his voice, and flew to receive him; Mrs. Darnley followed, and seeing her bathed in tears, while the good old man saluted her with the tenderness of a parent, she told him, with an air half serious, half gay, that her daughter loved him so well, she had no tenderness for any one else. She then entered abrubtly upon the affair of Sir Charles, though she hardly expected Mr. Herbert would join with her in condemning Sophia.

He pleasingly surprised her by saying, that Sophia was to blame; and that he came prepared to chide her for her petulance and obstinacy.

Mr. Herbert, who saw a sweet impatience in Sophia's looks, explained himself immediately, and told her he had met Sir Charles; who had fully removed all the suspicions his strange conduct had occasioned, and convinced him, that he deserved more pity than censure.

‘No doubt, pursued he, looking on Sophia with a smile, you will be surprised to hear, young lady, that Sir Charles was witness to the interview you had in the meadow behind Mr. Lawson's house, with a certain handsome youth, whom he had heard was his rival, and a favoured rival too. What were his thoughts, do you imagine, when he saw this handsome youth throw himself at your feet, and kiss your hand?’

Mrs. Darnley now looked at her daughter in great astonishment; and Sophia, who yet did not recollect the circumstance of her meeting William, was so perplexed, she knew not what to say.

Mr. Herbert enjoyed her innocent confusion for a few moments, and then repeated all that Sir Charles had told him, of his jealousy and rage; his vain attempts to banish her from his remembrance; the resolution he had formed after his conversation with Mr. Howard concerning her; and how happily he had been undeceived at Mr. Lawson's, where he found his supposed rival was the husband of her friend.

"Well," interrupted Mrs. Darnley, with great vehemence, ‘I hope you are satisfied now, Sophia: I hope you will treat Sir Charles with more civility if he comes again.—Mr. Herbert, I beg you will exert your power over her upon this occasion —I think there is no doubt of Sir Charles's honourable intentions.’

Thus she ran on, while Sophia, who had listened to Mr. Herbert's relation with the softest emotions of pity, tenderness, and joy, continued silent with her eyes fixed upon the ground.

Mr. Herbert, willing to spare her delicacy, told Mrs. Darnley, that relying upon—Sophia's good sense and prudence, he had ventured to assure Sir Charles of a more favourable reception, when her prejudices were removed.

‘He will come to-morrow, my child, pursued he, to implore your pardon for all the errors of his past conduct, and to offer you his hand. I am persuaded you will act properly upon this occasion; and in a marriage so far beyond your hopes and expectations, acknowledge the hand of Providence, which thinks fit to reward you, even in this world, for your steady adherence to virtue.’

Sophia bowed and blushed; her mother, in a rapture, embraced and wished her joy.

Mr. Herbert now endeavoured to change the conversation to subjects more indifferent; but Mrs. Darnley, ever thoughtless and unseasonable, could talk of nothing but Sir Charles, and the grandeur which awaited her daughter. All night her fancy ran upon gilt equipages, rich jewels, magnificent houses, and a train of servants; and she was by much too happy to taste any repose: but Sophia enjoyed the change of her fortune with much more rational delight, and among all the sentiments that arose in her mind upon this occasion, that of gratitude to heaven was the most frequent and most lively.

Mr. Herbert, who had accepted a lodging in Sophia's cottage, went to Sir Charles the next day, according to his promise. He found him waiting for him full of anxious impatience; and hearing from the good old man, that Sophia was disposed to receive him favourably, he embraced him in a transport of joy; and his chariot being already ordered, they drove immediately to the village.

Mrs. Darnley welcomed the baronet with a profusion of civilities. Sophia's behaviour was full of dignity and soft reserve.

Sir Charles, after a long conversation with her, obtained her leave to demand her of her mother, to whom he shewed the writings, which were already all drawn; and by which Sophia had a jointure and pin-money, equal to the settlements that had been made upon lady Stanley.

He now ventured to intreat that a short day might be fixed for their marriage. It was with great difficulty, that Sophia was prevailed upon to consent; but her mother's impetuosity carried all before it, and Mr. Herbert himself supported the young baronet's request.

The ceremony was performed by Mr. Lawson in his own parish-church: after which he and his amiable family accompanied the new wedded pair to their country-seat, where they passed several days with them.

Mr. Herbert having previously acquainted Sir Charles with Harriot's situation, the baronet, tho' he detested her character, and declared he never could pardon her for the miseries she had caused him; yet was desirous to have her decently settled, and promised to give a thousand pounds with her in marriage, if a reputable match could be found for her: he even put notes for that sum into Mr. Herbert's hands, and earnestly recommended it to him, to take the affair under his management.

Harriot, during the time she lived with her mother, had been courted by a young tradesman in tolerable circumstances; and although she thought it great insolence for a person in business to pretend to her, yet, actuated by a true spirit of coquetry, while she despised the lover, she took pleasure in his addresses.

This young man still retained some tenderness for her, and, allured by the prospect of a fortune, was willing, notwithstanding any faults in her conduct, to make her his wife.

Mrs. Darnley proposed him to her, and Mr. Herbert enforced her advice with all the good sense he was matter of. But Harriot received the proposal with the utmost disdain; insisted that she was married as well as her sister; that her rank in life was superior to hers; and added, by way of threat, that her appearance should be so likewise.

The extraordinary efforts she made to support this boast, engaged lord L. in expences that entirely alienated his affections from her, disgusted as he long had been, with her insolence and folly.

His relations concluded a match for him with a young lady of suitable rank and fortune; and, after making a small settlement on Harriot, he took leave of her for ever.

The vexation she felt from this incident, threw her into a distemper very fatal to beauty. The yellow jaundice made such ravage in her face, that scarce any of those charms on which she had valued herself so much, remained. All her anxious hours were now employed in repairing her complexion, and in vain endeavours to restore lustre to those eyes, sunk in hollowness, and tinctured with the hue of her distemper.

Although thus altered, the report of the fortune she was likely to have made her be thought a prize worthy the ambition of a young officer, who had quitted the business of a peruke maker, in which he was bred, for an ensign's commission, which made him a gentleman at once.

He offered himself to Harriot with that assurance of success, which the gaiety of his appearance, and his title of captain, gave him reason to expect, with a lady of her turn of mind.

Harriot, charmed with so important a conquest, soon consented to give him her hand; and Sir Charles Stanley, finding his character not exceptionable, gave her the fortune he had promised, to which Sophia generously added a thousand pounds more. The baronet procured her husband a better commission; but designedly in one of the colonies, whither he insisted upon his wife's accompanying him.

Harriot, in despair at being obliged to quit the delights of London, soon began to hate her husband heartily; and he, entering into her disposition and character, lost all esteem and tenderness for her. Her behaviour justified the rigid confinement he kept her in; and while she suffered all the restraint of jealousy, she was at the same time mortified with the knowledge that pride and not love was the source of it.

Mrs. Darnley lived not long after the departure of her favourite daughter; for so Harriot always continued to be.

Sophia attended her mother during her long illness with the most duteous care, and had the satisfaction to be assured by Mr. Lawson, who assisted her in her preparations for death, that her attachment to the world, which the affluent circumstances to which she was raised but too much increased, had at length given way to more pious sentiments; and she died with the resignation of a christian.

The ill conduct of her sister, and the death of her mother, proved at first some interruption to Sophia's happiness; but these domestic storms blown over, she began to taste the good fortune which heaven had bestowed on her: her chief enjoyment of it was to share it with others; and Sir Charles, who adored her, put it amply in her power to indulge the benevolence of her disposition.

