Lady Maclairn, the victim of villany
Date: 2023-07-11T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: English fiction

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Title: Lady Maclairn, the victim of villany

A novel, volume 2 (of 4)

Author: Mrs. Hunter

Release date: July 11, 2023 [eBook #71165]

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: W. Earle and J. W. Hucklebridge

Credits: Mary Glenn Krause, Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LADY MACLAIRN, THE VICTIM OF VILLANY ***

LADY MACLAIRN,

THE

VICTIM OF VILLANY.

A NOVEL.

IN FOUR VOLUMES.

BY MRS. HUNTER,

OF NORWICH,

AUTHOR OF LETITIA; THE UNEXPECTED LEGACY; THE HISTORY OF THE GRUBTHORPE FAMILY; PALMERSTONE'S LETTERS, &c. &c.

VOL. II.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR W. EARLE AND J.W. HUCKLEBRIDGE;

AND SOLD BY W. EARLE, NO. 47, ALBEMARLE STREET; GEORGE ROBINSON, PATERNOSTER ROW; B. CROSBY AND CO. STATIONER'S COURT; THO. OSTELL, AVE MARIA LANE; AND ALL OTHER BOOKSELLERS.

1806.

[Barnard and Sultzer, Water Lane, Fleet Street.]

LADY MACLAIRN,

THE

VICTIM OF VILLANY.

CHAP. I.

LETTER XIII.

Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle.

Wednesday Evening.

I Know, my dear Lucy, that you will expect the sequel of the disastrous tale contained in my last letter; and that you will very ingeniously contrive to muster up many conclusive arguments to prove that Rachel Cowley's health will be absolutely ruined at Tarefield. Facts are, however, stubborn things. She has passed this trial of her strength without a fever on her nerves, notwithstanding a cold which, on Monday and yesterday, gave her a pretence for keeping her apartment and nursing the poor baronet.

On the Monday morning Malcolm gave me to understand, with visible uneasiness, that his father had betaken himself to the lately deserted room, with the grated windows, and he implored me to endeavour to allure him from it. I wrote a card instantly, informing him I waited breakfast for him, and that I had a new book for his perusal. It succeeded; but I was shocked to see the effects of one night's disturbance of that mind, which we had exultingly seen settling into tranquillity. He was shivering and languid, and told his wife he had taken cold; but she perceived, as well as myself, that he was dispirited and extremely nervous. Nothing can equal this woman! To see her at this moment, I could not but love her. She was calm and cheerful; soothing and tender; whilst in a thousand various ways she diverted his attention; and although I knew she had watched at Miss Flint's bedside from three o'clock, she did not name her, nor did she appear fatigued. I took my turn to be good, and, dismissing her, said, that as I had also a cold, the valetudinarians would have but one infirmary; that she might dispose of Mrs. Allen, for we meant to be in the sullens and read. Sir Murdock raised his dejected head; the eye was animated, and I was contented. I took my work and placed before him the Vicar of Wakefield. "Shall I not read it aloud?" asked he.—"No," replied I, "unless you find a passage that particularly strikes you." He bowed, for Sir Murdock Maclairn is the truly polite man. I soon perceived that his attention was engaged. Whose is not, Lucy, by that work? This made me happy; yes, happy, I repeat, for I reverence this interesting man; and I believe there is a fatal grief which will, whilst he lives, oppress his mind. Mrs. Allen soon joined us; she was also the invalid; but it slackened not her industry. She took up your hearth-rug. Her dose of camphor-julap went round, and Goldsmith had too many beauties for the baronet to be long silent. The morning thus glided away, and we dined where we were. Malcolm, with undissembled joy, found us comfortable, and the evening was given to the chess-board. I slept, Lucy, for I had passed the day in blunting the barbed arrow, which, if I am not much mistaken, still wounds Sir Murdock.—Tuesday was fair; I wanted a ride; the curricle and my knight were in readiness; and we returned home the better for our long airing. This morning it was Mrs. Allen's turn to wish for a ride, and the good Sir Murdock with alacrity indulged her wish.

Malcolm and myself, immediately after their departure, took the road to the Abbey. To say the truth, I felt a little fine-ladyish, and walked not with my usual alertness. My good natured escort, perceived it. "I am astonished," observed he, slackening his pace, and offering me his arm, "to see your spirits and perseverance! You are now so fatigued, that any other but yourself would fancy this walk improper for you."—"The sun cheers me," replied I, "and idleness will yield to this bracing air."—"Your motives," answered he, "will always give animation and vigour to your mind; for it seems to me, that it is the business of your life to communicate joy or consolation to all around you! Tell me," continued he, "that your recompence is adequate to your labours. In the absence of your accustomed amusements, remote from friends endeared to you by time and experience, and qualified for that preference you must feel for them, I see you cheerful, and apparently contented, in a situation marked for the residence of care; but my admiration of your magnanimity, Miss Cowley, has not, nor cannot lessen my regrets at seeing you sacrificed to these duties by an usurped authority over your freedom. Tarefield cannot be otherwise than a place of banishment to you."—"Spare your compassion, my good friend," answered I, "till you have my warrant for indulging it. I should be ungrateful, as well as childish, were I discontented in your mother's society. I am sensible of the constant attention paid to my comforts by every individual in your family; and I do most sincerely assure you, that I am as happy at Tarefield, as I should be any where, under the peculiar circumstances in which I am at present."—"We might be more worthy of you," replied he with seriousness, "were we not slaves ourselves; but, notwithstanding your generous assertion, I have myself witnessed your surprise and vexation at my mother's submissions to Miss Flint, and at the subordinate station she fills in her own house, for such is at present Tarefield-hall. It cannot but appear extraordinary to you, to see two women so diametrically opposite in character and temper as my mother and this woman, so connected, that neither the capricious exactions on the one part, nor the decided love of praise and independence on the other, can weaken the ties which have united them. It is by no means a solution of this enigma with me, to be reminded, that my mother submits to this galling yoke from the consideration of her son Philip's interest. I know she is neither sordid nor designing; and that she would prefer poverty, were she at liberty to chuse, rather than invade on the least of my father's wishes, much less his happiness; yet she is well aware, that for years Tarefield has been irksome to him. Sometimes I think," continued Malcolm, "that my mother conceives herself bound to the fulfilment of a promise made to her first husband, to remain for her life with his favourite daughter. Mr. Flint might, without any miraculous powers, have foreseen that neither his wealth nor Lucretia's qualities, could secure her, if destitute of a friend like my mother, who has incessantly laboured to humanize her. But I am persuaded, that if such a promise had paused her lips, she would have thought it sacred; and yet she was once on the point of breaking her chains."—Malcolm paused, as expecting my answer. "I have been told," observed I, "that Miss Flint once loved your uncle; may not this circumstance have had its weight with Lady Maclairn?" "It has not been overlooked by me," answered Malcolm; "but if there ever did exist a mutual passion between Flamall and Miss Flint, it was worn out before I could discover it, or rather converted into mutual hatred; except on one point of agreement, that of favouring their idol Philip, and tormenting me. Their marked partiality was one means employed to render my mother miserable; and as for myself, I can with truth affirm that my infant enjoyments, my youthful pleasures, and I might add, the best affections of my nature, were contracted and checked by the influence of Mr. Flamall and the jealousy of Miss Flint. It is the peculiar privilege of my cunning uncle, Miss Cowley, to effect his purposes by exciting fear; and, extraordinary as it may appear to you, he had not only established its empire over my meek mother, but also, over the termagant Miss Flint. She was taught by him, to consider me, even when in my cradle, as an intruder on Philip's rights. She regarded my mother's attachment to me as unjust, and defrauding that child of its exclusive claims to love. My mother suckled me herself; her health had not admitted of this duty when Philip was born; and from this advantage, I conceive, resulted her apprehensions, that my dear mother loved me better than she did my brother. How little was this woman qualified to judge of lady Maclairn!" continued Malcolm with emotion. "Her wisdom alone counteracted the pernicious effects of these prejudices, longer than could have been expected. Philip was my senior by nearly two years: he was a sweet-tempered child, and, directed by his mother, constantly disposed to play with me; but I was a sturdy, active boy, and soon equal to Philip in strength and stature. His compliances with my wishes were checked by his uncle and aunt, as being improper, and leading, him into mischief. My daring spirit was called an insolent one, and my careless indifference to favour, was stiled obduracy and stubbornness. Secure of my mother's protection, and contented with my own pursuits, I continued to live with Philip on good terms, till I saw preparations going forward for his being placed at Harrow school. Conscious that I had abilities for learning, I felt mortified, that no plan for my improvement had been thought of; and I saw Philip depart with emotions not remote from envy.

"From that hour, I felt ill-will towards my unoffending brother, and was stimulated by a proud sense of injustice, to shun his kindness, and to refuse his good offices. At this junction, I found a welcome at Mr. Wilson's house, and a companion and friend in Henry Heartley. Mr. Flamall and Miss Flint were displeased with the frequency of my visits. I was lectured by my uncle, and sternly admonished not to go to the Abbey. 'My mother approves of my going there,' replied I, 'and as I am not sent to school like my brother, it is my business to get learning where I can find it.' 'And who prevents your mother sending you to school?' replied he with a sneer: 'some of your Scotch relations would find and instruct you for ten pounds a year, and get money by you.' 'They could not for any sum,' answered I, 'give me the lessons I receive from you: for, if like my father, they must be gentlemen and honourable men.' His rage was exhausted by the usual epithets, I was 'an insolent puppy, a stubborn dog,' and my pride was that of beggary. I may have merited some of this censure; for certain it is that not even my mother could prevail upon me to bend to my supercilious uncle, or to pay my court to Miss Lucretia, even when she relaxed into good humour. I carefully shunned her, and was silent in her presence. My father's unhappy malady quickened my sensibility, and gave poignancy to the reflections which were forced upon me. Flamall's tone of authority cut me to the soul; and his want of tenderness to my wretched mother, produced in my mind a rooted an aversion to this man, which I can neither conquer, nor do I wish to conquer it." "Oh Miss Cowley!" continued he, "it is impossible for me to say what my mother's sufferings have been! Unsupported, she watched over her husband with unremitting care, patience, and love! She has been his saving angel! And when disease and despair triumphed over their victim, her soothings and her faithfulness, were the healing balm that lulled him to repose."

"One day, shortly after Philip's removal to the university at Edinburgh, whither he was sent to finish his studies, I found my mother in the garden in an agony of tears; and on my urging her to tell me what had so affected her, she informed me, that Mr. Flamall had been talking to her of the absolute necessity of placing my father in a private mad-house near Durham; insisting upon it, that her indulgence was pernicious and would render him incurable. 'I have told Lucretia,' added she, 'that I wish to be any where, rather than be a burden to her, or further exposed to my brother's unfeeling advice in a business with which he has nothing to do. She has generously resented this conduct of your uncle's, and they have had a very serious quarrel; but it will be settled, as most are, at my expence!'—'But is there no place of refuge for us,' asked I with resentment, 'but a mad-house? Even that or a gaol would be a paradise to me, could we call our cell our own. Let us leave this house; my industry'——She prevented my proceeding, by saying with solemnity, 'I cannot, Malcolm!' Miss Flint is not weary of me; and she only can break the chains that keep me under this roof. Your father has comforts here. She wishes him to have an asylum in her house. You know not this woman; I do: and I know also, that my brother is jealous of her affection for me. To this meanness, I attribute the barbarity of his advice this morning, and the inhumanity with which he urged me to remove the 'maniac' where he would be 'properly treated.' Miss Flint's appearance with Mr. Flamall, still more disconcerted me. She asked me what was the matter, and whether my mother was ill. 'I understand, Madam,' answered I, 'that Mr. Flamall's project had been communicated to you, as well as it is now to me. But,' added I, fixing my indignant eyes on the stately gentleman, 'my mother will soon be better: I have convinced her, that a more equitable judgment and skill than any here, must pronounce my father a lunatic, before even his wife has the right of confining him to a mad-house. Sir Murdock Maclairn needs neither a cell nor the strait waistcoat.' My uncle aimed a blow at my head with a stout cudgel he had in his hand, by way of reply to my observation; and the first and only favour I have to acknowledge to Miss Flint, was probably, saving me from a fractured skull, for the weapon was heavy and knobbed. She not only warded off the stroke, but with amazing strength held his arms. I smiled with contempt at his fury. 'Your mode of attack,' said I with cool scorn, 'is consistent with yourself; but remember I am Maclairn's son for the future, and that I am not enfeebled by sickness, nor mad. I fear you not; for I despise you.' My poor mother franticly implored me to retire: I was deaf to her intreaties. Miss Flint's rhetoric and amazonian power prevailed. She dragged Mr. Flamall from the spot, foaming with rage, and bestowing his maledictions, instead of his cudgel, on my head. From that hour we never exchanged a word, beyond the few which were necessary at our meals.

"I have reason to believe that Miss Flint on this occasion was not displeased with the 'stubborn dog.' It is certain, that she behaved to me with more civility than ordinary for some time after this proof of my obstinacy: the mad-house was never mentioned from that period.

"It may not be improper to account to you, Miss Cowley, for the resentment I felt on the mere proposal of this measure. I did not think my father's intellects in a state that required such treatment. I knew that his malady had originated from a dreadful illness, brought on by a sudden stroke of adversity when he was a young man; to this, was to be attributed a peculiarity in his general habits of life, and a tincture of sadness, which shaded his character, and repressed his activity. But during his long confinement he constantly knew me, and his wife; and was apparently easy, and even tranquil, when we were by his side, though terror and alarm followed on every intrusion by others; and an unusual noise, or step, produced silence and dejection on him for hours; nay, sometimes days. At other times, we had the cheering consolations of hope to support us. He would examine my little drawings, sketch with a pencil a more correct outline, check me when playing out of time on my flute, and beat the measure with his hand. When reading to my mother, he would listen, and observe, 'I remember something of that passage, read it again.' I did so, and although I perceived the fleeting image had disappeared, yet it confirmed me in my hopes that time would restore my father. Under this conviction you may judge that I was not disposed to listen with patience to the opinion and brotherly counsel of Flamall, who had by a thousand indications, shewn me that my father's fate was perfectly indifferent to him.

"Engaged in my duty to my parents, and considering from day to day, that young as I was, my mother had no protector but myself, I refused to accept of her proposal of going to the free-school at Durham. She was vexed by my resistance; and in the fulness of my heart, I mentioned my difficulty to Captain Flint. He had been very useful to me, from the first of my intimacy with Henry Heartley, whom he educated: but from this time, he wrote to my mother, and undertook my defence, engaging to be my preceptor. If I have not profited by his talents, it is my own fault; but I have gained from him one lesson, and that will carry me through life I trust, without disgracing my Maker, or my best friend on earth.

"My brother's recall from Edinburgh was, in the course of events, the next occurrence of importance to me. This summons was in consequence of Mr. Oliver Flint's earnest wish to see his young brother. Death had bereaved him of his two last surviving children, boys, nearly of Philip's age; and to this invitation to my brother, were added promises of receiving him as his heir. Mr. Flamall's opinion had weight with my mother, for it included his resolution of going with his nephew to Jamaica, the better to understand, and to secure to him the advantages held out. Miss Flint calculated her brother Oliver's age and fortune, and recalled to her memory the extensive and beautiful plantation on which she had first seen the light. Avarice combated with fondness; and she yielded, trusting to Mr. Flamall's care, and the declining state of health of this poor afflicted father, for her idol's return to England. Philip arrived at Tarefield from the university; I had not seen him for a year and a half; and I was struck by the improvement of his person. 'He was always handsome,' added Malcolm smiling; 'but the Adonis had given place to more masculine comeliness; and his deportment was become serious, and rather reserved. We had mutually attained to those years which precluded rudeness, and I was treated as a gentleman, and I hope I shewed him that I was one; yet I saw Philip's advances to more familiarity like 'a stubborn dog,' for my heart receded from his civilities.

"One morning I met my brother in the avenue, in my way from the Abbey. He appeared to be lost in thought, and I fancied he was weeping. On perceiving me, he assumed a gay air, and asked me where I had been rambling. 'I have been no where,' answered I, 'but with my friends at Wilson's.'—'Am I never, Malcolm,' said he with emotion, 'to have the comfort of finding my name in that list? Shall I never hear the voice of affection from a brother whom I love, and who is only unjust to me? Let me at least,' added he, offering me his hand, 'have this consolation before I leave England. I need it!' I did not refuse it, Madam, but my heart smote me; for I received his offered love ungraciously. 'I see,' said he, his fine face glowing, and his voice trembling, 'that I have no brother! Malcolm Maclairn is lost to me!' He turned away abruptly, whilst conscience-struck, I cursed those whose folly and injustice had rendered me callous to the pleadings of nature. I was ashamed of my conduct; and lest I should afflict my mother, forbore to mention this incident. From that hour I shunned Philip's eyes; for I felt his superiority of temper a reproach; and his increasing sadness became an intolerable weight on my spirits. Miss Flint's dejection at this time appeared to have changed her nature; my mother's firmness seemed to have the direction of her will; and her fondness for 'Harriot' rose in proportion as the hour approached, when she was to lose sight of her Philip. On the morning of Philip's departure, I and my mother breakfasted with him, at a very early hour, in Miss Flint's apartment. Mr. Flamall vainly tried to render the repast cheerful. The servant announced that all was in readiness. Philip rose with extreme agitation. 'One embrace,' said he, 'extending his arms and turning towards me, 'one embrace, Malcolm! It may be a brother's last request! Let me depart with the hope that if we do meet again, affection will welcome me!' I was subdued! penetrated to the very soul! I burst into tears, and convulsed by my feelings, could only say, 'My brother! and my friend!' He pressed me to his bosom with energy. 'We are united!' cried I; 'no distance or time shall separate us! on earth or in heaven we will be brothers!' Mr. Flamall remarked, that I had ill chosen my time for pathetics, and gravely reminded Philip to behave like a man; but his lessons were useless; for our attention was now called to Miss Flint, who was in hysterics, and my weeping but collected mother urged her son to depart. I have somehow or other slid into a narrative, and I may as well finish my story," continued Malcolm. "I found that Philip had left me his fine hunter for a 'keep-sake,' according to his groom's report. George, for obvious reasons, delivered his commission before Miss Flint, adding, that his master had refused an hundred guineas from Squire Forster; because he thought I should like to ride a horse of his. ''Tis like my noble boy!' exclaimed Miss Flint. She paused, and after a struggle with her feelings, said with some bitterness, 'time must shew, how this brother's gift is received.' My heart prompted the reply; but my mother was present. Freed from Mr. Flamall's influence, and determined not to invade on the tranquillity which succeeded his absence, I settled into reserve and civility with Miss Lucretia Flint; and perhaps her dislike of me might have settled into mere indifference; but my sin was ever before her; for I persisted in loving my friends at the Abbey: and in due time she was informed, 'that I courted Miss Heartley.' My mother, who well knew my attachment to Alice, behaved with firmness on this occasion, as she had always done in my behalf. She instantly gave her sister, as she calls her tormentor, to understand, that a son who had devoted his whole life to his duty as a child, and who was perfectly competent to judge of his own situation in the world, should meet with no controul, beyond that which his own prudence and regard to his parents enforced." "So," added Malcolm, smiling, "I still go a courting, in spite of Miss Lucretia. But this late disturbance had roused my angry passions; and I was serious with my mother. Last night I told her with frankness, that I would carry a musket for my bread, rather than live in an abode in which my father's peace was interrupted, and in which she was a passive slave.—'And what was her answer?' asked I. Tears, replied he, tears, which when I behold, unman me, and which I reproach myself for having caused. She says, Miss Flint upbraids herself more than I can do; that she is miserable; and sums up all, by imploring me to have patience, and to spare her on the only subject in which she must contradict and oppose me. 'You will, I trust,' added she, 'soon have a home of your own: so do I fervently hope I shall; but when I quit this house, Malcolm, it will be for the shelter of my grave.' I was so struck by her manner, that I am determined to press her no farther on the subject, if I can help it. In the mean time, I sometimes think, that my dear mother is secretly governed in this abject submission, from her wish to promote my union with Alice: it may be, Miss Flint has promised her to advance a sum of money for my establishment. Yet, my dear Miss Cowley, never did there exist a more noble and disinterested woman, than Lady Maclairn! and she well knows that both Miss Heartley and myself would reject Miss Flint's favours with scorn. We have comforts which she cannot invade, nor could we relish any which she could purchase for us. We see each other without restraint, and by a reciprocal confidence, and solid affection, we mutually soften the delay, which prudence exacts, of a union in which we shall be more completely happy."

Malcolm had touched a chord in my bosom. "You are to be envied," said I with eagerness. "How many are there, with your honour and fidelity, who have not your consolations! Alice is a happy creature to some I could name." He pressed my arm to his breast. "Neither Miss Heartley, nor her Malcolm deserves to be happy," said he, "if they could be so, knowing you otherwise." I blushed: "I know your difficulties," added he, "if I be condemned for hating with a perfect hatred, I must look to you for my excuses. But I have omitted to tell you, that I wrote to Philip before he embarked; and received from him a kind letter. To one I wrote him after his arrival in Jamaica, I have had no answer. Mr. Flamall is at the bottom of this mischief; and trusting to this conjecture, I wrote again to my brother, and by this means gave Mr. Flamall a full evidence of being still incorrigible in respect to my duty as his nephew. But, my dear Miss Cowley, the reign of a Flamall is short; we shall see him in a very different point of view, before he quits the stage, or I am much deceived."—"And I shall be much disappointed," said I with emotion; "and what is more, Mr. Maclairn, it shall not be my fault if he does not repent." The girls now perceiving us, advanced to meet us; and Malcolm forgot his dear uncle.

What will you say of a mother so beloved, and so extolled as Lady Maclairn? She is still an enigma to me. I am convinced that Miss Flint can have no influence, but what is supported by fear: and wherefore should Lady Maclairn fear her? That is the question. It is now that Lucy Hardcastle is tenderly beloved without fear, by her.

Rachel Cowley.

CHAP II.

LETTER XIV.

From the same to the same.

You were very good in your last letter, my dear girl, and I thank you; although with the heart-burn. Is it not hard that I must hear my brother is well, &c. &c. by a breach of duty on your part? And would it not be barbarous if you could keep to the letter of your father's harsh law? He, above all men, ought to know that offences are multiplied by the severities of penal statutes. I have heard him say this many times; therefore Mr. Hardcastle is an inconsistent man. Tell him so for me, and add, if you will, that Rachel Cowley is still Rachel Cowley, and will, in spite of his scruples, be his child. But I see this will not do. There! I have taken up another pen.

The captain, after our first greetings, the other morning, drew me aside, and with some solemnity thanked me for the "generous" concern I had shewn in favour of his niece. "I feel," added he, "that my honour demands its acquittal from you: and till you know my motives for resigning up an orphan committed to my care, to the authority and direction of Miss Flint, I am certain you must blame me. I am however unequal to the recital of events, which ought to have forewarned me, that hatred and envy were incurable. My error arose from my ignorance of their unbridled power over minds in which they have once taken up their abode. Heaven be praised! my poor girl is once more in my protecting, though feeble arms; and when I quit her, she will find her Maker still her friend."—"You may safely rest in that hope," answered I, with seriousness; "for already hath he appointed an agent for the purposes of his fatherly goodness: and when I forsake this young and innocent being, may his bounteous hand direct my abundance into a different, and more worthy channel! I want a sister," said I smiling, "and you must give me one!" He bowed, and without replying hastily retired.

Mary, with her muslin wrappers, and still languid complexion, never appeared more amiable: she assumed however more gaiety than she felt; for I saw with satisfaction, that she was anxious about her uncle. "I will shew you my little chamber," said she in a caressing tone; "will you go?" I followed her, and seating myself on her little white dimity bed, observed that half a breadth of her aunt's cross-stitch carpet would cover her room. "It is this poor miserable aunt, I want to speak about," returned she; "I cannot forgive myself for having occasioned so much confusion and trouble. My dear uncle is so angry and vexed!"—"That will go off," returned I; "and as for your aunt, leave her to herself: you have done with her, and I am too angry to talk about her. What a neat room you have here!"—"Yet I could not sleep in it these last nights," said she sighing.—"Was there not a little self-reproach under your pillow?" asked I. "Did you not reflect, that, by concealing so long your aunt's conduct, you had been imposing on your uncle; and were striking at the root of his comforts, by endangering your health."—"What could I do, my dear Miss Cowley?" replied she in a deprecating tone. "I was no stranger to my uncle's narrow income. How could I be easy, whilst sharing with him comforts, barely sufficient for himself! I was unfortunately not fitted for labour, and too young to encounter the world without friends, in any situation. I thought I had reasonable claims on my aunt; and how was it possible for me to conceive that she would be unkind to me, because she had been cruel to my parents?" Her tears flowed unrestrainedly. "When she proposed taking me," continued the artless girl, "and said, I should no longer be a burden on my uncle, I felt I loved her; and as she had no longer Mr. Philip to comfort her in her solitude, I hoped to render myself both useful and agreeable to her. I was disappointed; but my lot was not harder than that of thousands: and although Miss Flint's temper was harsh, and her behaviour discouraging, I met with kindness from all besides, and was sheltered from evil. Was I not right to submit, and keep my secret? I knew that if I had dropped a word to Alice, I should have returned hither; and then my uncle would have had me on his hands again, and his difficulties would have been renewed: so I own, I always made the best of every thing, and parried as well as I could Mr. Malcolm's accounts, which often grieved Mrs. Heartley and Alice. My unlucky fainting fit has spoiled all! and what is worse, again separated Miss Flint from my uncle's favour! He says," whispered she, "that he cannot forgive her: and this grieves me to the heart; for my dear mother did forgive her; and I long to tell my aunt that her brother will forget this offence."—"What could urge her to such an outrage?" asked I. "You remember no doubt," replied she, "Mr. Snughead's passing us, and stopping to speak to you, the evening we returned from the Abbey. I was leaning on Mr. Wilson's arm, some paces behind you; and Malcolm and Alice were loitering still farther, I believe, behind us. Mr. Snughead slackened his pace and accosted Mr. Wilson, by saying, 'If you be not as happy as the turtles I have passed, you seem more gay, Mr. Wilson;' and he fixed his eyes with curiosity on me. 'A man must needs have a bad conscience indeed!' replied Mr. Wilson, with good-humour, 'if in so fine a night as this, and with such a companion as I have, he were not gay.'—'You say right!' answered Mr. Snughead, still looking at me; 'you say right,' repeated he, 'quite right,' laughing loud, and winking his eyes strangely at me; 'such a companion would make any night a fine night, without the aid of the moon!'—'That is a text, Mr. Parson,' answered Mr. Wilson, angrily, 'that suits you better than your hearers. I wish you safe home.'—'You are witty as well as gay, I perceive,' replied Mr. Snughead. 'I hope, Miss Howard, you will improve and retain Mr. Wilson's bons mots.'—'I beg your pardon, Sir,' said I, trembling, 'indeed I do not know what you mean.'—'Pretty innocent!' replied he, with another loud laugh; 'but you are in good hands, there is a time for all things!' So saying he spurred his horse forwards. I was alarmed, and told Mr. Wilson I feared he had displeased Mr. Snughead. He said he had got no more than he deserved; that he was a dirty rascal; and he believed he was then tipsy. Well, my dread of meeting my aunt put all this out of my head! You know, my dear Miss Cowley, how fortunately that business finished. My patience on Monday conquered my aunt's sullenness. On the Tuesday morning Mr. Snughead came to visit her. He staid a long time; and I, well knowing how he hates Mr. Wilson, became uneasy. At length my aunt entered my chamber, which is, as you know, over her's; and with a fury that made me tremble, she banged the door with such violence as to make that tremble also. 'A fine tale have I heard, my dainty minx!' exclaimed she; 'you can laugh and hoyden with the best of them, I find, with your own set! You can smile when a gentleman and a clergyman is insulted by your bully!'—'Good Heavens! my dear aunt,' said I, 'what do you mean? Surely'——'What! the pretty innocent has forgotten Mr. Wilson's 'bons mots!' replied she, with provoking scorn.—'No, Madam,' answered I, 'I have not forgotten what he said, nor the speech which occasioned his resentment. He conceived, I presume, that it did not become a clergyman; and, to speak the truth, I was of his opinion; yet I was vexed at Mr. Wilson's answer, because I thought Mr. Snughead looked as if he had been dining in company.'—'Insolence!' exclaimed she, 'Mr. Snughead was neither tipsy nor blind. He heard your fine speech.'—She advanced.—'I will teach you to defame your betters. I will teach you to make me the subject of your conversation and mirth with your Wilsons and their crew!—'Good God!' cried I, still more terrified, 'is it possible that Mr. Snughead should have thus accused me! He dares not assert it to my face. I never named you, Madam, nor heard you named, but with respect; and that was by my uncle when in the avenue speaking to Jonathan.'—'You are a liar,' said she, with encreasing rage, 'Mr. Snughead heard that impudent upstart name me to you, and the laugh which his ribaldry excited from you, hussy, at the name of 'the chaste Lucretia!' 'Indeed, my dear aunt,' answered I, 'Mr. Snughead has cruelly and erroniously repeated the word; for it was I, who was talking of the moon, and I remember to have said she was called the chaste Luna and Cynthia by the poets.'—'And you did not laugh I suppose?' said she, with sternness.—'Certainly I was laughing,' replied I, 'when Mr. Snughead came up to us: but surely, that was not a crime? I neither laughed at, nor, indeed, clearly understood what had displeased Mr. Wilson, who only gave me to imagine that he thought Mr. Snughead had drank more wine than was useful to him.'—'It is false,' said she, striking my face, 'and I will teach you to understand your champion's insolent reply. Mr. Snughead saw you smile.'—'He dares not say so before me,' cried I, struggling, for she grasped my throat so hard that she hurt me.—'What! you justify yourself?' said she.—'Yes,' answered I boldly; 'I never told a lie in my life. I scorn it.'—'Do you so, my pretty Miss!' answered she, applying a dog-whip to my face and bosom; this shall teach you to fear even contradicting me.' I defended myself by hiding my face with my gown, and she struck me on the back part of my head with the handle of the whip. I sprung from her; and, losing my respect in the sense of my danger, I asked her whether she meant to murder me. 'Is it thus,' cried I, losing my temper, 'that Howard's daughter ought to be treated? Is it thus your sister's child ought to be used?' She followed me about the room like a fury, whilst I screamed with terror. Warner, who was in her lady's chamber, flew up stairs, and on seeing her I fainted. When I came to my senses I found I was on my bed, and Lady Maclairn, pale as a ghost, weeping by me. She was more hurt than I was: she wished herself dead, and was so distressed that I tried to comfort her. Warner nursed me as if I had been her child; and, because she thought me feverish, she sat up with me. I was dreadfully frightened, to say the truth, and could not close my eyes without seeing my aunt with the whip in her hand. They gave me nothing but water-gruel for three days, but their kindness and compassion sweetened it. I shall never forget Lady Maclairn's goodness! She told me that my sufferings were light, when compared to hers; for that my stripes would be soon forgotten,—but her sorrows were without remedy. She then asked me whether, for her sake, I could forgive my aunt. 'She is unhappy,' said my lady. 'She is sensible of her fault.' I said that was enough, and I could pity her. So my aunt came to see me, and she begged my pardon. I was moved by this unexpected concession; but I answered that I was determined, for her honour, as much as my own safety, to leave her, and seek my bread elsewhere. She implored me, Miss Cowley, to conceal her 'disgrace,' (I use her own words) and promised that in future I should have no cause to complain of her want of kindness. 'My mother,' said I, 'gave with her dying breath an injunction to those about her to teach me to forget injuries; I am her child, and you may, at your pleasure, make me yours. Treat me with kindness and I must be grateful, for I am a Howard; and rest assured that my uncle shall never know how unworthily I have been treated.' She seemed surprised at my spirit; I saw, Miss Cowley, that she was so; and I told her plainly that I was not made for her spaniel. 'You may, Madam,' said I, 'wonder at this language from one who, hitherto, has not dared to assert her claims to your protection. These have never had a view beyond the shelter my youth made necessary. Give me time and instructions, and turn me out on the world; my principles will then secure me, and my industry shall provide for me.' She wept, and all was made up. Nothing could be more kind than she was. Now only think of the mischief my unlucky fainting has produced, and pity me!"