He took upon himself the care of rewarding her friends; he presented Mr. Lawson to a very considerable living: he procured Dolly's husband a genteel and lucrative employment; and married her younger sister to a relation of his own.

Mr. Herbert, who was above receiving any other gratification from Sir Charles than the entire friendship which he ever preserved for him, had the satisfaction to spend most of his time with his beloved daughter, as he used tenderly to call Sophia, and to behold her as happy as the condition of mortality admits of.

Sir Charles's tenderness for her seemed to increase every day; and when Mr. Herbert once took occasion to compliment him upon the delicacy, the ardor, and the constancy of his affection, he replied with a smile, ‘You attribute to me a virtue, which, in this case, I cannot be said to possess; had my passion for my Sophia been founded only on the charms of her person, I might probably e'er now have become a mere fashionable husband; but her virtue and wit supply her with graces ever varied, and ever new. Thus the steadiness of my affection for her is but a constant inconstancy, which attaches me successively to one or other of those shining qualities, of which her charming mind is an inexhaustible source.’

THE LIFE OF Sir ANTHONY VANDYCK CONCLUDED.

HE drew the marquis Giulio Brignole, a famous poet, on horse-back: he drew also the picture of the marchioness his wife, in which he seemed to oblige nature itself; for by eternising that beauty, he gave an instance to all posterity of what she had been able to perform.

He drew the picture of the doge Palavicino, in his habit of ambassador to the pope, and George Paulo Balbi, on horse-back, which was a most exquisite picture; but because of his conspiracy his face was blotted out, being a traitor to his country; and that of Francisco Maria, of the same family, made in the place. There is also in this person's house, of the hand of Vandyck, the picture of an old man in white armour: his right hand holds a general's staff, and his left the pommel of his sword; and is in picture as great a soldier as the marquis Spinola was in effect, and is generally supposed to be intended for him.

The queen of Sweden has in Rome, also of the hand of Vandyck, the picture of a boy of the family of the Imperiali, which appears so much alive that no body would judge it but to be really so.

Besides these pictures of particular persons, he made some histories: amongst which there is a crucifix, with St. Francis, and our Saviour, together with the patron of the picture at prayers. Vandyck had now a great mind to go into Sicily. Prince Filibert of Savoy being viceroy he drew his picture: but the plague happening about this time, and the death of the prince, to whom cardinal Doria succeeded, Vandyck likewise having received some disaster in Palermo, retired in great haste to his home of Genoa, carrying with him the cloth for a picture for the oratory of the society of the rosary; in which he represented the Virgin encompassed with the glory of angels, that present her each with a crown. At the bottom is St. Dominic, with the five virgin saints of Palermo, amongst which are St. Katherine and St. Rosary, and a child that holds his hand to his nose, because of the stench that comes from a dead head that lies upon the ground; by which he designs to express the plague from which the city was delivered by the intercession of those saints.

This picture being finished, and sent to Palermo, he betook himself again to the drawing of faces; by which having got a good sum of money, he returned to his own town of Antwerp, extolled by all, and welcomed by his friends, after the absence of some years. He employed himself here mostly in drawing faces; yet he likewise painted some history pieces, which are dispersed through all Flanders and many other places; of which we shall collect some few, there being already some that are made public by the engraver. Amongst the first of them that was seen at Antwerp, was the marriage of St. Joseph in St. Michael's church, where the saint kneels before the Virgin, whilst she gives him her right hand, which is proposed to him by an angel. For the nuns of Begginage he drew a pietà, that is, our Saviour dead in the lap of his mother, and Magdalen kneeling kissing the wound of his hand, with a St. John. For the Magdalen he drew his sister's face, who was then a nun, to whom he made a present of the picture. He drew also another pietà for St. Francis's church, which is as much esteemed as any thing he did. He drew our Saviour extended on a winding-sheet, with his head on his mother's bosom, who, opening her arms, lifts up her eyes to heaven: behind stands St. John, that takes one of the arms of our Saviour, and shews the wound to two angels who are lamenting at his feet.

These three last figures are in half-shadow, which gives great force to the naked figure of our Saviour, upon whom he makes the principal light fall. To the same sister, Susanna Vandyck, he dedicated the engraven design of another picture in St. Austin's, which is very remarkable for liveliness of colour, and variety of invention. The saint being in an extacy, is sustained by two angels. On one hand of him stands St. Monaca, and on the other a saint of his order, and to St. Austin in this rapture the divinity is revealed from above, one of the angels pointing up to our Saviour, whose arms are spread ready to embrace him; and at his feet several little angels with divers symbols, as, one of them holds a sceptre with the eye of Providence upon it: another a branch of olive, the symbol of peace; a third lifts up a snake with his tail in his mouth, the emblem of eternity; a fourth opposes himself to a flaming sword; a fifth looks the son of justice in the face; together with several other mysteries symbolically expressed; and above all a triangle to express the trinity, with the name written in Hebrew characters.

For the sisters of St. Dominic he painted a crucifix, the saint on one side, and St. Catherine of Siena on the other; and another crucifix in Ghent, with a Magdalen that embraces the cross and St. John. Behind is a man armed on horseback, that gives orders to one of the crucifiers to reach the spunge to our Saviour, adored and lamented by the angels. In Malines in St. Francis's church are three other pieces of his hand: our Saviour upon the cross over the high altar, and over two other altars St. Bonaventure saying mass, and the miracle of St. Anthony of Padua, when the horse kneeled before the host.

As for drawing of faces, in which Vandyck seemed more especially to excel, whilst he continued in Brussels he drew almost all the nobility in Flanders, having justly acquired greater reputation than any painter since the death of Titian. Indeed he gave his pictures a certain air and grace in the posture: such perhaps as was admired in Apelles when he had drawn Alexander and Antigonus.

He drew the infanta at length, and Mary of Medici, the queen-mother, sitting, and the duke of Orleans, her son, at the time they fled into Flanders. Of his hand are also the pictures of the cardinal infant; of prince Thomas of Savoy in armour on horseback, and many other great personages.

In the town-house of the same city he drew after the life the magistrates of that place sitting in judgment: and this is looked upon as one of his best pieces, being composed with great judgment, and accurately finished. He drew for the prince of Orange a story out of Pastor Fido; who bought, also of his hand, the Virgin, with the child Jesus, before whom little angels are dancing [*]. Many other of his pictures, both stories and faces, may be seen at Antwerp in Van Ham's house, as also in that of Diego Vueerdt's; who, amongst the rest, has also those of king Charles the first, and his queen, drawn at the time Vandyck presented himself to the court of England.

In this abundance of employment and fame, having, as it were, filled all Flanders with his renown, he resolved to make use of the king of England's favour, who then called him for his service to London. In this prince's court Rubens had already been honourably entertained, the king being always a great lover of all sorts of ingenious arts; and so great a friend and rewarder of foreign ingenuity, that in all occurrences he not only countenanced, but preferred them. 'Twas so that upon Rubens' departure, Vandyck succeeded to his favour, which quickly augmented his wealth; and therefore, as it were, necessarily confirmed him in his wonted ostentation of behaviour and splendor of equipage.

He had, however, opportunity enough of reimbursing his great expences by frequent visits that were made him by the nobility, who, in that, followed the example of the king, who went often thither to see him paint, and took delight in his conversation. Vandyck seemed to vie with the magnificence of Parrasin, by keeping of servants, coaches, horses, musicians, and buffoons, with which he entertained such persons as came daily to him to be drawn, who were also invited to his table, where he spent no less than eight or ten pounds a day.