No language, my Lucy, which I could have employed, would so powerfully have roused you to indignation, as that I have used; and if you can command your feelings, whilst reading the account of this poor girl's sufferings, I must conclude, that the only means of awakening your torpid powers, will be to send the artless narrator to you. When you behold her feminine weakness, listen to her sweet voice, and view her pleading innocence of aspect, you will acquit Rachel Cowley of being vindictive. Till this time arrives, I shall hate Miss Flint with all possible cordiality. I was not in the humour to say any thing in the pathetic style; poor Mary's tears of "gratitude," as she called them, having excited mine, it became necessary to change my tone. "Methinks," observed I, "that my young sister looks somewhat shabby this morning; have they not sent you your cloaths?"—"Oh yes" replied she, "Mrs Warner took care of that business." "It was not a fatiguing one, I presume," said I; "a sheet of brown paper I suppose contained your wardrobe." She laughed. "Not altogether," said she; "though to say the truth, it did not fill a waggon."—"It is no matter," answered I, "we have done, Mary, with the rags of unfeeling tyranny; you are now mine, and must appear like mine." She again clung to my bosom, and I heard her say softly, "May this reach Heaven! and my mother!"

On joining Mrs. Heartley with our swollen eyes, I began at once on business. She entered with alacrity into my measures; and has engaged to provide us with the needful from Durham. "That bonnet of yours has seen service," said she laughing, and turning to Mary. "So Lady Maclairn thought," answered she, "and she wished to have given me a new one before Miss Cowley came to Tarefield; but my aunt would not permit her, she said it was not necessary."—"She judged right," said I, with malice in my heart. "She well understood your better claims to favour. But what trimmings will you have for your bonnet?" "Oh lilac!" said she, eagerly. Alice smiled, "Now that is so like you, Alice!" observed the sweet girl: "have you not repeatedly said, that it was my colour as well as Henry's? Mrs. Heartley, and even my uncle, think it becomes me." This naïveté was not lost: I gave my vote for lilac ribbands; and taking leave, told Mrs. Heartley I would send a list of such articles of dress as were immediately to be sent.

We go on at the hall composedly, notwithstanding the bruised knee. Mrs. Allen's charity led her to Miss Flint's room yesterday: she tells me she suffers much pain. You will not expect from me more than admiration of Mrs. Allen's virtue: she bids me tell you, your hearth rugs will be soon finished, and that Rachel Cowley is still her comfort; so love her, Lucy, as tenderly as you can love. Leave hatred to me, it demands a stronger constitution than yours. Heaven bless my Lucy!

Rachel Cowley.

CHAP. III.

LETTER XV.

From the same to the same.

"Nothing new from Horace." Why, my dear Lucy, what could put it into your head that I wanted novelties from him? I only ask for his thrice, and thrice told tale of faith and love. I only want to know that he is cheerful and well. Did his last epistle resemble the letter which Mrs. Platman gave by mistake to her forty scholars to copy, and which had been composed on the subject of death, for the special purpose of supplying one of the girls with suitable language on the death of her grandfather, a man of ninety? But I am petulant, forgive me, Lucy. The incessant rain without, and the dearth of amusement within, had led me to hope you would have sympathetically felt that I wanted a cordial. I am disappointed, and I have yet to learn where to find your grand and infallible nostrum, patience: nay, what is more, I am disposed to think at this moment, that it resembles many other quack medicines, and promises more than it can perform. All constitutions are not alike, and I believe this specific, would do me more harm than good, from the quantity I should be forced to take in the experiment: so you must be contented with me, and recollect, that a fire may burn cheerfully and usefully, although from time to time a coal bounces out, and startles you; you have only to move from the annoyance a moment, the transient danger passes, and you may return again in safety to the snug warm corner you had left. I was much disposed last Sunday to say with Miss Trotter, "that fifty fair-weather Sundays were scarcely an equivalent for two rainy ones." Ours was dreary: the poor baronet was out of spirit, and remarked twice at dinner, that we did not need so large a table for four people. He might have added, nor half the dishes for three, for he ate nothing. My harp and Handel's music, did something, but I could not sing hymns and psalms forever. We therefore each took up a book. Lady Maclairn soon after entered from her visit to her sister. "How is Miss Flint?" asked Mrs. Allen, raising her meek eyes from her bible. "Much better," answered her ladyship, in a low key. "She would have dined below to-day, but she was afraid of catching cold." "I should hope that shame had its share in this discretion," said Sir Murdock with vivacity.—"I am certain it had," replied she, with mildness, "and not only shame, but repentance."—There is no resisting this woman, Lucy! In saying these few words, she disarmed me, and I refrained from saying what would have hurt her, and done the offender no good. But, for the hundreth time, I will not say she is undefinable! no, but she is unfathomable! After tea, she surprised me by her unwonted gaiety and spirit in conversation; she drew me into arguments and debates with an address nearly equal to your father's, and, between ourselves, seemed to have his art of angling to perfection; for when she found the poor fish flouncing with fatigue, she gently set it free, and restored it to the clear stream. Malcolm, like a dutiful son, was with us at supper; and a dessert of politics, and about manuring sterile land, sent us to bed cheerful, if not gay.

I passed yesterday at the Abbey. Our commissions were arrived from Durham; and no one was permitted "to see the fashions" till Miss Cowley arrived. She had taken the whim of decorating two puppets, instead of one; and she was paid cent. per cent. for her money. The same robes, the same bonnets, cloaks, sashes, shoes, &c. "And so elegant!" exclaimed Mary. "How kind! how considerate is our sister!"—"Not exactly so," replied I, "for I forgot to consult Miss Heartley's taste in regard to the ribbands for her hat, and her milliner has sent blue; but as she is herself the emblem of constancy, she may prefer your favourite colour, Mary: and in that case, what is to be done? You must wear the true blue." "Just as she pleases," cried she from the looking glass, before which she was fitting her lawful prize; "only I doubt, whether Mr. Malcolm will not prefer the true blue, and I can do without it." The gratified uncle smiled on her, and said, "I believe you, my love." Alice preferred her own colour, and each disappeared with their fashions and finery.

I have engaged to meet Mary's friends on Sunday; Mr. Greenwood, her godfather, and a doctor Douglas, who annually celebrate her birth-day at Mrs. Wilson's table. She will be seventeen on that day. On my leaving her, she fondly kissed my cheek, and whispered, "Does my sister wish me to be dressed on Sunday like her happy protégée?"—"Always as my sister ought to appear," answered I, with emotion: "and as she will be enabled to appear; for the rest, she is to direct her own toilet." "Then I think on my birth-day, it will be proper to wear"——"the lilac," cried I gaily, retreating, having exceeded my promised hour of returning home.

On reaching the hall, I instantly entered the dining-parlour, in order to make my peace with my friends; but instead of them, I found Miss Flint and the Reverend Mr. Snughead tête-à-tête. I slightly curtseyed, and said I was glad to see her below stairs; and was retiring with all possible speed, when Sir Murdock, with his wife and Mrs. Allen, entered from my apartment. The "truant" was welcomed; and supper served up immediately. Malcolm, with head erect, and glowing face, joined us; and our repast was coldly and ceremoniously finished. The servants were no sooner withdrawn, than Mr. Snughead pressed Miss Lucretia to drink a glass of Mountain wine. "He was afraid she lived too low."—"He was sorry to see her so out of spirits." The restrained tears gushed from her eyes. Yes, Lucy, genuine salt tears came from the eyes of this Flint! The miracle I can attest; and you may believe it with the same faith which you give to Moses's striking the rock, and causing the water to flow. I am the veriest fool in nature; for I found, like the obdurate Jews, that my heart softened: and indeed, what must have been the conflict within, before these signs of grace could appear?

"I am astonished," observed Mr. Snughead, looking round him with an air which he thought dignified, and which I pronounced insolent, "I am grieved, my dear Madam, to see you give so much importance to a circumstance of so little consequence to your character and station! I always foresaw what would be the result of your generosity in interfering in Miss Howard's concerns: all your real friends were of my opinion."—He looked at Lady Maclairn.—"I know you are quick in feeling, and warm in your temper, and that on perceiving your goodness slighted, you must be unhappy."—Malcolm left the room. "Pursue your good intentions," continued he, "allow this niece a trifle for her support, and leave her to those friends whom she so unhappily prefers to your protection and prudence. She has been taught to hate you from her cradle."—"I know it, I know it well!" said she sobbing; "but I am sorry I struck her; it was wrong; and although she provoked me, I ought not to have done so. Indeed, Miss Cowley, if you knew all, you would pity, as well as blame me. But I see how it is; my forgetfulness of myself has confirmed in your mind all that my enemies have said to my prejudice. Mary has her revenge, and the Heartleys their triumph!"—"I am sorry, Madam," said I, "to be called upon in a question of this kind; but qualified as I am to support the innocent, it behoves me to endeavour at least to rectify your opinions. Miss Howard, whatever were her discontents under this roof, kept them from her friends at the Abbey. She never has directly, nor indirectly, discovered them to me since I have been here. She is at this hour more concerned by the discovery of your harsh treatment, than for the loss of your favour. She speaks of you with respect, nay more, with tenderness and sorrow. She dwells with eagerness on the concessions which you generously made; and attributes your warmth of resentment, to your misconception of the supposed offence. Mrs. Heartley supports her, Madam, in this moderation, and labours to convince Mr. Flint that he has taken up this matter too painfully. Mary Howard cannot balance many favours with one offence. She is affectionate, placable, and unoffending; her heart is too pure for malice or ill-will; and her principles are too solid to permit her to slander you. To Mrs. Heartley's lessons and example she is principally indebted for these excellencies;—to nature, for a temper unrivalled in meekness."—"You appear," observed the puppy at my left hand, and on whom I had turned my back, "to be as able an advocate for Mrs. Heartley, as for Miss Howard. May I presume to ask you, how long you have known this all-accomplished Lady, to whom Miss Mary is obliged for her sentiments of love and veneration for her aunt?"—"Mrs. Heartley wants no advocate," replied I, darting upon him my contemptuous eyes. "It is sufficient for me to know her; and were other evidences of the excellencies of her character necessary, I should find them in the solicitude of my guardian, Counsellor Steadman, to recommend me to her favour and notice. He has known Mrs. Heartley from a girl; and if you are still curious, Sir, in regard to a person whom you appear to wish to know, I refer you to Mr. Steadman. He will probably satisfy you, that Captain Flint has been singularly fortunate in his amours; and that Mrs. Heartley is a kept mistress of as singular a kind. Are you satisfied, Sir? or shall I give you any further indications of Mrs. Heartley's singularities?"—"Oh, by all means!" cried he, affecting an aukward laugh; "you are an excellent encomiast."—"I can be no otherwise with such a subject for praise," retorted I; "but what I most admire in Mrs. Heartley's character, is her contempt of malice, and her compassion for ignorance: with me, this is the test, not only of her understanding, but of the purity of her life. With a steady hand, Lucy, I took my taper, and calmly wishing the company a good night, retired; the confounded Mr. Snughead, receiving my last look as he stood erect to let me pass. He observed, when I was departed, that for so very young a lady, I had a very decided spirit; and to say the truth, added he, rising and turning to the baronet, I am sorry I called out so much of Miss Cowley's warmth, on a subject of so little concern to me. Sir Murdock coldly bowed. Miss Cowley must remember, continued he, my having declared that I knew nothing of Mrs. Heartley but from common report. I am surprised, that a lady of her quickness, could not see the motives for my conduct there, and also to night.—So should I be, returned the baronet, if she did not, for they were pretty obvious; and Miss Cowley is not often dull in her observations, nor slow in her conclusions. The servant announced the parson's horse, who recommending to Miss Flint to think no more of such nonsense, retreated."

I will spare you the trouble of writing me an essay on anger. I know all you would say on such a topic, but it would be out of season; for I was not angry, Lucy: I am never angry, but where I could like, and love, were it necessary. You must demonstrate some specific remedy for antipathies, before I can be benefited by the lecture you will be prompted to send me. Now, collect all the antipathies in nature, and they will not amount to that which this reptile Mr. Snughead has produced in Rachel Cowley's mind. Perhaps I was too warm; but what is to be done with antipathies? I have no talent at a fainting fit; I cannot scream, and look terrified when I want only the strength of a man, in order to grasp a despicable foe. Nature, nature, my Lucy, is my divinity! to her do I owe my aversion of the Snugheads' race; and when they do fall in my way, what is to be done? I cannot crush them, as many do a poor harmless spider; but I would probe them to the quick, without flinching. Some vices I can pity, but a spirit of defamation is my abhorrence; and an unworthy minister of a religion to which I am attached, as my supreme good, is my antipathy. So I beg you will recollect yours to a toad, and pardon your

Rachel Cowley.

P.S. I admire Seneca; but what was his age when he turned philosopher? In the name of good sense I implore you to ask your father how long a term he gives to infancy. I am now an infant of twenty years and twelve days, and I am a better philosopher than Seneca. Is it not astonishing that your father does not yet know Rachel Cowley! I pray every day for him, and with patient hope, trust he will one day repent of his cruelty, and see with his own clear-sighted understanding, instead of the borrowed light of a squint-eyed worldly prudence.

LETTER XVI.

From the same to the same.

You cannot, I think, have forgotten, my dear Lucy, how often in the pride of my heart I have blessed nature for having compounded my character of better materials than those which our poet has inimitably given to a species of beings, who, in my opinion, only encumber the space allotted to mortals!

"Yet Cloe sure was form'd without a spot;
Nature in her then err'd not, but forgot;
With every pleasing, every prudent part,
Say, what does Cloe want? She wants a heart.
She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought,
But never, never reach'd one generous thought."

So much for those who want hearts. Now for those who have too much of this useful, but combustible commodity; and who, proudly relying on its impulses, drive on without knowing the course they steer, till they are surprised to find themselves ingulphed in the worst of all the deadly sins, which old Hannah, your cook, used to tell us St. Anthony quitted when he forsook the world for a cowl. I mean spite and rancour of spirit: and into this whirl-pool have I, for some time, been speeding, at the instigation of my good friend, a warm heart. How truly may I apply Pope's lines to myself!

"Oft in the passions' wild rotation tost,
The spring of action to myself is lost."

But confession is the best road to repentence, according to Hannah's creed; and you will not be a worse confessor for the knowledge you have of your present penitent's abhorrence of hypocrisy.

On Saturday evening Miss Flint asked us whether we meant to attend divine service the following morning. Colds and rheumatic pains were pleaded by the ladies. Sir Murdock was out of the question, he still obstinately preferring his own prayers to Mr. Snughead's. I, nothing loth to enjoy the silly triumph of seeing her mortified, promised to accompany her, and my conscience slept as sound as I did. She looked surprised on my joining her to go to church, to see me so smartly dressed; and I mentioned my engagement to dine at the Abbey, adding that I meant to walk from church with my friends; to which she civilly replied, that she could set me down, and that I should not discompose my dress by walking. We entered the church, passing the broad stare from the benches, and took our seats in the pew. Soon after entered the girls, in all the flutter of haste, and in their new attire. As they passed to their seat the woman all rose, as if by common consent, and curteseyed to Miss Howard with marked respect. The captain received this compliment with more surprise than gratitude, whilst Mary's cheeks were dyed with blushes. Her beautiful hair, in which, to be poetical, the autumnal breeze had sported more roughly than the zephyrs of the spring, had escaped from the little straw bonnet, and, in some disorder, shadowed off the lilac-coloured ribands: the simplicity of her person, clad in her unsullied white robes, had however acquired a more elegant tournure by the fashion in which she was dressed. A lilac sash and shoes completed the general opinion of the curious spectators, and with one accord, they told "nurse Dobs," that Miss Howard was for once dressed like "Mrs. Howard's daughter." In passing our pew, she respectfully curtseyed to her aunt, and on entering Wilson's, kneeled down. Miss Flint would gladly have done the same, but she could not kneel; she removed herself to the pillow, where she was concealed, and wept bitterly. In the confession, her sobs were even audible; and in mine, Lucy, I recollected that "I had done that which I ought not to have done." I had with a cruel levity and inconsiderateness promised to my angry passions, a gratification, for which my conscience and feelings now reproved me. During Mr. Snughead's discourse on the inefficacy of good works without faith, I was composing the lecture which such an instance of my obduracy of heart as the one that stared me in the face, would have called from our christian mother. Unable to reach the purity, and I had almost said the divine eloquence which flowed in her lessons, I endeavoured to recall her often repeated words: "You have, Rachel," would she say, "an erring, but a faithful admonitress in your bosom; you will never act wrong without feeling that you are deviating. Never, for an instant, resist the intimation your conscience will give you; the warmth of your temper requires all the vigilance of your moral guide; and Heaven, in its mercy, has so constituted you, that you cannot be unjust nor unmerciful, without feeling the pains you inflict, with an acuteness proportioned to those faculties with which you are endowed for the purpose of rising to eminence in virtue. You may subvert the intentions of your Maker by an abuse of his gifts, but even in this life you will be miserable by so doing; for you will never be able to stifle the reproaches of a heart formed to have no gratifications, but in seeing the happiness of all around it. Who would reject such privileges, and turn from the sweet and satisfying pleasure of doing good to all within our reach, for the indulgencies of a petulant temper, and a stubborn self-will?"

The whole convocated clergy could not more effectually, nor more authoritatively, have preached to me, than did the recollection of this lesson, and the occasion which gave rise to it. My part was now chosen, and I whispered to Mrs. Heartley, on the service being concluded, that I could not be with her till the tea hour. On going down the aisle, the poor and truly crest-fallen Miss Flint was obliged to proceed slowly; she is very lame. Amidst the half-whispered praises of the beautiful niece, who preceded her, she overheard one old woman say, "Aye, aye, she is like her parents, her's is not the beauty of a day; like them, she will be an angel in heaven!" Miss Flint looked distressed. "Lean on me, my dear Madam," said I aloud, and in an endearing tone, "do not hurry." She pressed my arm with emotion; and on reaching the carriage, wept so bitterly that I dreaded lest she should have an hysteric fit: her tears were, however, its preventive; and when somewhat more composed, she requested me to give the servant the order to stop at the Abbey. I answered, with the compassion she had excited, that I should not go; adding, "Let us extend our ride, the morning is favourable, and the air will be useful to you." I pulled the check-string; and we proceeded. The poor humiliated woman felt, I believe, this kindness, as also my attempts to divert her. These succeeded so well, that she dined in the parlour; and on quitting us to rest for an hour, asked us to drink our tea in her apartment. I pleaded my engagement; she coloured, and said, "Then, to-morrow?"—"Willingly," replied I, taking that hard and burning hand in mine, which had been my horror, "on condition that I find you here at supper-time this evening." She bowed, unable to speak, and with Warner's help and her stick, left the room. Lady Maclairn, who had attended her, returned in a few minutes, saying, that Lucretia was trying to get a nap; and cheerfully turning to me, she observed with a smile, that if in time she hated the Heartleys, as cordially as Mr. Snughead did, I should be answerable for the injustice. "How so?" asked I.—"They monopolise too much of our comfort," replied she, "and you may, if you please, warn them of the danger to which your partiality exposes them."—"You would act much more consistently," replied I gaily, "to warn them yourself; and by your influence with them, weaken mine. Why do you persist," added I, with earnestness, "in depriving yourself of a society so formed for you? Why will you refuse to visit those whom you esteem?"—"I cannot act otherwise, Miss Cowley," answered she, with seriousness; "I would visit them, were it possible for me so to do without infringing upon what I think a duty."—"You will pardon me," replied I, "for renewing a subject, on which you have before so decidedly given a negative, in consequence of the motive which at this time prompted me to recall it: this suggestion of my mind may also stand in need of an apology; but it will have one with you, in the goodness of my intentions. I think that after what has passed, Sir Murdock ought to visit Captain Flint. He cannot otherwise renew his visits here; and every means should be employed to effect a reconciliation between him and his sister, who appears to me truly concerned for this recent breach between her and her brother: besides these inducements, for a compliment of this sort, I think Sir Murdock owes this advance to himself and you, as much as to Captain Flint. What can mark his and your disapprobation of the violence which has driven his niece and himself from the hall more strongly, than convincing him, that you mean not to drop his acquaintance, nor to avoid him, because he has been injured, and your roof abused?"—"Miss Cowley is in the right," said the baronet rising with spirit. "I have deferred too long to convince Mr. Flint that we have been fellow-sufferers with himself in the outrage committed in this family, and not the aiders and abettors of a cruelty which would be the disgrace of a workhouse. You can have no objection to my waiting on the captain for a purpose so indispensible to my honour," added he, with some warmth of manner and addressing his wife.—"Sir Murdock Maclairn needs not the guidance of any one," replied she with tenderness, "on this, or any other question; his own understanding and principles will always direct him to a conduct of propriety and justice. Were it not for this conviction, I would say, go this very evening with Miss Cowley, and convince Captain Flint, that your wife has not suffered less than his innocent Mary. He will say that Sir Murdock Maclairn is entitled to his respect and esteem." I verily believe, Lucy, that had not her husband strained her to his bosom, I should to mine, she looked at this moment so amiable in my eyes. Malcolm flew to order the curricle; and conducted by the baronet, I set out. On the road some previous ceremony was adjusted; and on our arrival Sir Murdock entered the captain's apartment, I sending him from the drawing-room to entertain his visitor. They remained below some little time; when the disembarrassed and cheerful air with which they joined the party, relieved us. Mrs. Heartley overlooked, in her satisfaction, that it was the first time the baronet had been in her house; but with the most cordial frankness, she received him as an accustomed guest. She introduced to him Mr. Greenwood and Doctor Douglas, her visitors, and with the most courtly ease, Sir Murdock replied to her little compliments, that he perceived her protection would soon recommend him to the favour of his neighbours.

The night approached with a heavy fog, and in order to complete my humiliation, Miss Flint sent her coach "for Miss Cowley's return." Malcolm, whose hardness of heart still resists the hour of contrition, affirms that this compliment to my health and accommodation included Mr. Snughead's safety, who, profiting by the ordering of the carriage, had escaped an evil he dreads as much as his lady's death, namely, autumnal damps and the gout. I was not to be prevented; and finding her in the parlour, repaid her kindness with my fooleries, and made her laugh by a description of Doctor Douglas, with whose person and manners I was pleased, and with which I affected to be enamoured. The poor creature was amused; and your Rachel Cowley, somewhat at peace with herself, bids you farewell.

CHAP. IV.

LETTER XVII.

From the same to the same.

My dear Lucy will need no apology for my sending by the usual method, little more than the inclosed Memoirs of the Flint Family, with which the captain favoured me last Friday. The perusal of the manuscript has very much chilled my christian charity for Miss Lucretia; but I strive against temptation, and try to say with Mrs. Allen, "Alas! my dear Miss Cowley, this unhappy being is entitled to commiseration! Can you wish her a more severe punishment than her own wretched mind?" You, my Lucy, will not. But read and judge for yourself.

LETTER XVIII.

From Captain Percival Flint, to Miss Cowley.

Sensible, my dear Madam, that in communicating to you the painful circumstances of my disastrous life, I should unavoidably renew those feelings, which it is both my duty and my interest to suppress, I take this method of placing before you the sorrows and disappointments which have eventually made Mary Howard an object for benevolence and pity. Your generous offers of protection to this amiable orphan, have been so enforced on my consideration, by the genuine language of truth and humanity, that I should despise myself were I capable of doubting their sincerity; but Percival Flint cannot forget his own honour. Miss Cowley's connections must be convinced, that no advantage has been taken of her munificent spirit and feeling heart. It is requisite they should know, that, in the present object of her favour, there is both innocence and virtue as spotless as her own; and that in the poverty of her condition she may at all times find consolation and strength, by contemplating the worth of those who gave her life. You will therefore have the goodness to send the inclosed manuscript to your friends, and suffer them to regulate a generosity, unbounded as the source from whence it flows! My niece is indeed the child of Providence, and under every event I trust she will be worthy of its favour. To secure to her a friend like yourself, is my fervent prayer; but her claims must be established, before she can be the object of your care.

I remain, Madam,

Your obliged humble servant,

Percival Flint.

Memoirs of the Flint Family.

My father, Mr. Oliver Flint, by a diligent and persevering attention, and a constant residence on his estate in Jamaica, not only enlarged his property and increased his wealth, but also acquired so confirmed a predilection for the place in which his prosperity had been always flourishing, that he imagined the island of Jamaica to be the most healthy spot in the habitable globe; and it was a frequent topic of conversation with my mother, to prove to her, that the air was salutary, and that no one died at Jamaica, whom intemperance did not conduct to the grave. My mother was sensible that her health had suffered in this "terrestrial paradise," and that it was hourly sinking into debility; but she left to her countenance the office of confuting my father's arguments, and suffered in silence. A very dangerous fever with which my father in his fiftieth year was attacked, in spite of his sobriety and precautions, effected a change in his opinions, and probably preserved to my mother some years of existence in this world. Jamaica was no longer conceived to be without the inconveniences of its tropical situation, and my father hastened his preparations to leave it.

Our family, at the period we embarked for England, consisted of my brother Oliver, my sister Lucretia, and myself, who was the youngest.

My mother, in her wish to return to England, had been governed by motives of advantage to her children, as powerfully as by a consideration for her own health. The uncontrolled indulgence which my father granted us, bounded his views; our improvement constituted no part of his cares; and the consequence was, that Oliver and Lucretia, to use his own words, had never been ill a day in their lives. I was born less robust, and was reared with more difficulty. My mother, in her tender cares, kept me in her sight, and my mind was formed to docility, and my sports to more quietness, than suited the vigorous Oliver, and the romp my sister. I thus became my mother's amusement; and to her taste I am indebted for my love of literature and science. Our voyage was pleasant, though tedious. Our accommodations were easy, for the vessel was my father's; and in the delights of the deck, I lost, by my activity, the name of "Miss Molly," which my father, though with good humour, had taught my brother and sister to give me. My mother appeared to have left her complaints in "the wholesomest spot in the world;" she hourly became more cheerful; and my father confessed that the sea breeze was equal to the air of the plantation. We settled in London; and a time was given to repose and amusements; when, again my mother's cheek faded, and I took the alarm. Her maid-servant told me, as a secret, that we should soon have a nursery and a cradle to provide, and that her master was looking out for a country-house, in order that my mother might be quiet. This plan was effected; the family removed to a handsome, spacious house near Chelsea; and such was my father's solicitude for the quiet of his wife, that he placed Oliver, then thirteen, in a commercial academy in the city; Lucretia in a boarding-school; and in conformity with the wishes of his wife, who was not to be contradicted, I was sent to the Charter-house.

My father, who loved children, and coveted them with as much avidity as he did money, received the promised blessing with transports of joy; and my sister Mary's birth was commemorated as the renewal of his own life. With fond delight he shewed the infant to his friends, and exultingly pointed out to them the promises of a face which was, indeed, angelic! She did not disappoint these early presages. As she advanced in age, she exhibited a form and face which perfectly corresponded with a temper of unequalled sweetness; and with such graces, it was no wonder she was beloved even to adulation by my father, and the whole house.

An artist of some celebrity, and more skill, requested permission to take her picture. She was then in her eighth year, and the painter succeeded so happily, that he gained credit by exhibiting his work, and induced my father to have a full-length portrait of my mother, with Mary. This picture was my father's pride; an engraving was made from it, and scores of prints were sent to Jamaica, in order to convince our friends there, that the elaborate praises they had heard of this paragon of nature, did not exceed her beauty.

This instance of my father's fond admiration of his child, and in which he was countenanced by all who knew her, would not have found a place here, but for the inferences I drew from it. I had long perceived that Lucretia did not partake with us in the partiality we manifested for the innocent and bewitching Mary. I had seen the envy with which she regarded every proof of kindness and favour shewn to her; the spiteful misrepresentations which she gave of her disposition to strangers; and the contempt she discovered for the weakness of my father's adulation of his darling. During the time she was sitting for her picture, the artist was become a favoured guest at our table; and, with apparent sincerity, he observed one day, that a Guido alone could do justice to Mary's style of beauty. I saw Lucretia colour with vexation; and that very afternoon I rescued the poor child from her correcting hands, to whom with some resentment, I said, that I should inform my father and mother of her severity and violence. "Do so!" answered she, bursting into tears, "tell them, that the neglected, ugly Lucretia gave the beauty a sound box on the ear, and a lesson that she needs. Tell them, her baby face will be her ruin, but it shall never excuse her faults with me." The sweet and mild creature, with tears, protested that she did not know how she had offended her, imploring her forgiveness and soliciting to be friends.

I believe my prudent mother had observed the discontents of her eldest daughter as soon as myself; and in order to preserve the peace of the family, she studied to give Lucretia a consequence in it which she judged might satisfy, at least, her love of power. On her leaving school, my mother treated her as a young woman on whom she depended for assistance in the domestic concerns of the family. Oliver and myself were ordered to treat her with deference, and the servants were taught to respect Miss Flint's orders as her own. She continually praised her good qualities, and treated her with the utmost kindness and confidence. But Lucretia exercised her authority rather too much like a despot; my brother and myself were not always passive subjects; and the servants murmured under the controul of the young house-keeper. My father's tranquillity was thus invaded, and he determined on a measure, which, had it succeeded, would have restored order in his house. But Miss Flint was a plain girl; and my good father found that neither the frequent intimations which he gave of his liberal fortune, and designs in her favour, nor the commendations he bestowed on her good sense and notability, produced any overtures of a matrimonial kind for his daughter. Lucretia, estimating her fortune and pretensions, was too proud "to undervalue herself," and with manners never pleasing, she was overlooked by men whose fortune needed not trafficking for a wife. This period of her youth, of course, passed unpleasantly; and conscious that she was neither a favourite with her own sex nor the other, she disdained both, and acquired a severity of speech, and a pointed incivility of behaviour to all around her.

I had in the course of these events quitted my situation at the Charter-house. My partiality towards my sister Mary had not been unnoticed. Lucretia classed me with those whom she despised; and I met this indifference, it may be, with too much carelessness. In the mean time, my dear mother's influence was again exerted in my favour; but she gained her point with some difficulty. My father ungraciously observing, that he saw she was determined to have me learned and useless. He had no interest but such as his commercial concerns gave him; and he only wished, that I might not in the end blame her for an ambition so little profitable to my future fortune in life. My mother prevailed, and I was sent to Oxford. Satisfied with this extorted compliance, she saw me for two or three years happy in my pursuits, and the friend of my tutor; and wherefore, my dear Madam, should I suppress the glory of my life? She saw me her pride and hope! Her discernment in choosing the moment propitious to her applications in my behalf, and her gentle arguments in my favour had their effect; they could not make my father generous; but they prevented him from being mean; and my oeconomy rendered his bounty sufficient.