Besides such as are already mentioned, he kept men and women for models to paint by; for his manner was, as soon as the face was done, to finish the rest by the help of these models, placed in this or that posture.

The king was pleased many times to be drawn by him; so that Cavaliere Bernini at Rome being ordered to make a marble bust of his majesty, he was drawn on one cloth in three different views; the one with a whole face, the other two in profile and half profile [*].

He drew the king and queen in half length, holding a sprig of myrtle between them, and another of them with the young princes. He drew also the king on horseback, attended by a person that bears his helmet after him [†].

He drew general Goring in a posture of haranguing; and the lord Newport, master of the ordnance, giving orders to his officers. He drew the lord Arundel and his lady (who being a great lover of painting, was the means of Vandyck's being introduced to the king's favour, and had been a great instrument of his coming into England), which piece he finished to such perfection, as if he was resolved to shew his art and gratitude together. Of his hand also is that of the dutchess of Buckingham, with her daughters; who in token of the memory of her husband, holds his picture, in little, in her hand.

He drew the dutchess of Southampton like the goddess of Fortune, sitting upon the globe [‡]; and Sir Kenelme Digby, with his wife, sitting in two chairs, with their children by them; who being a great virtuoso himself, Vandyck, as it were by a certain mutual consent of genius, did more especially confide in him. He drew him in several manners; sometimes in his armour, and sometimes in the habit of a philosopher. In one of the latter there is represented a broken sphere, the motto out of Horace, Si fractus illabatur orbis intrepidum ferient ruinae; which picture is one of the hundred that makes up the book of famous men, published by Vandyck, and printed at Antwerp, the best of which are done by himself with aqua fortis: amongst which you find also his own picture. The same Sir Kenelme had a fancy to have his lady drawn in the form of Prudence, sitting in a white robe, with a coloured veil, and belt of jewels. One hand she reaches to two white doves, and the other holds a serpent: she sets her feet upon a cube, to which are chained as slaves Deceit with her two faces, anger, envy, with snakes about her head, and profane Love, blinded, his wings clipt, his bow broken, his arrows thrown away, and his torch extinguished, with other naked figures according to the life. Above all this, is a glory of angels singing and playing upon instruments, three of them holding between them a palm and garland over the head of Prudence, in token of victory and triumph over those vices. The motto is taken out of Juvenal, Nullum numen abest si sit Prudentia.

Vandyck was so pleased with this invention, that he copied it in little; but not finished. Both the one and the other, during the troubles in England, land, were carried into France [*]. For Sir Kenelme Digby he drew also our Saviour taken from the cross, with Joseph and Nicodemus, who were anointing him before they laid him in the sepulchre. There is by them Magdalen and the Virgin falling in a swoon. And with this several other pieces of devotion; as St. John Baptist in the wilderness; Magdalen transported, and in an extacy at the harmony of the Angels; Judith, with Holofernes's head, in half figure; our Saviour upon the cross giving up the ghost, which Sir Kenelme made a present of to the princess of Guimenè, when he was at Paris.

He drew for him also the picture of a brown woman in the habit of Pallas armed, and a plume in her helmet; a most admirable head. For the earl of Northumberland he drew our Saviour upon the cross, with five angels, that in golden chalices catch the blood as it falls from the wounds; and under the cross are placed the Virgin, St. John, and Mary Magdalen.

He drew also for the king, besides heads and many other pictures, the dance of the Muses, with Apollo in the middle of Parnassus; another Apollo flaying Marsias; a Bacchanal; and a dance of Amorets, that are sporting whilst Venus sleeps with Adonis. And there being then in that court, amongst many other virtuosi, Nicholas Lanier, a painter as well as musician, he drew him in the form of David playing upon the harp before Saul.

He drew also the dutchess of Richmond, daughter of the duke of Buckingham; which, by reason of her incomparable beauty, is occasion of a doubt whether art or nature is capable of greater perfection; being drawn in the form of a Venus, which is waited upon by her son duke Hamilton, naked, in the character of a Cupid, with his bow and arrow. He drew also the countess of Portland, and the countess of Aubengey, in the habit of Nymphs. He drew also a lady in the character of a Venus, standing by a black.

For the queen he drew the Virgin, with the child Jesus and St. Joseph, that are looking upon certain angels dancing upon the earth, whilst others play to them upon several instruments in the air; and this accompanied with a very pleasant landscape. He drew also, in imitation of Tintorett, the crucifixion, with the crucifiers that are lifting up the cross; which is a work of great variety of figures.

The picture also of the Blessed Virgin is very excellent. She is represented holding up the infant Jesus, between two angels that play upon instruments. At his foot is the globe of the world. Nor must we pass by the twelve apostles done by his hand, and Christ with the cross, all in half figure, and to be found amongst that great collection of Charles Bosch, bishop of Ghent, which are made public by the press.

He likewise painted a picture of Sampson breaking his bonds; which was given by Van Woonsel to the archduke Leopold, governor of the Low Countries: a person that seems to have passed all his time in the study of antiquity, medals, and painting, as we may see by what is already printed of his study [†]. Besides the ordinary rewards of the king's munificence to Vandyck, his majesty conferred on him the honour of knighthood: but being now, because of his indispositions, which he had laboured under some years, desirous to withdraw himself from the drudgery of portrait painting to some great work, by which his name might be transmitted with honour to posterity, he took a journey to Paris, with an intent to procure to himself the painting of the gallery of the Louvre: but after having stayed there two months without any success, he returned to England, and proposed to the king, by means of Sir Kenelme Digby, to make designs for a suit of hangings for the Banqueting-house at Whitehall; the subjects of which were to be the ceremony of the crowning of the kings of England; the institution of the order of the garter by Edward the third; the procession of the knights in their robes, and other functions civil and military. The king was extremely well pleased with this design; but thought his demand of eighty thousand pounds [§] too extravagant: though it was believed the price would have been adjusted, if Vandyck's death, which happened at this time, had not put a stop to all farther proceeding.

Vandyck, notwithstanding the vast sums of money he received, left very little at his death, having consumed it all in that splendid manner of living, which was rather like a prince than a painter. As to his person, he was of small stature, but well proportioned, and active; his features were regular, and his countenance agreeable. His hair was inclinable to red, which is common to those of his country.

It is very extraordinary that his best pictures are those he painted when very young, when he not much exceeded twenty years. He then used, according to the practice of the Venetians, a great body of colour, which he afterwards changed for a smoother, insipid, but more expeditious manner; using very little colour, which, after some time, flying off, left the light parts of the face too white, and the half shadows too grey. This is the general fault of his portraits of women; and the portraits of the men are very often dry and flat, and, in the painter's phrase, starved of colour. To balance those faults, which are sometimes found in his work, he possessed other excellencies to the highest degree of perfection: the exact drawing, and distinct manner of pronouncing the features, the easy and agreeable attitudes, at the same time marking the peculiar character of the person he drew, has deservedly given him the character of the greatest painter the world has ever yet produced.

Notes

*
This picture is at present in the possession of Lord O
•
∣ford at Horton.

↵

*
This picture is still in the possession of the family of Bernini at Rome.
↵

†
In the gallery at Kensington.
↵

‡
In the possession of lord Royston.
↵

*
The large one is now in the palace at Windsor.
↵

†
Published by Teniers, and commonly called Teniers's Gallery.
↵

§
In all the accounts that are written of Vandyck, this extraordinary sum is said to be demanded, which, considering the different value of money, would be equal to what two hundred and thirty thousand pounds is at this time, it may be concluded that there is some mistake: a cypher, perhaps, added too much.
↵

TREATSE ON THE EDUCATION of DAUGHTERS CONCLUDED.

The Vanity of Beauty and of Dress.

THERE is nothing we ought so much to guard against as vanity in young ladies. They come into the world with a vehement desire to please: finding themselves excluded from those paths by which men arrive at authority and glory, they endeavour to balance that loss by all the captivating qualities of wit and person. This gives rise to their soft and insinuating turn of conversation; thence it is that they so earnestly aspire after beauty and every external grace, and are so warmly interested in dress. The fashion of a cap, the disposition of a ribbon, the form of a curl in this place or that, the choice of a colour, are to them matters of importance. This excess is carried to a greater height among us than any other people; the changebleness of our fancy occasions a perpetual revolution of mode; so that to the love of dress, that of novelty is superadded: an article that has strange effects upon such minds.

These two follies in confederacy overturn distinction of rank, and introduce licentiousness of manners. Void as we are of any regulations in dress or in furniture, there is nothing effectual left with regard to difference of conditions; for as to the tables of particulars, that is what public authority cannot easily give rules to: every one proceeds as he can afford; or rather, neglecting that consideration, as his ambition or his vanity prompts him.

It is this pride which often ruins whole families, and their ruin draws after it the corruption of manners. On one side persons of mean birth are stimulated to raise a hasty fortune: a thing not to be compassed without sin, as the Holy Ghost hath assured us.—On the other, persons of quality, bereft of all resources, stoop to the basest and most wretched methods of supporting their expence. The consequence of which is, that, by insensible degrees, honour and honesty and natural affection become extinguished even among the nearest relations. Whence is all this evil but from the power which certain vain women have acquired of regulating fashions? Whoever thinks of continuing in the gravity and simplicity of our ancient manners, are by these pointed out to be laughed at as so many antiques.

Apply yourself then to convince young women how much that reputation, which results from a just behaviour and true good sense, is more valuable than what can be attained from the pattern of a cap, or fancy of a furbelow.

Beauty, you may say, deceives the owner still more than it doth its admirers: it disturbs, it intoxicates the soul. The most passionate lover is not more an idolater of his mistress than she is of herself. A small number of years takes away the distinction between a handsome woman and another, and reduces them both to an equality. Beauty is sure to be pernicious unless it is instrumental to an advantageous match.—But how can it be so, unless supported by merit, and by virtue? When, for want of discretion and modesty, she is no object for men of correct understandings and sensible of solid qualities, whom can she hope to attract but some young fool, who will make her unhappy?

Those who found all their glory upon their beauty, in a short time become ridiculous; for, unperceived by themselves, they arrive to that time of life when its lustre decays: yet still are they charming in their own eyes, though the world is so far from being charmed with them, that they inspire nothing but disgust.

This absolute attachment to beauty alone, is just as unreasonable as to place all merit in bodily strength, as do the barbarians and uncivilized nations.

True gracefulness hath not the least dependance on a vain and affected mode of dress: yet it is not amiss to have some regard to propriety, proportion, and suitableness in our apparel, with which we necessarily cover ourselves.— But then these materials, which we must put on, and which we may render as commodious as we please, can never, under the name of ornaments, invest us with real beauty.

I would take the pains to shew young ladies the noble simplicity that appears in the statues and other figures remaining with us, of the Greek and Roman women. There they will see, that the hair tied negligently in a knot behind, the drapery full and floating in long pleats, are at the same time agreeable and majestic.

It would be well if they were to hear the discourse of some painters, or any other person that has entered into the exquisite taste of the ancients. Let their minds be elevated ever so little above the prejudion of fashion, and they will quickly hold in contempt those methods of torturing the hair into unnatural curls, in which there is neither grace nor elegance.

I am sensible we are not to propose they should copy the garb of antiquity: that would be an extravagant thing; but they may, without singularity, adopt the taste of simplicity in dress, so noble, so graceful, and so suitable to the decent manners of Christians; so that while they outwardly conform to the present custom, they might at least learn how to think of it: they would fall in with the fashion as a disagreeable obligation, and allow no more to it than they cannot well avoid. Teach them early and frequently to observe the vanity, the gidiness, whence the inconstancy of fashion arises. That it is a matter very ill understood, appears plainly when we see persons encumber their heads with a load of ornaments: true elegance follows nature, and never constrains her.

But fashion destroys itself; pretends to aim at perfection, and never hits it: at least it will not stop there. Some reason there would be in changing, in order to change no more, after having once found what is perfectly commodious and genteel; but to go on changing without end, surely this is to pursue inconstancy and irregularity, not genuine politeness, nor good taste.

And so in general mere caprice predominates— 'tis the women's prerogative to decide in this matter. Thus the lightest, the shallowest understanding, influences all others: they neither take up, nor quit any thing upon reason. It has been the mode for a considerable time, though never so well invented, that's enough to discard it; and another, though never so ridiculous, shall take its place, and be admired by its title to novelty.

After having laid this ground-work, we may go farther, and shew the regulations of Christian modesty:—and may say, we are taught by our religion, that man is conceived in sin; his body afflicted by a contagious illness, proves an inexhaustible source of temptation to his soul. Jesus Christ teaches us to place all our virtue in fear, and in distrust of ourselves—would you be willing, one may ask, to hazard your own soul, or your neighbour's, for the sake of a foolish vanity? Be terrified then at the thought of displaying the uncovered bosom, and every other immodesty.—Though these faults were committed without design, still they are the result of vanity, and an unbridled desire of pleasing. Can this be a justification before God or man for so rash a conduct; so scandalous, so contagious to others? This blind desire of pleasing doth it suit with the mind of a Christian, who ought to regard as a species of idolatry every thing that turns us away from the love of the Creator, and, in comparison with him, the contempt of the creatures?

In seeking to please what mean we? Is it not to excite the passions of mankind? and have they so much power over them as shall restrain them from going to excess? Ought we not to impute to ourselves all the consequences? and do they not always run too high if once put in motion?

It is you that prepare a subtle and mortal poison, pour it out upon the spectators, and believe yourself innocent.

Add to this argument, examples of persons whose modesty has been their commendation; and others whose immodesty has drawn upon them the severest censures.

Never suffer them to wear what is beyond their rank. Check all their fancies—shew them the danger, the contempt they are exposed to from all persons of discretion, when they in this manner forget who they are.

Another article remains, with regard to girls of a fine genius, which is, to bring them into a right way of thinking; for if we do not take care, they, in their vivacity, are apt to intermeddle, to talk on most things, to give their opinion on subjects disproportioned to their capacity: at other times to affect a listlesness out of pure delicacy.

A young lady should not talk but as occasion requires, and then with an air of doubt and deference: nay, as to subjects out of the reach of women in general, she should not speak upon them at all, though well informed. For what if her memory be never so good? what if she has vivacity, a pleasant turn of speech, a faculty of conversing with ease and gracefulness? all these qualities will be in common to her, and many others of her sex, far from being sensible women, and in themselves despicable. Instead of this, let her endeavour after an exact and steady conduct, an uniform and correct state of mind: let her learn how to keep council, and carry on an affair of moment: this quality, so rare to be found, will sufficiently distinguish her.

As to delicacy, and the affectation of listlesness, these are to be repressed by demonstrating how true good taste consists in accommodating oneself to things according to their utility.