At this period of my history, I received the melancholy summons to attend my mother, whose life was in danger. Too soon were these apprehensions verified! I will pass over a sorrow which your feeling heart has known, and which was the tribute that every child must pay to the loss of a good parent. My mother appeared to have settled her accounts with this world, but as they related to Mary, then nearly fourteen. She spoke of her approaching dissolution with calmness and the hopes of a christian. "I have," said she to me, "only one anxiety to banish from my mind, before I give myself up to my merciful maker. But the mother is yet too busy for my resignation. You Percival, are my hope; you see the partial hand of nature has endowed your sister Mary with a beauty, which all must acknowledge; I dread it, as her misfortune. You know her artless, unsuspecting nature, the cheerful gaiety of her temper, and her soft, compliant disposition. Guard her, as you wish for a mother's blessing! Your father's pursuits in life, his excessive fondness for his dear girl, and, I may say it to you, his want of mental attainments, must disqualify him for the guide of her youthful career. Your brother will soon be so remote from her, that were he capable of protecting her, his situation will render him useless to her. Lucretia loves her not, and from the violence of her temper and the authority she will assume, every thing pernicious is to be feared. Watch over her safety; establish her in those principles to which alone she can trust for her security. Strengthen her in her weakness, encourage her in her duty, and preserve her spotless for that abode, in which, I hope, we shall be reunited. Your education," continued she calmly, "and what is of infinitely more importance, your moral attainments, not only qualify you to supply my loss to this precious girl, but they will, I trust, secure to you that mediocrity of fortune and independence I wish you. You are no stranger to your father's temper, and in his foibles you will find motives of gratitude to that providence which has afforded you the opportunity of correcting and enlarging your own views. I have of late," added she, deeply sighing, "found him more averse than usual to your expenditure at college. That wife who could convince him that his son was moderate and prudent, will be in her grave. Take this pocket-book, it contains my little savings, and it has been destined for your exigencies for some years. The time may come, when, with a mother's blessing, and the Almighty's favour, it will comfort you; preserve it for an hour of difficulty;" continued she, pressing my hand with great emotion, "endeavour to please your father; he has, my dear Percival, many good qualities. Live, if it be possible, in peace with Lucretia; be prepared for her ascendency. She will grieve your father in many points. I have laboured in vain to correct her temper, but God, in his own time, will, I trust, create in her a new heart; and she may live to befriend, not to annoy her family. Till that happy change takes place, be on your guard, never provoke her to anger, nor defy her power; such a conduct will never reclaim her, and will ruin you. Remember this my dear son, and continue to press forward in that course, which must, and will end well for those who faint not. The distance is short, and the recompence of virtue the prize; fear not the ruggedness of the path, nor be discouraged, because the wicked prosper."—But I am forgetting my purpose, Madam, in recalling the last words of my guardian angel!

My brother Oliver's voyage to Jamaica took place soon after my mother's death, and his marriage and final settlement in the island succeeded to these events. In the following year, my father purchased the estate of Tarefield, and giving up his business to my brother, and his old and faithful clerk, retired to the hall. His first sorrow for my mother's loss, was so violent as to give us fears for his life. His constitution was shaken by a fever of some danger and duration. On recovering from this peril, I could not help perceiving that the gloom which hung on his spirits, was tending to that state of discontent which invariably precludes all the "uses of adversity." Accustomed to seek, in the cheerful and conciliating temper of my mother, a relief in all the little petulancy of his own unequal disposition, he lamented her loss without ceasing, as a convenience, rather than a blessing, which he had seen torn from him. Lucretia, with unremitting attention, endeavoured to regulate his domestic comforts. Mary alone possessed the power to calm and compose his fretful hours; she was indulged as a child, in return for her tender solicitude to amuse and please him. I was useful to him in no way, and sunk into a cypher.

My father, in his sorrow, had forgotten to lament the loss of that benign influence, which had so skilfully counteracted the encroachments of avarice. Left to his natural bias, these soon appeared, and Lucretia failed not to make an advantage of a weakness which her mother had checked and restrained. Every reform in the expences of the family met with approbation, and my father insensibly gave his confidence "to his excellent manager." I silently submitted to the new order of things. The time approached for my emancipation from the restraints of my father's house; I had taken my degrees, and wished to pass one term more at the university, before I solicited my ordination. I spoke to my father on the subject, explaining to him my motives for the request I urged. "I have withdrawn your name from the college books," said he, "more than a week since. I see no good that can result from your losing your time, and spending my money there." I ventured to remonstrate, urged my disappointment, and added, that I had not been idle, but had worked both for honour and independence. "Pray, Sir," asked he with a sneer, "how much did you expect to make yearly, of your learned labours?" "Even in deacon's orders," replied I, cut to the very soul, "I might have eaten my own bread, and gratified my love of learning."—"That you may do here," replied he roughly, "by being Mary's schoolmaster; and at my table, with forty pounds per annum, I presume you will be as well off as with a curacy." My mother's blessed spirit saved me from uttering the reproaches which were on my lips. I remembered her dying advice, I bowed, and was retiring. "Hark ye, Sir!" cried he, "I see I have offended your classical pride, but you ought to remember, that I never wished to see you brought up in idleness. It was your mother's pleasure to see you the gentleman of the family. I always told her, I would not buy you a living: earn one, as I have done before you. Go to your brother Oliver, and he will teach you a better trade than that of a country curate. I will send you in the next ship, and then do something for you that will not be lost should you die: so you have time to consider of my offer, and to study your multiplication table into the bargain." I bowed, and said, "that my part required no time for a resolution: I was not educated for commerce; nor should I go to Jamaica; but I should consider that time well employed, which was devoted to Mary's improvement: for the rest, I relied on his goodness and favour." "As you please," answered he, somewhat softened: "at least, you will be useful, and you will have no wants under my roof." I bowed, and was permitted to retire. Lucretia exulted in this my defeat; but I kept my temper. Mary with delight, now listened to my plans of instruction. Young as she was, she entered into my vexations. "Be but contented here," said she, "and I shall be happy. My father's love is not yet diverted from his plaything; leave me to manage, you shall be comfortable." Every device which innocence and affection could suggest, was now practised in her playful hours with her doating father. She could not study in the common parlour, she should never think herself at school. My father ordered Mr. Percival to choose his own apartment; and a room was dignified with the name of my study. It were endless to enumerate the means this "spoiled child," to use Miss Flint's epithet, employed to lesson the mortifying circumstances of my situation. Her winning smiles, her sweet persuasions, her playful vivacity, had in appearance but one stimulus;—my ease and comfort. She rode on horseback, because this produced a horse for Percival's use, who was to attend her. She loved only what he preferred at table, and even in her application to my lessons, she was excited by the desire of serving me. My father soon discovered by Mary's proficiency in arithmetic and writing, that her schoolmaster was not ignorant in the multiplication table; and I, satisfied with my dear pupil's improvement, and gratified by her affection, became more reconciled to my situation. Mary's age, when in her seventeenth year, produced her a new title. "The spoiled child" was dismissed for "the idle girl," and lectures on the loss of time were not spared. With serious remembrance of my mother's too prophetic words, I laboured incessantly to implant in my lovely sister those principles of conduct, which in female life, particularly, are of more worth than all the learning of the schools. The regulation of her heart, and the strengthening her judgment, neither deprived her of her native simplicity, nor diverted her attention from the occupations of her sex. She continued to be my father's source of joy and comfort; and with a temper and an address, which it must be confessed, peculiarly marks the fair sex, and which, when employed as Heaven intended, renders a woman irresistible, she converted at her pleasure, the ungracious refusal into kindness, gloom into social content, and fretful complainings into laughter and delight. One triumph of this angel in form and mind, I cannot omit. She had by her innocent exertions to please her father, persuaded him, that at seventeen years of age, it was time for her to begin to economize her own little purse. "It is now three months since I was as old as my sister, when she had her regular allowance," added she, "and it would be the means of making me more careful and industrious, like Lucretia, had I the management of my clothes and expences. My dear mother used to say," continued she, changing her seat for my father's knee, as though sensible that she could thus more successfully transpose into his bosom a portion of that benevolence which warmed her own, "that nothing was more useful to a girl, than committing to her care the annual sum requisite to her expences. The pleasure of saving a trifle for some favourite poor child, or an indigent widow, excited their personal frugality: the attention it called out to little things, and the habits of order it promoted, were of the most important use to a young woman, who, living with good and tender parents, without wants, and void of cares, was in danger of becoming ignorant of the value of money, and heedless. I know I should manage my own affairs admirably," added she, fondly kissing him, "for you see that I have not forgotten my dear mother's lessons, nor her example." My father, subdued by this appeal, and softened by caresses so artfully, but seasonably bestowed, immediately gave her twenty guineas. She gratefully received them, and with bewitching grace and gaiety, wrote him in much form, an acquittance. He laughed, but was not displeased with her accuracy. "If," said he, "you can keep your accounts as well as you have done this, you will be fit for a merchant's wife in time."—"Never fear," cried she, "you shall see how expert I am: I will first pay my debts, and then keep day-book and ledger of what remains." My father, surprised, asked what debts she could probably have incurred. "They are those," replied she, "not only of gratitude, but of justice: my brother Percival has purchased books for my use, which he needed not for his own, and I know he wishes to enlarge his little store, but has not the means. Have I my dear and tender father's permission to share with him this his bounty? I shall have sufficient remaining." Conscience, or nature, seconded the sweet pleader. He gave her a note for five and twenty pounds for me, and finished by saying, "you may as well say nothing of this to your sister." Never shall I forget her transports when she related this incident to me. "Take it," said she, pushing the whole sum toward me, "take it as the first fruits of that affection, which my father will soon shew you. Oh! if he were but left to his own goodness of heart! how happy should we be, and how happy would he be himself! But have courage, my dear Percival, we shall succeed, for we will merit his love; and he will be just." I received my present with more contentment of heart than I can express; and Mary begged I would be her purse-bearer for the greater part of her treasure, adding, that she had no other means of securing it from her sister's enquiry, who took upon her to examine her drawers at her pleasure.

CHAP. V.

Memoirs of the Flint Family continued.

It was soon after this little event that my enjoyments were augmented by the arrival of Mr. Howard, who served the parish of Tarefield as curate to Mr. Snughead's predecessor, and who took up his residence as a boarder and lodger at Mr. Wilson's. Few circumstances could have more elated my spirits. The most intimate friendship had united us at Oxford. We were of the same College, and had enjoyed the instructions, and the good opinion of the same respectable tutor. Howard was my senior, and unquestionably my superior in learning: I had experienced the advantages resulting from this circumstance; for his attainments were a fund on which I drew for my own benefit. The external graces of this young man corresponded with the endowments of his mind; and the elegant scholar and unaffected gentleman was distinguished at the university, as the handsomest man there.

Comliness in form and feature, was the hereditary donation which Howard had received from his family, with its high pretensions to ancient splendour and honours. Fortune had so sunk its prosperity, that his father had earned his bread by his sword; and on his death, in the field of battle, left to his young widow, with a small life annuity, and a pension from government, this only child, then an infant at the breast. The spirit of Howard animated the partner of his adverse fortune; she devoted herself to the care of her son; but with anxious solicitude implanted in him her own sentiments in regard to a military life; and by a rigid oeconomy, and the sacrifice of her own comforts, she was enabled to place him in a profession, which united the ideas of honour and safety for him, with peace of mind to herself. To invite a guest to my father's table, was not amongst the privileges which I enjoyed at Tarefield. Satisfied by finding myself received at Mr. Wilson's with hospitality, and the frankness so inherent in the mind of this worthy man, I neither regretted the apparently uncivil omission which rendered my friend a stranger to my home, nor wished to see him received there. Mary, approaching to her eighteenth year, was a dangerous object for Howard's sensibility; and he was formed to please her. These precautions of prudence and consideration settled my mode of conduct during the first week or two of Howard's residence; but nothing was talked of at the hall but "the handsome curate," "the fine preacher," who was come to Tarefield. My father, never a punctual church-goer, and who had been long disgusted by the old curate's Yorkshire dialect, and his ignorance, to which was unluckily added, his not playing either at cribbage or back-gammon, had, when disposed to say his prayers in a church, preferred that in the next parish, now in the hands, as it was then, of Mr. Greenwood; who was also a friend of Mr. Howard's, and who had been the principal inducement for his acceptance of the curacy of Tarefield. I was called upon for my report of my friend's merits, and truth dictated my answer. "It is very strange you never mentioned his arrival," observed Miss Flint; "your friend must entertain a poor opinion of the hospitality of Tarefield-hall from the neglect he has received from us. It is rather odd, that he should not have called on your father; such an attention would have been proper; but I suppose he was prevented." This remark was not intended to fall to the ground; and contrary to my usual custom, I took care it should not. "It has never been a question," replied I, "between Howard and myself, under which of our roofs we should enjoy each others society. I neither invited, nor repulsed his appearance here; for he never mentioned the subject: if he had, I should have told him, that his introduction did not depend upon me. My father sees no company; and I should not have presumed to ask to his table, a guest, who had no better title to his notice than being my friend."—"I am not unwilling, Percival," said my father, "to receive him with that title, whatever you may think, provided I can understand him better than the last dunderhead that was here. Does Howard play back-gammon?" I could only answer for the purity of his English, and his cheerful temper. The conference concluded by my being desired to engage Mr. Howard and Mr. Greenwood to dine at the hall on the following Sunday. Nearly a week's penance was softened to Miss Flint by the preparations needful for the expected guests. To the important concerns of the table were superadded those which regarded her personal decorations; for, as she observed, she had lived such a recluse, that she was hardly fit to be seen by a gentleman.

From the day of this visit, Tarefield experienced unknown delights. My father found the curate an excellent hand at back-gammon, "when he minded what he was doing." The honey of Hybla was on Miss Lucretia's lips; and her smiles were the signal for every one's merriment. My father became good humoured, and of course less the invalid. He now thought himself equal to a journey to London, which he had long meditated, and which he considered as indispensibly necessary to his affairs. My sister earnestly seconded his intention, demonstrating that he would be the better for a change of scene, and the exercise it would give him. "Take your pet with you," added she with a gracious nod, "shew her London for a month, and you will return home a young man, and leave behind you those habits of retirement, which have contributed more to make you an old one than either your years or your infirmities." My father observed that he should have too much business on his hands to permit him to shew Mary "the lions," but that the ensuing winter, it was probable, he should pass some weeks in London, and carry with him his whole family. Miss Lucretia's logic had been too conclusive to be recanted; and she saw my father depart for London without his pet. Hope however, remained at Tarefield, and so whispered success, that this defeat was apparently forgotten in new expedients. These were of that sort which it was impossible for poor Howard to overlook or mistake. He confessed his embarrassment to me; and with that integrity of mind which marked his course through life, he declared his love for my angelic Mary. I did not forget my duty, Miss Cowley, although I well knew there was not a man on earth better qualified to be her protector and to render her happy. I failed not to place before my friend the insuperable obstacles which would oppose his wishes, from his want of fortune, and from the influence of the disappointed, and already too envious sister. I pointed out to him the necessity of his being less frequently at the hall, and pleaded Mary's peace as endangered by his persisting in a passion so calculated to reach her innocent bosom. Mr. Greenwood engaged to do his parochial duty for him for a month; in which time my father would be at home, and a more guarded intercourse could be established. Mary affected no concealments with me on the subject of her dejection when Howard left us. Love had made her quick-sighted; and attributing my friend's absence to its true cause, she lamented Miss Lucretia's folly as the only impediment to her happiness, "being certain that no father could reject such a man as Mr. Howard."