Good sense and virtue alone are worthy of estimation; and both these require of us to look upon dislike and listlesnesness not as a commendable delicacy, but as the infirmity of a sickly mind.

Seeing we must converse with gross understandings, and have a share in unentertaining businesses, it is the part of reason, which is the only true delicacy, to be as unrefined as those we are to mingle with.

A spirit which hath all the taste for politeness, but which knows to rise above it upon a necessity to enter into more solid matters, is infinitely superior to those so delicate ones, and surcharged with their own disgust.

In the next place let us proceed to the consideration of those many articles with which a married woman ought to be acquainted: what are her duties? Upon her lies the education of her children; of the boys to a certain age, of the girls till they be married; the government of her domestics, their morals, their service; the disbursements of house-keeping, the method of living with oeconomy, and at the same time in figure; often even the letting of farms, and receiving rents. Women's knowledge, and that of men's also, ought to be limited by their functions, and the difference of them ought to make the difference of their studies: by this rule then the subjects above-mentioned will be the bounds of female information; but at this rate, a woman of curiosity will be apt to think it put under great restraints. She deceives herself, and all for want of perceiving the importance and extent of the things I propose for her to learn.

What degree of penetration is requisite for her to discern the temper, the genius of every particular child; to fall upon a method of conduct towards each that shall best discover their humour, their biass, and their talents; to check the passions on their first disclosure; to instil wholesome maxims, and remedy every error. How much prudence ought she to be mistress of, for gaining and maintaining an ascendency over them, without risquing the loss of friendship and confidence? Nay, is it not absolutely necessary for her to observe and thoroughly know the persons she places about her children? Most certainly. A mother of a family ought to be fully instructed in religion, endowed with an understanding sound, steady, assiduous, and exercised in government.

Can any one doubt of these duties being incumbent on women, seeing they naturally fall to their share even in the life-time of their husbands, when otherwise employed or absent from home? and to a state of widowhood they are more immediately annexed.

Here I omit to enter into all the particulars a woman should be instructed in for the purpose of education; because this hint may serve to give them a notion in general of the extensive knowledge they ought to have. Add to this, family oeconomy. The generality of ladies look upon that as a mean employment, only fit for country people and farmers, or, at most, for a house-steward or woman housekeeper; and these more especially who are bred up in softness, plenty, and idleness, hold every branch of it in the utmost contempt.

These conceive very little difference between a life in the country and the life of the savages of Canada. Talk to them of corn, of cultivation, of the nature of estates, or rents, or rights of lordships, of the best way of letting land, or appointing receivers, they will believe you are for having them degrade themselves:—and yet this proceeds from pure ignorance. The ancient Greeks and the Romans, those adroit and polished people, applied themselves diligently to this science of oeconomy. The noblest among them wrote books (which are still preserved to us) upon their own experience, and descended even to the lowest articles of husbandry.

It is a known fact that their victorious generals disdained not to work with their own hands, and from the triumphal car returned to the plough.

This is so distant from our manner, that it would not be credited did history leave the least room to doubt. Whereas what more natural reason is there for our defending or enlarging our territories than in order to cultivate them in peace? Of what service is victory but to gather the fruits of peace?

After all, true solidity of understanding consists in a willingness to be exactly informed how all those things are managed, which are the substantials of human life; for upon these the very greatest affairs are grounded.

The power and the felicity of a state consists not in a multitude of provinces ill cultivated; but in the knowing to raise from its possessions a sufficency to maintain, without difficulty, a numerous people.

To attain a knowledge of every art applicable to oeconomy, to regulate the sum of all the affairs of a family, which may be stiled a small republic,, requires, undoubtedly, much higher genius, and more extensive, than to understand play, or to descant on the fashions, or to exert all the minute gentilities of conversation. It is but a despicable spirit that can do no more than discourse well. Women there are in numbers whose talk abounds with solid maxims; but in whose conduct, for want of early application, nothing but the frivolous is to be found.

Nevertheless, we must be on our guard against the opposite fault; women run a risque of going into extremes. It is good to use them from their childhood to have something under their care, to keep accounts, to know the method of buying, and how every thing ought to be made, to be useful; yet I say, take care lest oeconomy should degenerate into avarice; be particular in shewing the ridiculousness of that passion; tell them to be cautious, for avarice produces but little profit, and much dishonour. A rational mind need carry a frugal and diligent scheme of life no farther than to avoid that shame and injustice which are ever annexed to a prodigal, ruinous conduct. The true end of retrenching superfluous expence, is to be in a better capacity to answer all the calls of decency, friendship, and charity.

There are occasions when the parting with money is being a greater gainer. Good order is the profitable thing, and not a few petty articles of sordid penuriousness—wherefore fail not to paint in strong colours that gross mistake of some ladies, who can please themselves with saving a taper, and let a steward wrong them in the bulk of their affairs.

Be no less a friend to neatness and order, than to oeconomy and housewifery: use young ladies not to permit any sluttishness, or misplacing of things about the house, or furniture; and bring them to observe that nothing contributes more to oeconomy and neatness than every thing being in its proper station: as minute as this maxim seems, it will have considerable effects if strictly kept to. Is any thing wanted? no time's wasted in looking for it; no trouble, dispute, or disturbance ensues: you take it from its place, make use of it, and replace it again.

Order is a principal branch of neatness; because a proper arrangement affects the eye forcibly; and besides, the place assigned to each being that which is most suitble to it, not only for pleasing the eye, but for the preservation of the thing, it is therefore less liable to decay, less liable to accidental damage, and even shews a propriety in its being there.

The same spirit of accuracy, which prompts to orderliness, prompts also to cleanliness. To which advantage add, that such a habit prevents idleness and confusion in our domestics: and more than this, as it makes them ready in the discharge of their duties, so doth it keep us clear of the temptation to impatience at the delays which must happen, when the things we call for can hardly be found. But at the same time avoid running into an excess of elegance and nicety. Nicety in moderation is a virtue; but when we carry our taste to too great a height, it becomes narrowness of mind; for good taste rejects extream delicacy: it treats little matters as they are, and will not be affected by them. Therefore shew, in the children's presence, your derision of those fopperies some women are so fond of, and by which they are insensibly drawn into useless expences.

Accustom them to a plain and practicable niceness. You may inform them how every thing ought to be done; but still further, that they ought to be easy without it—for what a squeamish mind does it betray to grumble if a soop fails of being exactly seasoned, another thing ill pleated, a chair a little too high or too low? Undoubtedly it is an evidence of a much better understanding to be designedly indifferent, rather than delicate in matters so insignificant.

And this faulty delicacy, if not repressed in women of lively parts, has worse effects with regard to their conversation than other subjects; for to them the generality of company will seem so flat, and so tiresome, and the least slip in politeness so monstrous, they are always full of scorn and disgust. Let these ladies know betimes, that nothing is so injudicious as to judge superficially of a person by his carriage, without sounding the depth of his understanding, his sentiments, or useful qualifications. Demonstrate, by frequent instances, how much a country gentleman, with his coarse manners, or, if you please, ridiculous teazing civility; but with a good heart, and steady head, is more worthy of esteem than the most accomplished courtier, who, under that behaviour, conceals a heart ungrateful, unjust, and capable of every sort of dissimulation and baseness: and that there is always a weakness adherent to those minds so given to be fatigued and disgusted—No kind of conversation is so poor that some good may not be extracted from it; and though we are in the right to chuse the best, when we have choice, yet one consolation is left us when distrest, that we may put people upon discoursing of what they know; and then good sense will draw information from the dullest company.

A POETICAL EPISTLE From BUSY, the Lap-dog, in London, to SNOWBALL, the Buck-hound, in Windsor Forest.

June 27, 1760.

IF we, like men, could envy and malign,

At Nature's, or at Fortune's gifts repine;

When great be insolent, when little mean,

When rich and fat disdain the poor and lean.

Then might I, puisny Busy, thy vast size

Contemplate, mighty hound, with grieving eyes:

Thy strength, thy nose sagacious, snow-white coat,

And most the tuneful thunder of thy throat;

Then might I, Busy, deck'd with em'ralds, scorn

The starv'ling puppy gnawing a stag's horn

Beneath the hovel, red with ash of peat,

And think the wretch as odious as his meat:

But nor contempt nor envy shook my breast,

Thee I admir'd, and Empress I carest,

Tho' in her nonage the poor simple whelp

Kept no decorums, and scarce knew to yelp;

Empress may prove the terror of the wood,

For Empress, mighty Snowball's of thy blood.

Say, did I not accept at romps a game

With the black young cur? I forget his name.

His life in dirt and poverty begun,

Yet he may rise the fav'rite of the gun.

And I've heard it said where I have din'd,

That true distinction amongst human kind

Lies in the qualities, and in the mind.

O Snowball! with what pleasure I confess

Thy condescension to my littleness;

When on the floor I dar'd approach thee near,

And gaz'd on the fine lappet of thine ear,

(At thy fair temples then my sattin hue

Seemed a black modish patch to distant view)

To lick thy chaps, to pinch thy spacious paws,

Unfear'd the range of jav'lins in thy jaws;

Or on my hindlegs bolt upright, have tried

To reach the curious flavour of thy hide,

Thou did'st not growl, thou did'st not swing a tail

Might snap my ribs as ears of corn the flail;

Conscious what dignity from goodness springs,

And much too great to spurn at tiny things.

All homage may your grandeur long receive

From lap-dogs due, and long unrival'd live,

Be stroak'd, be fed by that accomplish'd hand,

Whose pen, my master says, adorns the land.

O happy Snowball! happy Cranbourn wood!

Too happy rustics, did ye know your good!

Lo! the tenth Muse illuminates your cot;

Ah, wretched rustics,—ye perceive her not!

Eat, Snowball, legs of mutton, while small I

Crack biscuit, gingerbread, and crust of pye;

Or lap the remnants of the milky bowl,

Which none on earth shall ever prove I stole.

Joy thou in Windsor's verdant park and air,

Pursue the chase, and in the daughter share;

Live in the favour of that learned fair.

If my dear mistress smiles and pats my head,

If she vouchsafes a corner of her bed,

Busy's content, and to her latest gasp

Will taste the happiness within her grasp.

T. W.

To ISMENE playing on a Lute.

WHEN fair Ismene to the grove retires,

And joins her warbling accents to the lyre's;

How sweet th' enchanting sounds! the melting strains,

With pleasing raptures fill our swelling veins.

The eager ear with ravishment attends,

The song our soul in extacy suspends:

Soft we approach, and awful silence keep,

(A silence more profound than that of sleep.)

We fear to move, nay e'en to breathe we fear,

Lest one soft accent should escape our ear:

All things are hush'd; the silent trees recline

Their rev'rend heads, to hear the lays divine.

The streams, that ceas'd to purl, now creep along

Unheard, charm'd with the music of her song:

The list'ning birds stoop on the bending wing,

And hov'ring stay to learn of her to sing.

Say, ye blest angels, whose harmonious lays

Unwearied sing eternal hymns of praise,

Can heav'n itself Ismene's notes improve,

When she's translated to the choirs above?

PHILOSOPHY FOR THE LADIES CONCLUDED.

Some reflections and deductions drawn from the works of Nature in general.

AS we are now on the point of concluding the present design of this work, it is necessary that we should form some kind of conclusion to that part of it which has had a relation to the works of Nature, and the study of philosophy. A conclusion, I say, with respect to our confined and narrow limits herein; for such is the immense scope and extent which those subjects would have afforded us, that could the prosecution of our plan have been pursued beyond the period of life alotted to ourselves or our children, nay, even to the farthest stretch of time, our researches into the wonders of Nature's inexhaustible storehouse, would have been no other than the pursuance of an apparent horizon, the boundaries of which are ever flying before us, and although they every moment present us with a fresh variety of enchanting objects, yet are, with respect to ourselves, as absolutely distant at the last as at the first moment of our journey. But to proceed.

From even the very small portion concerning which we have been enabled to enter into a detail, of the numberless amazing properties bestowed on mankind and on the other parts of the animal creation, what is the first, the most natural deduction that must occur to every one? What, when we perceive that every one of the organs of this grand machine, not only the larger and more apparently useful, but even the more minute, insignificant, and almost invisible ones, are furnished in the amplest manner, not barely with such parts, such limbs, such mechanism, as are needful for their mere existence, but still more particularly with such peculiar contrivances, such sagacity, such intellectual faculties, as must render that existence, with respect to the place, station, and allotment of each individual, absolutely and perfectly happy:—such properties as enable every one of those beings to preserve that existence, though surrounded by numberless dangers, and to procure the means of supporting it in the midst of apparent scarcity and want. What, when we perceive these assistances bestowed on them with an endless variety, with such a peculiar propriety to every single animal, as if each was of itself the sole and peculiar care of Providence:—What, I say, must be the immediate result of these observations, but that the whole must be the work of infinite power, of infinite wisdom, of infinite goodness? Who can cast his eyes around him even with the slightest reflection on what he sees on every side, but must immediately cry out with the royal philosopher, ‘How manifold are thy works, O Lord! in wisdom hast thou made them all!’ Can any one perceive the work of amazing art, and maintain one moment's doubt of the existence of the artist?—Must he not indeed be a fool who can say in his heart there is no God?

If then this reflection is the first that must arise from this delightful study, and most undoubtedly it is so, can we possibly give scope thereto without proceeding still farther, and finding that due influence produced by it on our minds which must lead us to the warmest gratitude, and the most ardent zeal to do every thing that may lead towards the rendering our services acceptable in his sight? Can we look with unconcern on all these wondrous operations? Can we perceive these incomprehensible proofs of infinite perfection, in what are but the mechanical exertion, perhaps no more than the sport, if we may be allowed the expression, of his wisdom and power, without conceiving an idea infinitely more exalted of the almighty mind? Can we be blind to the proofs that these present us with, of his being equally the origin of all purity, and the possessor of all ability? Can we avoid being convinced that

He must delight in virtue,

And that which he delights in must be happy?

How strong an incitement this to the practice of that virtue which, at the same time, delights that Being whose minutest pleasure ought to be our supremest joy, and ensures our own happiness in the very act itself! How eminent then the advantage to ourselves, and the good to society in general, which might be derived from a proper application of this study! and from how evident a parity of reasoning will every thinking man be convinced, whilst he sees every part of the creation in general formed with such a connection, such a necessary dependance on every other part, as well as on the great whole, how strongly, I say, will he be convinced of the duty incumbent on himself to promote as much as possible this grand design, and render his every action conducive to it, in the peculiar circle which heaven has assigned to him to fill? In how smooth, how tranquil a path might all the transactions of this world proceed, would every man but carry the reflection from natural to moral connections; and, persuaded, that his own happiness must proportionably depend on that of every individual around him, labour to accelerate the movement of these admirably contrived wheels, instead of clogging them with the intricate machinery of self-interest, or dragging them back with the weight of vice and folly.