I will not prolong my narrative with the arguments which you will naturally suppose I urged against this fond and fallacious belief. Her tears subdued much more than her promises satisfied me, although she repeatedly engaged "to act with a prudence which I should approve; to wait patiently for years; never to cause the least vexation to her dear father, and even to avoid offending her sister by an acknowledgment of Howard's preference." All was easy! time would do every thing for Mary, except to render her indifferent to Mr. Howard! I promised to be neuter, and I kept my word. The lovers, as it will appear, found an expedient to keep up a correspondence, without implicating my honour, or alarming my vigilance. My father's unaccountable detention in London was forgotten by the curate's return, and unable to resist the attraction which drew him to the hall, poor Howard accelerated those measures which it had cost him so many hours of privation to retard. He was present when my father's letter to Miss Flint announced his marriage, with orders to prepare the house for the reception of its new mistress. Our astonishment at this intelligence was succeeded by our cares for Lucretia, who from fury, sunk into violent fits. When restored to more composure, she hung faintly on Howard's arm, and said, "Be not discouraged, my dear Howard! I will convince my father that I have as good a right as himself to be happy. Let the minx whom he has married, be his slave. My duty shall be devoted to a husband, who will not disgrace his family.—He shall, Howard, consent to the justice of my demand. I will force him to be generous; you shall have no reason to complain of fortune!" Poor Howard, sinking with confusion and unable to speak, was relieved by my calling him to assist me. Mary, who in stupid silence had witnessed this scene, fainted; and he was permitted to retire, after having assisted me in conveying her to her room.

You need not be informed, Madam, that in Lady Maclairn's now faded form we beheld the beauteous bride whom my father, in a few days, presented to his children. The more attractive charms of her youth may still be traced in the modest and pensive expression of her countenance. She was extremely agitated on her first appearance, and seemed intimidated to a painful degree. Her brother, Mr. Flamall, accompanied her to the Hall; and by an affected gaiety, endeavoured to encourage his sister, and to recommend himself. Her manners succeeded much better to reconcile us to the stepmother. A quiet melancholy, a mild and endearing attention to every one around her, indicated the sweetness of her temper, and the authority by which she had been compelled to marry a man of seventy. For some days Miss Flint refused to quit her room. My father's resentment was appeased by his gentle help-mate; and she entreated him to assure his daughter, that she neither meant to interfere in her management of his family, nor to lessen her influence. "Tell Miss Flint," added she, "that my office in this house will be confined to my duty, as it regards your ease and comfort; and that in order to be happy myself, it is incumbent upon me to render your children so. I come not as a rival, but as a friend, to this abode." She looked at us with emotion, and a tear escaped. Some concessions produced the submission which my father wished for; a general amnesty took place, and Mr. Flamall so entirely diverted Miss Flint's resentments, that, to my astonishment, she was obsequiously polite to Mrs. Flint. Howard paid his visit of ceremony; my father received him with his usual cordiality; but his general absence was unnoticed. Flamall played at back-gammon with my father, and his young wife engaged his attention. A hasty call from time to time prevented curiosity or enquiry; and I secretly rejoiced that Howard was less in Mary's sight. She was every day more pleased with my father's choice; and considering her as the victim of a brother's interested views, she loved her as being unfortunate, and approached her by a sympathy apparently well understood.

Amiable and uniformly correct as Mrs. Flint's conduct was, you will not be surprised, that I endeavoured, not only as a son, but as a gentleman, to shew her that respect and those attentions to which she was entitled. She loved reading, and my library was hers. Sometimes she would steal an hour from her tiresome duties, and with her needle-work join Mary; and I read to them. She loved flowers and plants; and I became diligent in the culture of them. My father was pleased with this acquiescence on my part, and one morning he asked whether I was not satisfied that he had augmented his comforts. I replied with sincerity, saying that I had no doubt of it; and that I was also convinced, that in his wife Mary would find a guide and a friend. "So I think," returned he smiling, "I saw from the first hour that they would suit each other." A few weeks passed in peace and comfort, when suddenly my father relapsed into ill-humour, and was still more harsh and abrupt with me than ever. Stung by some rudeness of this sort, I asked him what had offended him. "Your conduct," said he roughly. "I do not want you to make love to my wife."—"I am sorry," answered I, "that you so little understand me, Sir; you make me wretched by your suspicions, and injure a woman whom I believe to be truly virtuous."—"I believe her so," returned he, "but I want no rival under my roof." He left me. I was confounded and astonished beyond conception, and in my road to my friend Howard's, which I instantly took, I endeavoured by recalling my most indifferent actions, to find a clew by which to unravel this unaccountable jealousy which my father had shewn. Conscious that I had never in the most remote manner, either experienced or discovered a sentiment beyond that good-will and respect which my actions had evinced, I mentioned, in the course of my conversation with Howard, an incident of a recent date, which at the moment struck me, and which then appeared to explain, in some sort, my father's ill-humour, though not his suspicions.

Mrs. Flint, at the breakfast-table, a few days before, had, with cheerfulness, reminded my father of a promise he had made her in town. "He told me," said she, smiling on my sisters, "that you would like current coin better than fashionable tinsel; and thus prevented me from adding to the incumbrances of band-boxes; but he must keep his word, and enable me to acquit myself handsomely; otherwise, if you will help me, we will pick his pocket now, for I know we shall meet with a good booty." The poor fond old man kissed her, and said she could do what she pleased with him without assistance. She blushed with genuine modesty, took the offered purse, and gratefully gave us each a twenty pound note. I thought at the moment that my father's brow clouded; and I believe she thought so likewise, for, with a sweet smile, she thanked him for his goodness to her. I received, however, my gift with a bow of acknowledgment, not unmixed with the painful idea of my dependance. Howard listened to this little account; but he informed me that Mary had mentioned to him a conversation she had accidentally heard before the wedding gift was mentioned; and that from what had passed between Miss Flint and her maid, she was certain her father suspected the motives of my civilities to the young mother-in-law. Let it suffice, Madam, I determined to leave Tarefield; nor did my friend Howard endeavour to oppose my resolution. He saw that it was impossible I could live at the hall, and that my health and talents were sinking under the continual checks imposed on my activity and spirits.

He solemnly engaged to watch over the only object of my tender regrets, and to maintain his pretentions to her at the point of his life; to guard her as a sacred deposit left in his hands, and never to urge her to commit an act that I could not approve. I knew Howard, Miss Cowley, and I was satisfied. The remainder of the day was given to my secret preparations, and the following morning I was on the road to London; my good father's wedding gift in my purse, and my blessed mother's pocket-book in my bosom. Providence indeed was my guide! for I found a brother in Mr. Heartley, who had recently married the amiable lady you have heard villified at Tarefield-hall. Their union had been delayed from motives of prudence. A patron of merit appeared, and Heartley gave up the possession of the law for a post in the War-office. My friend succeeded in getting me a lieutenancy of marines; and with Heartley's management, my dear mother's dying gift was like the widow's cruise of oil. During my detention in town I received letters from Howard and my sister Mary. I copy a part of my friend's; these are its contents;—

"Love, my dear Percival, had supplied to our ingenuity a friend not more secret than yourself, but much more tractable and convenient. The hollow oak at the avenue gate received our letters from the time your prudence refused the office. I wrote to my beloved girl the whole detail of our conversation the day preceding your departure, and depositing it in the wonted place, hastened to pay my morning visit at the hall." I was prepared for the question, 'Did I know what was become of you?' I answered to the point. You had been with me the day before, and had mentioned your intention of setting out for London as that morning.—'I told you, Sir,' cried Miss Flint, giving me a significant look, 'that Mr. Howard is not one whom he would trust with his idle schemes!'—'You are mistaken, Madam,' answered I, 'Mr. Flint was explicit with me in regard to his motives for leaving Tarefield. He told me he was weary of idleness, and was determined to seek employment.'—'He has pleased himself, Mr. Howard,' observed your father, with much coolness. 'I can have no objection to his plan, for I have long recommended employment to him; but he has learned to despise my advice, and to think every man a monster who plants sugar-canes. A few hardships will convince him, that the bread earned by the sweat of the brow is as laboriously earned in Europe as in the West-Indies.'—'Percival's talents will, I should hope,' answered I, 'secure him from so bitter an experiment; and his education has not been subservient to commercial views.'—'So much the worse,' replied he, with passion, 'so much the worse for him! He would have been getting forward by this time; with Oliver as his assistant, he would have had three or four hundred pounds per annum.'—'Well,' replied I, 'let us hope he will meet fortune in his own way; and that will never be a dishonourable one.'—'Pray do you know where he means to seek the fickle goddess?' asked Mr. Flamall.—'Were she not blind as well as fickle,' replied I, 'she would seek him; but real merit and persevering courage will, in the long run, get before her.'—'In that case he must be more persevering than he has been,' observed your father, 'and better informed as to what will suit him. His Latin and Greek will do him no good, for he has discovered that priestcraft is as bad as the negro trade; but this comes of a man's having more ballast than his head can carry.'—'Whoever has insinuated into your mind, Sir, this opinion of your son,' replied I, 'did not know him; and I assert that he desired nothing more ardently, than to be ordained to exercise the functions of a parish priest.' He looked vexed, and said he had heard a very different story. I had given my sweet girl a look of intelligence, and she comprehended it. Mrs. Flint had tenderly taken her seat by her, and appeared anxious to console her. Finding your father said no more on the subject of your various sins, I rose to depart; and, resisting all Miss Flint's persuasions, was fairly making my escape, when your father graciously pressed me to stay and dine with him, adding, 'I am not angry with you, Mr. Howard, because you are Percival's friend: he may think as he pleases of me, and follow his own conceit. When he is pennyless he will find out his mistakes, and it may be, not find his father the slave-driver, as he calls me.'—You must, my dear Percival, write to him, &c. &c.

I did write to my father, Miss Cowley. I wish to forget his answer. He reproached me with having gained an interest in his wife's heart. She had sorrowed for me, and had even solicited for my return. He neither wished for my success, nor sent me a guinea. I embarked with my regiment for Canada; from thence I again wrote to my father, and also to my brother Oliver. The reply of the latter was not calculated to have removed my prejudices, if I had entertained any which were unfavourable to his traffic. "He was sorry that I had disobliged my good father, by a conduct which few men could overlook, and which he thought highly criminal, when my affinity was taken into the account. But idleness was the root of all evil; and he hoped I should, in my employment, retrieve my lost time, and regain my father's favour. He had four children; his wife, a teeming woman, expecting a fifth blessing. He wished me well, and was my affectionate brother Oliver." Here our correspondence closed.

During my three or four years banishment I heard of my father's increasing infirmities, and the discontents at the hall; of Howard's having lost his mother, and his being the husband of Mary, my beloved sister; and, in a word, of my father's death, and our inheritance of a shilling. The lieutenant returned to his hospitable asylum a captain. The Heartleys "killed for him the fatted calf," as the returned blessing, not the prodigal. Nothing, however, could detain me in town; and with all my worldly wealth, namely, thirty guineas in my purse, I took my place in a northern stage-coach; and quitting it within a few miles of this spot, endeavoured to hire a horse. Some difficulty arising, to which my impatience could not submit, I determined to leave my portmanteau at the inn, and to walk. I set forward, but was soon overtaken by a heavy rain. A stage-waggon was in sight, and knowing that I had no clothes with me, I accepted the shelter. A neatly-dressed country woman was the only passenger. The rain poured down in torrents, and she began her chat by observing that I had been lucky. I sighed. "Mayhap, Sir," continued she curiously examining my uniform, "you are not used to ride in waggon; but is it not better than being wet to the skin?" I said I found it so; and that it was comfortable. "Oh!" returned she, "many of your honour's poor soldiers would think it so!" Curiosity next came forward. "Had I far to go?"—"Only to the Abbey farm," answered I.—"We pass the door," returned she; "but you will find Mrs. Wilson in great trouble; she is sad indeed."—"Then you know the family?" said I.—"Know them!" repeated she; "who does not, that lives in the parish, and I may say for miles round?"—"I am sorry to hear she is ill," observed I, anxious for more intelligence.—"Why as for the matter of health," returned she, "thank God, she has no reason to complain; but she is sadly troubled to see the curate so poorly. I suppose, Sir, you know Mr. and Madam Howard, who live at the Abbey."—I bowed my head.—"It will make your heart ach, I can tell you," continued she, "to see the poor gentleman; he is a going, that's for certain! He has never held up his head since that old rascal of a father died, and left Madam only a shilling out of all his money. Dame Dobs, who nurses Miss, told me a week agone she did not know which of the dear souls would go first, for Madam Howard was a mere notomy with fretting. Ah! Sir, you may well turn up your eyes to heaven," continued she, with eagerness, "they will find a a God to comfort them there at least; and that is more than their enemies will. They have the staff in their hands here, but the devil gave it them! I would not be the mistress of the hall for this waggon loaded with gold! They say there is no sleeping in one's bed at the hall since the old man died. I do not wonder at it. How should his soul rest after such wickedness? There is Madam Howard and her dear babe left with a shilling! There is a poor son, he is drove from the hall a downright vagabond, if he be alive; but some say he died of hunger and cold in some great forest beyond sea, and was eaten by the blacks; and that his spirit also has been seen in the room where he kept his books, for he was a great scholar. I did not know him, but Dame Dobs did, and she says he was only too good for them."—"What is become of the widow Flint?" asked I.—"Why she, Sir, as a body may say, 'jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire.' She married a second time, with as bad luck as the first. She is a lady, but her husband is in a sad sort of a way, and looks like a ghost. Poor soul! she has had hard trials! But she is not of my mind. I would sooner beg my bread, with my children at my back, than live as she does, like 'a toad under a harrow;' But the money!—Aye, there's the rub!—Master Philip is to have all Miss Flint's wealth, and so all is submitted to; but she may find herself a loser in the end; for Mr. Flamall is as cunning as the devil himself, and only pretends to love Master Flint for his own advantage. They are a precious set! I would sooner wear lindsey-woolsey than Miss Flint's silks and satins! But, dear me, she knows she is hated in the parish; and that we all pray to God to spare to us Mr. Howard, who is a lamb, Sir, and too good for this wicked world; and when Miss Flint comes to her dying bed, what good will all her money do her, who has overlooked all her relations, if nothing worse? It is but lately I settled in these parts; but people have not forgot to talk. They say Madam Howard has been cruelly treated."—Unable to suppress my agitation, I said the vehicle incommoded me, and that I would walk the remaining part of the road. The rain had abated of its violence, and I quitted my loquacious, but honest companion.

Prepared as I had thus been, I could not without the pangs of despair behold my emaciated friend; and the faded form of my once lovely and blooming sister. I dare not recall the anguish of our first embrace! Let it suffice; it appeared that Heaven in its mercy conducted me to them for their consolation. Howard's spirits were renewed, the cherub Mary smiled in her cradle, and we forgot the past in our present comforts. Tarefield-hall was shunned; for I feared my impetuosity, and dreaded to disturb the tranquillity of my dear invalids. Heartley gained me three months leave of absence beyond the term allotted me, and I was happy;—yes, Miss Cowley, happy! for I perceived that I was the cordial of health to those whom I loved more than myself. Howard's cough disappeared; and he began to talk of freeing Mr. Greenwood from his fatigue of going through the parochial duties. This led him to expatiate on that gentleman's generous and unequalled kindness. "I will," added he smiling, "relate to you circumstances, in which you will find that in Greenwood's friendship heaven gave me a full equivalent even for your absence. So prepare yourself for a long story, and for acknowledging that Mr. Greenwood with all his gravity and sanctity favoured two lovers more than you did." He pressed my hand with affection and proceeded.