But now let us consider Nature's works in a second point of view, let us consider man, and every other animated part of the creation as a separate and detached being, and placed in his peculiar sphere without connection or relationship with any other: even in this light how admirable, how incomprehensible is the extent of omnipotent care in this formation of each! How amazingly is each animal provided by the all-wise Fountain of good with every means for his preservation! how admirably are dangers and necessities spread around him, as if they were designed to shew the unlimited wisdom of the Creator in the variety of means pointed out to him for avoiding the one, and relieving the other; at the same time that both are rendered the instruments of his happiness, from that consciousness of relief which heightens the enjoyment of every blessing by a sensibility of the misery attached to its opposite situation.

In this view how much has man in particular to felicitate himself upon! how many grateful reflections ought his mind to overflow with when he considers his situation as more exposed, more helpless in its original and apparent state than that of any other animal; yet in the course of life, in the period of his existence more thoroughly protected, more perfectly supplied with conveniencies than that of his fellow-creatures would be, even if the various resources of them all could be united for the service of each individual. With what an eye of admiration ought he to look up to the Being, who, by a peculiar distinction, has so highly and almost partially favoured him, as to bestow on him alone that single spark from heaven, that emanation from himself, which in itself answers every purpose that any thing beneath immortality ought to wish for the power of executing.

Again, let us permit this last reflection to produce another very proper effect on our minds, and at the same time that it inspires us with the most exalted degree of acknowledgment to the just giver of all things, suffer it to strike us with a conscious humility, and curb that indecent, that dangerous pride which frequently puffs up the mind of man, and is the occasion, that, conceiving himself the lord of the universe,

Being placed so high,

He 'sdains subjection, and thinks one step higher

Would set him high'st.

But let this lord of nature, this sovereign of the universe, call his eyes around and see all other beings emerging into life almost in a state of perfection; let him look on the poor servile dog, and the domestic kitten, within two months of their appearance in the world able to quit the tender parent's care, and seek their prey, endowed with all the faculties to find and to destroy it. Let him observe the little duckling bursting from the egg, and rushing instantly into an unruly, a destructive element, to pick up food, and taste the joys of living. Let him go farther still, and mark the light, the tender, the seemingly insignificant ephemeron, with a life destined but for some hours continuance, burst from its embrio state in one element, and almost imperceptibly become the inhabitant of another, enabled to rove unlimited, and taste of every pleasure his being will admit of. After even this slight review, let him but turn his eyes back on his own infant state, and see himself "mewling and puking in the nurse's arms," unable for a time to find a use even for his very limbs; for a yet longer period of time deprived of the advantages of language, and still much longer under the necessity of aid, and of instruction to form his reasoning faculties, and render him capable of self assistance.

Again, when brought to his maturity and fulness of perfection as to his natural state, how still deficient in every particular both of attack, defence, and sustenance! First, for attack, the lion has his teeth, the bull his horns, the eagle his talons, and the hawk his beak, either to combat with their foes or to destroy their prey:—but what has man? None of all these. Consider him unassisted, he could not stab the sheep, knock down the ox, or combat with the hog, did either know his weakness or their own power to resist him. With what propriety then do we pray to the Bestower and Disposer of all life to give us our daily Bread!

Next for defence, the horse has his heels, the fox his holes, the calamary can spread a cloud of ink around him, and the torpedo strike with numbness and insensibility the creature which shall dare to touch him. The cat can swell her form to twice its size, and even a little bird [*] distort her figure into such shapes of terror, as shall deter even animals of bulk and power from coming near her nest.—But which of these advantages does man possess? His speed the heavy elephant will overtake; he cannot dig into the earth to hide him from his foe; nor with his firmest frown or fiercest attitude drive back the hungry wolf or half starved tyger.

Then for his sustenance, the crocodile can change his form, and the camelion his colour, the spider spread a web, and the polypus expand a net, to allure and to entrap their prey: but man, unaided by the means of art, and of a thousand substances not any way appertaining to himself, might starve in the midst of plenty, and daily suffer the fabled fate of Tantalus, to see perpetually before him the greatest delicacies without being able to procure or to enjoy them.

What deductions then may be drawn from these observations? Evidently the two following, with which we shall terminate this discourse: viz. First, that whatever we may imagine of ourselves, and of our self-applied superiority, it must, if it has existence at all, be owing to the favour of that omnipotent Being, who was equally the creator of all other creatures as of ourselves; and that therefore, instead of harbouring an unbecoming pride on the possession of the peculiar gift of reason, which supplies, in one single property, all the deficiencies I have been just mentioning, we ought assuredly to be inspired with the utmost humility united to gratitude, when we consider ourselves as selected out to enjoy that blessing from amidst such an infinite variety of his other works, every one of which appears to have an equal, and many of them even a higher claim to that most desirable preference:—and secondly, that since in natural advantages many even of the lowest and most insignificant beings seem greatly to excel us, there certainly must be some other part of us, some more intellectual and immaterial part belonging to us, in which our superiority must necessarily consist; to which therefore we ought to pay a more particular attention; and on the cultivation and improvement of which must wholly depend every essential view of happiness both in our present state and that which is to come.

Notes

*
The Wryneck.
↵

THE LADY'S GEOGRAPHY.

DESCRIPTION of the Island of CEYLON. CONCLUDED.

THERE are in this island a very particular kind of blackish leaches, which lurk under the grass, and are extremely troublesome to foot travellers. They are at first not thicker than a horse hair; but grow to be of the bulk of a goose's quill, and two or three inches in length. They are only to be seen in the rainy seasons, at which times crawling up the legs of those who walk barefoot, as is the custom of that country, they sting them, and suck their blood with so much quickness, that it is impossible to get rid of them before they have effected their purpose. This might seem incredible, were it not for the prodigious multitudes in which they make their attacks, which consequently renders a considerable time necessary to oblige them to quit their hold.

As the island is very full of woods and lakes, it is natural to imagine that it must also be very amply stored with birds and fishes. Among the former are great plenty of green perroquets; but of a kind that cannot be taught to speak. They have two other sorts of birds, however, which learn very easily; they are about the size of a black-bird, and are called by the natives by the names of mal-couda and cau-couda: the first is black, and the other of a bright gold colour.

As to fish, their lakes and rivers are extremely full of them, particularly of salmon; but the inhabitants seem to set no great value on them.

Serpents of many kinds, both venemous and inoffensive, are found in this island: amongst which the most remarkable are, 1st. the pimberah, which is as thick as a man's body, feeds mostly on deer, and other animals of a like kind; and it is said, will swallow a kid whole, whose horns will sometimes pierce through his belly, and kill him. 2d. the polonga, which is about five or six feet long, and extremely venemous. And 3d. the noya, which is a greyish snake, not above four feet long, and is marked on its head with the appearance of a pair of spectacles. He is a mortal enemy to the polonga, and whenever they meet the battle constantly terminates in the death of one or the other of them. He is, however, very harmless, on which account the Indians call him noya rodgerah, or the royal snake.

There is a kind of venemous lizard in this country which they name hiekanella, and which harbours in the eves and thatchings of the houses, but will not attack a man unless provoked. But the most formidable creature belonging to this island is a prodigious large black hairy spider, which they call democulo. Its body is as large as one's fist, and its legs proportionable. Nothing can be more mocking than its bite, which is not immediately mortal, but affects the senses, and occasions madness. As to the men, they find assistance in this case from certain herbs and barks, when applied to in time; but the cattle are frequently bit or stung by these monstrous creatures, and die without any remedy having been yet discovered to preserve them.