You have seen detailed in my Mary's letters to me, the growth of Mr. Flamall's influence at the hall. For a time we exulted at his success, as it promised, that by directing Miss Flint's unfortunate fancy from me to himself, we should be released from a serious obstacle to our wishes. On the death of my dear mother, and after a month's absence, I pleaded business and want of spirits for neglecting to visit my kind friends at the hall. Miss Flint took a particular liking to Mrs. Wilson, and visited her daily. Terrified by this attack on my strong-hold, I consulted Greenwood; and made a full confession of my attachment to my sweet Mary, not omitting your fatherly counsels and her trust in my devoted heart. He could only repeat your sage exhortations, and pity me. Mrs. Wilson was a more useful confidant, for I had notice of the enemy's approach; and my escapes were so well managed, that, foiled in the purpose of her frequent visits, Miss Lucretia forgot her dear Mrs. Wilson, and at once made known her intentions to her father. Mr. Flint's letter contained a very civil approbation of my conduct, in as much as I had practised a prudence which did honour to my principles, it certainly being an improbable event, that he should favour an union so unequal in regard to fortune; but finding his daughter's happiness depended on her marrying me, and that I had only been withheld from applying to him from an honest scruple, he informed me that I was secure of his consent, that he should allow Lucretia four hundred pounds per annum, and on the death of the rector induct me to the living of Tarefield. For his further consideration he made no doubt, I would patiently wait till his decease. Good God! continued poor Howard, what were my emotions on reading this letter! The exchange of one word in it would have raised me to envied bliss, and with patience could I have waited for all other considerations had your father been determined to rival in longevity Methusalem himself. But it was not Mary Flint. I answered his letter, and with all the expressions of respect which the subject demanded, finished by asserting, that I had long been an engaged man, and too warmly attached to a beloved object to conceive any measured conduct necessary; that I had on many different occasions, spoken unequivocally of the state of my affections, in Miss Flint's presence; and that my behaviour had never for an instant contradicted my words; nor could any motives of interest dispose me to relinquish a woman whom I loved. You will conclude that my favour at the hall ceased; and in my disgrace, even my pulpit eloquence was forgotten; for the family, when they were disposed to enter a place of public worship, went to Greenwood's parish. Secure as we mutually were on the side of faith and love, my dear Mary and myself contrived with the help of the faithful old oak and those hopes to which we fondly cleaved, to support those little trials of our patience. I had warned her never to keep my letters, and to be prepared for the inspection of a jealous woman. She was so docile to my wishes, that she not only obeyed me in this point, but from a secret misgiving, to the motive of which I was a stranger, she buried in the avenue her little store of gold. This secret I was told when she became my wife. She had been disgusted by Mr. Flamall's behaviour, and dreaded his cunning. Her mother-in-law's kindness favoured her reserve to him, and with growing attachment these young women would soon have been friends.

"Fortune now became weary of a love intrigue like ours. My beauteous sylph was seen by Miss Flint's woman, taking a letter of mine from the oak, and dropping one of her own into it. The alarm was given. My letter, seized by the furious sister, and hers, brought by the vile informer to her lady, were proofs of our intelligence which admitted of no palliation. I had, in my letter, very freely mentioned Miss Flint; praying to fortune that she might succeed in her attacks on Flamall's heart, who, Mary had informed me, was become her favourite. She had gone farther into this subject in her letter, and in a word, we had not been sparing in our animadversions on them, nor in our compassion for the nominal mistress of the mansion, who had not the courage to pull a bell-string in her own house. I will hasten from the scene that followed this discovery," continued Howard, wiping the sickly dew from his brow, "to what purpose should I repeat cruelties at which an inquisitor, if not lost to feeling, would blush?——Mary has told me since, that she is convinced they meant to make her mad. Imprisoned in her room, suffered to see no one but Miss Flint, and the woman who had betrayed her; without books, without needle-work, or a candle when dark! reproaches! even blows, Percival! She said she thought sometimes, that her senses were affected, for she frequently found to her surprise, that she had forgotten to go to bed. On one of these occasions she was alarmed by hearing some one at the window calling her gently by name; despair rendered her fearless, and, on approaching it, she found it was a young man who lived in the house as groom. 'I come to serve you Miss,' said he, 'because it is my duty. Your dear mother saved mine from the grave. I am Frank Crofts, to whom you used to bring cakes at Chelsea. Mr. Greenwood knows all about me, and my scheme; here is a letter for you from him; and I shall come for you on Saturday night; fear nothing; try to be easy: you will soon be with my mother, and honest people.' So saying, he retired. Mr. Greenwood's letter was satisfactory. And two nights of repose gave her strength to descend from the room two stories high by means of a ladder. Frank securing some linen she had provided, gave himself no trouble to remove the means of her escape. She recollected her concealed treasure, and he disinterred it. Greenwood was at the avenue gate with a decent looking man and a chaise. He told her she was safe, and that her guide would protect her. She instantly got into the carriage, which was an open, old-fashioned vehicle, with two stout horses, and driven by her conductor. They soon lost sight of the village. Frank retired to his pillow in the stable-chamber: and Greenwood returned home. I have given to my tale the language of romance," continued Howard, smiling, "we are now come to the climax. After morning-service, this lad in passing me, said, 'Go to Mr. Greenwood's,' and he instantly joined some people at the church-gate. I looked at him, and I perceived there was more in his manner, than could be understood by a common observer; with a palpitating heart I took the road to my friend's house. I had not proceeded far, when Frank, breathless with speed, overtook me. 'She is safe, Sir!' said he, 'blessed be God, she is safe. Mr. Greenwood will tell you all about it. They cannot murder her now.' He darted from me. 'I must not be seen with you,' cried he, measuring back his hasty steps. Judge of my feelings! I cannot describe them! Greenwood suffered my tears to flow; and at length begun with his darling topic of the excellency of human nature when uncorrupted by the world's contagion. This Frank Armstrong, as he properly styled himself under his borrowed name," continued my friend, "has been the deliverer of Miss Flint, from the simple suggestions of gratitude and pity. He brought me a letter from his mother who lives at Newcastle, in which she recommends him, to leave no means unemployed to rescue your mistress from her hard captivity, to consult me on every step, and to inform me of the obligations she was under to Mary's mother. These were fully stated, and Frank proceeded to his own confession. He preferred being a sailor to working with his brother-in-law, a wealthy farmer, who lived five miles from Newcastle; he left his good friends secretly, and by chance stopped at the Ram for refreshment. There he met a groom just discharged from the hall, and who disgusted by Miss Flint, entertained Frank with the history of the family, and gave vent to his own resentments. Miss Mary was the heroine of this history. She was an 'angel,' but with the rest, made miserable by the 'she-devil' who ruled in the house; and he had left the hall in a fine 'kick up;' for they had found out that Miss Mary had been writing a love-letter to the curate her sister's sweetheart. Curiosity appears to have been the first stimulus to Frank's project; he won on the landlord to recommend him to the vacated post, and Tarefield being in no great repute for kitchen comforts, he was engaged on trial, and entered into the family as groom, under the name of Frank Armstrong. In a few days Frank was in the family secrets, the kitchen account was in the captive's favour. Anne, the chamber-maid, to use Frank's words, made his blood boil in his veins. He wrote to his mother, promising he would never go to sea, if she would come and take away Miss Mary. The good woman's letter to me, was an undeniable proof of her principles and prudence. I observed, that the only difficulty was to remove Mary from the house. 'Leave that to me, Sir,' said he, exultingly, 'leave that to me, I will die rather than she should! only, as Miss does not know me, I must have a letter from you; she may think that I am an enemy.' Struck by this acuteness, I gave him a short note and he disappeared. The next evening he called upon me. 'All will be ready for Saturday night,' said he. 'My brother will be here. I have contrived it.'—I stared with surprise. 'Why you know, Sir,' said he, 'I could not do without a ladder, seeing Miss Mary is locked into a chamber two stories high; and as for unbolting and unbarring, were she even below stairs that would be impossible, without making more noise than we want. So, Sir, I have provided ladders in plenty, and what is better, as high as the house. He laughed immoderately. It was a good thought, cried he, though I say it; for I have made them a job which will put money into their pockets for the use of the ladder. An explanation followed. I found that Frank could reason on causes and effects. A six weeks drought, said he, with a new moon, promised rain, and I was determined that there should be no want of water at the hall when it did come, so I have been in the false roof and have made such breaches in the tiling, that the garrets are afloat every shower that falls, and we have had plenty! just as though God Almighty had sent them for the purpose of serving the poor young lady.'—But why did you chuse Saturday night? asked I, on any other I could have gone with her. I will answer that in a moment, replied he. First your honour must know, that Sunday is a Sabbath of rest with our folks at the hall; I had them safe in their beds till eight or nine o'clock, and there was time gained. Secondly, Mr. Webster, my brother, could not so well come on any other day, because of his horses: and in the last place, said he, rubbing his hands with vivacity, I shall never as long as I live forget Sunday, whether I am at church or at home. The better the day, the better the deed, say I. God will bless it again, if I can save this poor soul! He then gave me with emotion the account of her treatment which he had learned from Anne the chamber-maid, who was as he said Miss Mary's 'true friend.'

"Yesterday evening Mr. Webster made his appearance, we concerted our measures, and all has succeeded. The rescued prisoner is now on the road to a shelter, and she is safe from pursuit.

"I am," continued Mr. Greenwood with dignity, "perfectly satisfied with my own motives for an interference in this business. It is the duty of every man to assist the oppressed. Mr. Flint by his imbecility and injustice has forfeited the rights of a parent; he has given up his authority into the hands of an enraged and disappointed woman, whom he well knew to be ungovernable in her passions, and under whose power he himself groans. I have acted for this father, Mr. Howard; he may one day thank me, as the deliverer of his child. It requires but a superficial knowledge of human nature, and little experience in life, to know the fatal effects of counteracted and opposed passion, in a youthful mind, when cruelty is the means employed to accomplish the purpose. I am not disposed to believe that many girls die of love; but I have seen many examples of an evil more to be dreaded than death, by an improper and harsh opposition to this passion, as well as others; and when I saw your Mary I was convinced that I was acting in favour of humanity and justice. I have, however," continued he, "engaged her promise of obedience to my directions; and I now claim your word of honour, to be governed by me. I will endeavour to see Mr. Flint; have patience; write to your beloved Mary. I will take care she has your letters; and you will soon hear from her. But you must not quit Tarefield without my permission." I answered him with my tears; he was satisfied.

A month passed. Greenwood found Mr. Flint inaccessible. He desired to see Miss Flint; and at length gained his point. With well affected concern she mentioned her father's illness as the reason of his refusing his friendly visits, adding, that no consolation could at that moment reach a mind sunk to despair, by the conduct of an ungrateful and too tenderly beloved child. She entered into the detail of my infamous duplicity, and Mary's as infamous advances to my preference. I wave however, continued she, my own injuries, bitterly as I still feel them; but the letters now in my father's hands I can never forget. The cruel mockery, the insolence of them, as they relate to him, is unpardonable! Would you believe it possible, added she, that amongst these proofs of depravity in a girl so young, my father has one, which has convinced him, that she was in Percival's secrets; and that she favoured him in his profligate inclination for Mrs. Flint, telling him, that in time she might listen to him more kindly. Could you give credit to this report Mr. Greenwood asked she, on a less certain evidence than mine? Even yours, replied Mr. Greenwood, is insufficient; for I will maintain every syllable you have uttered to be false, till I have seen those letters, and have confronted them with the declaration of the supposed writers. When I see Mr. Flint less a prisoner than he is, when he is permitted to listen to truth and to justice, you may have, Madam, better claims to my confidence than you have at present. If your visit was intended as an insult, replied she, rising with fury, its purpose is accomplished; and your character, which you have forgotten, shall be your protection, till you leave this spot. It shall do more, said Mr. Greenwood calmly, for it is proper I should warn you to pause in the road you are in. I am well informed, Miss Flint, and I caution you, as the minister of a master who "hateth the oppressor, and abhorreth the workers in iniquity," to consider what you have done to offend him; and what you still meditate to do, in order to ruin that innocent which is God's peculiar care.

He instantly quitted the room, leaving her confounded or choaked with rage. Mr. Greenwood soon after gave me my leave of absence. I flew to my every earthly good. Mrs. Croft had conducted her to Berwick, and on my joining her, we were united in the presence of as many witnesses as curiosity and the admiration of Mary's beauty collected. We passed a week with Mr. Webster, and finally settled here, with a welcome of a long hoped for blessing. Frank was early in his visit of congratulation, and our gratitude overcame him. He gazed on Mary. "Now I see," cried he, "the same face I so well remembered; but Lord help me! when you came, like a reed, down the ladder, and I saw your deadly paleness, I could hardly help thinking that ghosts had bones, and that I had one in my arms, for you looked for all the world like one. Who could have believed, Sir," added he, "turning to me with exultation, that a month or six weeks with my mother, could have made roses so cruelly frost-bitten, blown again! Oh! I would give the world if Miss Flint could see you both at this moment! she would be paid interest for all her wicked labours! but she will have it, yes, yes, Sir, the reckoning will stand; there are no sponges for her accounts! you know that, Mr. Howard, no white-washing in the creed you teach!"

"I am prolix, Percival," continued my brother, "but you share in the enthusiasm, which has for its object, a character like this." He at length, sedately gave us the particulars of the discovery of Mary's escape, which, you will easily imagine, produced the utmost confusion: I was naturally the first person suspected as having aided her; but I had, fortunately, passed the Saturday at Bishop's-Auckland, and had slept there. This alibi proved, and my remaining quiet at Wilson's perplexed them, and lost in conjectures, they gave up the fruitless question. Frank was requested to convey our letters to Mr. Flint. My master keeps his room, said he, sorrowfully; and Madam Flint no more dares to act in the matter, than to swallow fire, or poison, poor soul! But do not cry, my dear lady, all will turn out well in time. Let me consider, I will contrive! Anne goes into the room, and there is nothing she can refuse me, she is as honest as the day is light, and loves you, Madam. Never fear, you have got Mr. Howard at your side, and it is a long lane indeed that has no end. I know but of one that never ends, let them take that who like it, say I; but yours is a sure road, Madam, and never mind, altho' it is not, at present, all on the nail. "Oh Percival," exclaimed poor Howard, lifting up his expressive eyes to Heaven, "what is man when true to his endowments! He is indeed but little lower than the angels, and worthy of the all-perfect hand which made him! But I shall meet this fellow-mortal, and rejoice with him in his glorious recompence! Our letters were committed to his faithful hands. Two or three days after, he came to make his farewell visit, and to request Mary to write to his mother, that she was satisfied with his conduct. Our letters to the hall were returned, the seals unbroken. Anne was discharged at a moment. Mr. Flamall, said Frank, paid me my wages, and told me I did not suit my place nor the family. I could have told you that, said I, long ago; but you had nothing to do with me, nor I with you, Mr. Flamall. I spoke as I felt, Sir, added he, nodding to me. He warned me if I valued a whole skin, not to be insolent; but I told him that neither my skin nor my honesty would be in danger from him. He said, I was a low scoundrel. I never heard, said I, keeping my ground, of a scoundrel who was not low, though he tacked squire or counsellor to his name. He advanced to strike me, but he thought better of it, I believe, for he turned on his heel. I wish to the Lord he had, he would have met with his match at a hard blow, though he will never find one in his roguery. Anne says there are fine doings going on between him and Miss Flint. So much the better, let them have their swing, till their own noose catches them! 'tis the old one's trick, you know that, Sir, continued he, and have often told us that his snares were of our own making, and that we had arms in our hands, that would bind his, if we were disposed to use them. But I must go, added he, to fetch my things, and I will call again for your letter, Madam, and my blessing. He bowed, and hastily left us, penetrated with admiration and gratitude."

From this time we have not seen him; but we hear from his mother, that he is married and settled, and continues in the line of conduct that was to be expected from such beginnings of virtue and goodness.