As to the mineral kingdom, this country produces many kinds of gems, and in great quantity, particularly sapphires, rubies, and cat's eyes; but these are all secured for the king's use. They have besides both iron and lead mines; but these, as well as many other valuable productions of the island, are considered of little worth compared to the cinnamon and wild honey; which, are, properly speaking, the peculiar traffick of the country, and of which the Dutch have made an amazing advantage since their conquest of it.

Having thus got through the description of the island of Ceylon, and mentioned the most extraordinary particulars of curiosity in it, we shall now take leave of our readers, recommending to their perusal the farther accounts given by the travellers who have visited it, and who seem all to unite in opinion as to its being one of the finest, most amply stored, and most amazingly diversified spot throughout the whole extent of the East Indies.

CONTENTS.

- INtroduction to the Trifler Page 1

- The Trifler, No. I. Page 2

- Studies proper for women Page 9

- The history of Harriot and Sophia Page 17

- A song Page 45

- On reading a poem written by a lady of quality Page 46

- An ode Page 47

- To death, an irregular ode Page 48

- The history of the dutchess of Beaufort Page 49

- The Trifler, No. II. Page 81

- Conclusion of the history of the dutchess of Beaufort Page 84

- The history of Harriot and Sophia continued Page 99

- An account of the vestal virgins Page 115

- The history of the count de Comminge Page 122

- Introduction to the philosophy for the ladies Page 129

- Of the universe, under a general view Page 134

- The lady's geography Page 145

- Description of Amboyna Page 146

- Natural history of Amboyna Page 150

- The Trifler, No. III. Page 162

- The history of Harriot and Sophia continued Page 165

- A letter to the author of the Lady's Museum Page 182

- The history of the count de Comminge continued Page 190

- An essay on the original inhabitants of Great-Britain Page 193

- The trial of the maid of Orleans Page 212

- Of the metamorphoses of animals, and the several changes observable in animal life Page 229

- A letter to the author of the Trifler from Maria Page 242

- A letter from Perdita Page 244

- The History of Harriot and Sophia continued Page 246

- A letter to the author of the Lady's Museum, giving an account of the trial of Earl Ferrers Page 261

- A letter from the same, concerning the execution of Earl Ferrers Page 269

- Essay on the original inhabitants of Great-Britain continued Page 273

- A letter from Agnes Woodbine Page 289

- Of the importance of the education of daughters, written by the archbishop of Cambray Page 294

- History of the count de Comminge continued Page 298

- Of the metamorphoses of animals continued Page 306

- The natural history of the formica leo, or lion pismire Page 309

- The Trifler, No. V. Page 321

- A letter from Perdita Page 323

- The history of Harriot and Sophia continued Page 327

- A letter from Offaria Cellina Page 344

- The history of Bianca Capello Page 345

- Essay on the original inhabitants of Great Britain continued Page 353

- Of the inconveniencies of the common methods of education Page 368

- What are the first grounds of education Page 371

- The history of the count de Comminge continued Page 379

- Of the methods Nature has furnished various animals with to elude the attacks, and prevent the pursuits of their enemies Page 388

- Of the manners and customs of the inhabitants of Amboyna Page 398

- A letter to the author of the Trifler from Perdita Page 403

- A letter from C. D. on a passage in Macbeth Page 409

- The history of Harriot and Sophia continued Page 414

- Essay on the original inhabitants of Great Britain continued Page 433

- The history of the count de Comminge continued Page 449

- Cautions concerning education Page 465

- The natural history of the swallow-tailed butterfly Page 467

- The manners and customs of the inhahitants of Amboyna concluded Page 474

- Description of the island of Ceylon Page 479

- A letter from E. T. with the history of Castruccio Castracani Page 481

- The history of Harriot and Sophia continued Page 491

- Essay on the original inhabitants of Great-Britain continued Page 513

- The history of Bianca Capello concluded Page 520

- The history of the count de Comminge continued Page 538

- On the education of daughters continued Page 552

- A letter to the Trifler from Anoeta Page 561

- The history of Harriot and Sophia continued Page 569

- Lord Dorset to his lady, a poem Page 592

- Essay on the original inhabitants of Great-Britain continued Page 593

- The history of the count Comminge continued Page 609

- Treatise on the education of daughters continued Page 627

- The natural history of the ephemeron, or day-fly Page 633

- A letter to the Trifler from Parthenissa Page 643

- The history of Harriot and Sophia continued Page 645

- On reading Hutchinson on the passions, a poem Page 667

- Shallum to Hilpa, an antediluvian love letter, a poem Page 668

- Hilpa's answer Page 669

- The Morning, a poem Page 670

- An ode Page 671

- The history of the count de Comminge concluded Page 673

- On the education of daughters continued Page 686

- Essay on the original inhabitants of Great-Britain concluded Page 695

- The history of the princess Padmani Page 697

- Description of the island of Ceylon continued Page 710

- A letter to the Trifler from Grace Pythoness Page 721

- The history of Harriot and Sophia continued Page 724

- The judgment of Paris, a poem Page 742

- The life of Sir Anthony Vandyck Page 748

- The tale of Geneura Page 753

- Of the use of history for children Page 776

- Description of the island of Ceylon continued Page 785

- A letter to the Trifler, with a dialogue between Socrates and Aristarchus Page 794

- The history of Harriot and Sophia concluded Page 801

- The life of Sir Anthony Vandyck concluded Page 827

- Treatise on the education of daughters concluded Page 840

- A poetical epistle from Busy to Snowball Page 854

- To Ismene playing on a lute Page 856

- Philosophy for the ladies concluded Page 857

- Lady's geography concluded Page 866

Information about this book

Title statement

The Lady's museum: By the author of The Female Quixote. [pt.2]

Publication

Distributor

University of Oxford Text Archive
Oxford University Computing Services
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ota@oucs.ox.ac.uk

ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/3546

ID [isbn10]

1106005457

ID [isbn13]

9781106005458

ID [TCP]

K019745.002

ID [BIBNO]

CW3307929391

ID [ECSS]

1222500102

Availability

Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License

Source

— The Lady's museum: By the author of The Female Quixote., Lennox, Charlotte, 1729-1804. Trifler., Lennox, Charlotte, 1729-1804., Kelley, Hugh, 1739-1777.. v., plates : map ; 21 cm (8⁰). Vol. I. [no. 1-5]-vol. II. [no. 6-11] London [England] :: printed for J. Newbery in St. Paul's Church-Yard, and J. Coote in Pater Noster Row,. [1760-1761]. [Editor: Charlotte Lennox; collaborator: Hugh Kelly.] [Title page is engraved.] [Title repeated as caption and running title in individual issues.] [Imprints lack date; years of publication from reference sources.] [Vol. 1 title page is engraved, with Royal arms above imprint.] [Each issue begins with numbered editorial essay: The Trifler, reprinted from Goldsmith's, The Lady's magazine (1759-1760).] [Table of contents (2 leaves) bound at end of vol. 2.] [With continuous pagination and register.] [Includes essays on female education, history, and natural science; with romantic novellas and poetry. Introductory essays are generally satirical.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [Small, M.R. Charlotte Ramsay Lennox: 18th c. lady of letters (New Haven, 1935)] [NCBEL, II:1303] [Roscoe, A292] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCP3417.] [Volumes lack chronological designations and dates.] [Individual issues lack designations; issues numbered from the introductory essays, The Trifler.] [Reference sources suggest monthly publication of individual issues.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).] [Collects issues of: The lady's museum.]

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