To Mr. Greenwood's and Mr. Wilson's exertions in my favour, I stand indebted for the bread which has supported me here; the former convinced the rector, that I was an honest man; and the latter employed such zeal in my cause, that a paper was signed by most of my flock, containing such a report of me, as proved that I was qualified for a bishopric at least. Happy in the wife of my bosom, cherished by the worthy beings who sheltered us as the honour and blessings of their roof, I should have forgotten Tarefield-hall, with its inmates, but my poor Mary heard continually of her father's declining health, and prompted by her tenderness, she was as continually making attempts to see him. A letter she sent to Mrs. Flint, reached her, and in a few days we were surprised by the sight of Mary's clothes and linen, which were left without a message. In arranging them, with the sweet hope which this consideration inspired, a note dropped from a gown sleeve; it was from Mrs. Flint, and contained a bank bill of twenty-five pounds. "I send you as a token of my love, my dear and injured girl," wrote Mrs. Flint, "the inclosed trifle; this is all I am able to do. My interference in respect to sending you your clothes, has been highly resented. Believe, that in me you have a friend, but alas! that friend is too much oppressed to serve you, or your unhappy father, whose heart still turns to his child. Have patience; write no more to Harriot Flint, she is watched, and hazards her peace even in this simple act of humanity.

"In proportion as your father approached his grave," continued my brother, "my wife became wretched, and my spirits were in continual agitation lest in the concessions which she prompted me to make, I should be censured, as being governed by self-interest. At length we heard of his death, and in due form were summoned by an attorney, a Durham man, to the hall, in order to be present at the opening of Mr. Flint's will. You know its purport. When the lawyer had finished reading, I rose, and taking my nearly sinking Mary's cold hand, I fixed my eyes on the heiress's face. 'This is at least Howard's,' said I, 'and in his affection at least your sister is rich. Neither malice nor envy dare invade these rights. The Being whom we adore is able to provide for us, and the bread he bestows, will be that of peace and a good conscience.' Miss Flint made no reply. Mrs. Flint, who had during this time covered her face from observation, now rose with emotion, and stopping me as I was advancing to the door with my precious burden, she said, 'As Mr. Flint's wife I was dumb; but as his widow I will speak. If Mrs. Howard wishes to follow her father's remains, have the goodness, Sir, to let me hear from you.' She hastily left the room before me. The next day my wife received from her a parcel of mourning stuffs; but my heart revolted at favours given to beggary. I sent them back with a card, 'Mrs. Howard is provided with mourning.' A fever of some danger prevented my Mary's thinking of the funeral. It was magnificent, and your mother's remains were disinterred and brought hither to rest with her husband's. Poor Mary has been one of Greenwood's hearers ever since; and even my nerves were for a time shaken by their monument, which is in the chancel."

CHAP. VI.

Memoirs of the Flint Family continued.

"My health had not been spared in these vexations, and its interruptions made a coward of me. I experimentally felt the truth of our favourite Terence's observation, 'I am a man, and have the feelings of a man.' Whilst counting my throbbing pulse, my widowed Mary and helpless child smote on my heart, and weakened still more the springs of life. My little fund of about five hundred pounds had insensibly diminished; you were remote and might never return; and I yielded to despondency. But my God has graciously heard my sighs; you are with me and I am comforted; for you will never forsake my wife and child."—I must pause, Miss Cowley.

I saw with sanguine hopes the renewal of my brother's health and cheerfulness. I received orders to join my regiment, and our embarkation for America soon followed. Once more, oceans divided me from my dear friends! Waving as useless the detail of my military life, I will hasten to a conclusion. My brother's letters were for a time such as I wished; but the arrow had been aimed too well. He died when I was remote; leaving his daughter in her fifth year. My return to England followed in a few months after this event.

In our passage home we captured a rich vessel bound for St. Malo's. In the engagement I lost my leg; but gained six or seven hundred pounds prize money.

On reaching London after a delay thus imposed, I found Heartley on his dying bed; this trial did not accelerate my recovery. A fever succeeded to his last embrace. Alas, his virtues suited not the world he had escaped! Its cold and ungenial maxims could not find admission into a heart glowing with every noble affection. Trusting to vigorous health, and scorning the prudence which gives but to receive, he lived honourably and died poor, leaving his widow with a jointure of barely two hundred pounds per annum, for the support of herself and two children. This inestimable woman found in her difficulties and principles resources for ennobling her character. Her sorrows were reserved for her pillow; and with a calm and collected mind, she disposed of her effects, paid every outstanding debt; and then declared to her friends, her intention of quitting London, in order to give in retirement those habits to her children, which alone could render them contented and independent. Mr. Wilson's house was the asylum she chose; and in me she saw the guardian whom her husband had named for his son. My dear Mary had her share in these arrangements, and we left town, I having succeeded in my application, and seen my claims established as an invalid on half-pay. We reached this place: and I entered Wilson's friendly gate once more. Again did I fold in my agonizing embrace the image of death. Great and merciful Being! thou wilt not in rigour remember the frenzy of my despair, while, bending over my fainting sister, I called down for vengeance on her destroyer! For some days my soul sickened whilst I contemplated in her emaciated form, the triumph of cruelty and the ravages of sorrow. But she smiled me to resignation; and my heart received the blessings which Heaven had spared me. Our tranquillity met with no disturbance from the hall. I had been settled more than a month, when one morning, in passing the hall gate, I saw Miss Flint and Mr. Flamall standing in the road opposite to it, as though waiting for some one from the house. I passed them as an absolute stranger. Mr. Flamall called me by name, and added, "Miss Flint, Sir, wishes to speak to you." She advanced, and I stopped. "I should have sent my attorney to you, Sir," said she haughtily, "if I had not thought that you would in less than a month have found leisure to call at the hall."—"When I have any business at the hall, or interest in those who reside there, I shall find leisure to call," replied I, with ill-suppressed emotion. "I neither expected, nor desired your visit," answered she, "on my own account; but I beg to know your pleasure in regard to the books you left behind you, when you deserted it."—"Consult your lawyer," replied I; "if it be allowed that I have a right to more than a shilling, send them; I will pay the carriage, as I did the bookseller of whom they were purchased." I walked on, and soon saw that she was joined by Mr. Snughead, to whom she had recently given the living of Tarefield. This circumstance did not contribute to restore my equanimity. Poor Howard pressed on my memory and I returned home dejected.

My books made their appearance on the following day; and contributed to my success as a tutor. Malcolm, Maclairn, and Henry Heartley were my pupils; and neither of them have disgraced me. I pass over all the fluctuations of a malady so fallacious as my sister's. Her approach to the grave was so gradual, that at times she laughed at our precautions, and beguiled us of our fears; but when on the confines of it, she was untroubled, and spoke of her dissolution with serenity.

One day she told me that she had been writing to Lucretia, and wished me to read the letter before she sealed it. I waved my hand, and turned away my weeping eyes. "Well, I will not urge it," said she putting in a wafer; "but I cannot die in peace, without assuring her, that I sincerely forgive her. I am hastening to an abode, into which no animosities can enter. I have none to impede my entrance; and the time may come, when poor Lucretia will find a consolation in this assurance. I have even recommended my poor child to her regard, as a proof that I have pardoned her unkindness to me. The only sentiment I now can feel for an offending fellow-creature," added she, wiping away a starting tear, "is compassion; and I leave you to judge, Percival, of that which now actuates my breast for a sister, the child of the same parents, of a mother without equal in piety and humanity; of a father!"—her voice sunk—"whom I grieved, perhaps more! Do not think I have forgotten my Howard's noble spirit," continued she; "I have not meanly sued for his child's bread. I have not an anxious care for her as far as relates to her maintenance. I have resigned her to Providence, and I leave her to you. But were I wholly to omit her in a letter of this kind, it would, I think, have shewn a spirit of pride, and of indifference to my child. Her aunt is rich in this world's wealth, she is poor. Lucretia may live to recollect her duty; and in this destitute girl find an object who, without any claims of affinity, will be worthy of her favours. Be not alarmed, my dear Percival," continued she, seeing my emotions, "indeed I have not said too much! You ought to consider that you may be removed, and I have pointed out to Lucretia, a positive duty; I have not solicited her charity."

Mrs. Wilson took charge of this letter. Some time after she returned, her countenance glowing with resentment and the speed she had made. "Thank God!" cried she, showing the letter, "there it is again! For once I have my mind, and what is more, have spoken my mind!" Mrs. Howard took the letter with a trembling hand. "Why surely, my dear lamb!" continued the affectionate woman, "you are not grieved that your enemy will thus set her face against you! Her time is not yet come for your tender mercies, for she is at variance with her Maker. I told her so, word for word, and more than that; for I said Miss Mary would never want her notice. She will remember me, I'll be sworn!"—My sister was touched, though troubled, by this well-meant zeal, whilst I only felt its justice. Two or three days passed, when the now rapidly declining object of my tenderness gave me a packet directed to Miss Flint. "Promise me," said she, "to deliver this into Lucretia's hand; it is become indispensibly necessary that she should know I neither meant to wound her feelings, nor to exasperate her temper. I conjure you to promise me."—"Were she guarded by a legion of devils," exclaimed I, yielding to the anguish which tore my soul, "she shall receive it from my hand into her own! She shall feel the misery which she has caused!"—"Remember," replied she, "that the probe which is not skillfully used must inflame. When you do meet her, remember your mother!"

Her death soon followed. I was frantic in my grief. My passions would not be opposed, and these brought the murderer of my comfort before me in a sister's form. I swore solemnly that she should witness the ruin she had effected; and that I would drag her to Mary's bed of death. These violent agitations subsided to a more collected and determined purpose of thought. I was incapable of receiving Greenwood's arguments, and I was soothed by being left to my design. Greenwood performed the last sad office. Preparations were made for receiving the remains of Mrs. Howard, for the purpose of interment at his church, where her husband was buried; but the hearse and coach stopped short of the hall. Following the coffin I proceeded on foot to the great gate of the house; and, bidding the bearers stop, I rang the bell with fury. A man-servant answered my hasty summons; and, appalled by the object in view, he stood motionless before me. "Tell Miss Flint," said I, "that I must see her; that I am the bearer of a commission from the dead, and that I will be numbered with the dead before I leave this spot if she refuses to admit me." Some little time elapsed: I was admitted; and the trembling heiress, surrounded by her maid-servants, and protected by Mr. Flamall, with terror met my slow approach. Flamall broke the silence. He asked me what I had to say to Miss Flint. I waved my hand. "Be wise!" said I, "this is no time for you."—He took the advice and shrunk from my eye. I presented the packet to Lucretia; she attempted to retreat on seeing the address. "You must take it," said I calmly: "nay, more, Lucretia, you must read the contents in my presence: such are my orders; and before my Maker, have I sworn to fulfil them."—"Give it to some one," cried she, covering her face; "I promise to read it when I am able."—"That will not suffice," replied I, sitting down and bursting into agonizing tears; "I have no apprehensions: a sister's dying blessing cannot injure, a sister's forgiveness cannot wound you." She took the packet, broke the seals, and, hastily glancing her eyes over the two letters it contained, asked me, with rising anger, "whether I was satisfied with having insulted her under her own roof?"—"Call it as you please," answered I, sternly; "my business was not to compliment. I leave you with a remedy you need. Profit from it, lest a worse thing befal you than my insults." I instantly left her; and on my sainted Mary's grave wept my feelings down to composure, Time, and my remaining comforts, healed, to a certain degree, these breaches in my peace. I was at length summoned to town with young Heartley, by his friend, to prepare for his voyage to Calcutta. A month was employed in my cares for Heartley's son, and my gratitude had its turn. I saw him embark with all the sanguine hopes of youth, qualified by my care, for an honourable destination; and gifted by nature with every virtuous and noble trait of his father's character. He was under the protection of a man who loved that father, and I contentedly went back to my lodgings in order to prepare for my return home. My demands on my banker had been extended beyond their usual course; and I had to settle my account with his books before my departure. I called at his house, it had stopped payment; and in a week or ten days detention in town I learned, that I might expect for the remaining sum of five hundred pounds in his hands, a dividend of "five shillings in the pound."

Mrs. Heartley was informed of this event by her London correspondents. My philosophy did not console her; but it was shared by the Wilsons, who observed "that the captain was quite in the right not to fret about it, for that his comforts were in no danger of a bankruptcy."—From this time my influence with them rose to a marked respect and deference, and we had no difference in opinion but on quarter days. About a year and a half since I received a letter from Miss Flint, by the hand of our daily guest Malcolm Maclairn. "She wished to see me, having something to propose which she trusted would heal the differences between us." Mrs. Heartley's and Greenwood's arguments prevailed. I went, and, after some prelude, she told me, that she had been informed of the banker's insolvency, and was willing to relieve me from the burden of supporting Mary. I coldly replied that I had never found her such. "Be it so," answered she, "I mean not in this interview to offend you. I will take another mode of expression. Consider whether a girl may not be as safe under an aunt's protection as under an uncle's, and that you may die and leave her destitute. I have lost sight of my brother Philip; I think she would amuse me; and if you like the proposal send her, I will instruct her to be useful at least."—"Ah, Lucretia!" cried I, "you may at this hour render her so! Let this precious girl be the cement of our renewed ties of nature!"—"I must first be assured that she has not been taught to hate me," answered she, colouring: "neither my intentions nor your wishes can be effected, if this be the case. Let her come; I wish to know her, and she must remain a stranger to me whilst she is at Wilson's; but we will at present drop the subject: in a week I shall expect an answer."

She then detailed to me the miserable state of Sir Murdock Maclairn, pitying his wife, who lived nearly altogether in his apartment. I will pass over the struggles which ensued. Mary eagerly solicited my consent. I saw her motive, and clasped her to my bosom. Mrs. Heartley and Greenwood seconded her. "It was my duty to resign her."—"It was incumbent on all to submit to necessity."—"It was Mary's future support to have an interest with her aunt, and she could not fail in humanizing her."—"By a refusal I was hardening her heart, and perpetuating enmity."—You will distinguish the different speakers. Greenwood's argument prevailed; for they breathed peace and love, and reformation and pardon. I submitted, Miss Cowley, and conducted my harmless, sweet child, to her unfeeling aunt; and I became a weekly visitor at the hall. Surprised by her not coming to see her deserted friends, I questioned her on the cause of her omission. "It will be only for a time," replied she, in a caressing tone, "we must have patience. My aunt fancies I shall not love her if I visit my dear friends. It is unlucky that she should so much dislike them; but I write to my Alice, and that is a comfort. When my aunt perceives that I am obedient to her commands in this no little trial of my patience, she will be more indulgent; in the mean time I am perfectly contented with my situation, and you shall see that she will love me." Mrs. Heartley approved of Mary's conduct, adding "Miss Howard must subdue that inflexible woman, or she is lost to all hope."

You have seen the result! You have witnessed her aunt's obduracy! I accept, with gratitude, your offered protection. Heaven has given you the means, and a mind worthy of the donor! The time may not be far remote when this destitute young woman will present herself before you, weak in her youth, in her beauty, and in her purity. Shelter her, Madam; the work will be honourable, and the recompence beyond what my most fervent prayers of gratitude can reach.

I remain respectfully,
Your obliged humble servant,

Percival Flint.

P.S. I had intended to suppress one instance of the power of passion over a mind unchecked by reason or religion. You will be tempted to think it insanity. It might be as well could I think thus.

On Mr. Howard's bringing his wife to Wilson's, Miss Flint, in transports of fury, flew to the apartment in which hung my mother's picture, and with a hand animated by an implacable ferocity, she cut and defaced the cherub face, which was its beauty. My sister Howard, who was ignorant of this impotent act of revenge, often wished for this picture; and I employed Malcolm's good offices with his brother Philip to gain it. By this means I learned the incident, and consequently diverted my sister's direct application from being made.

CHAP. VII.

LETTER XX.

From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle.

You will be prepared, my Lucy, for the resolution I have formed, of supplying to Miss Howard the loss of her parents, as far as I am able; to defeat the malice of her oppressor is a motive which I reject with disdain, as incompatible with my present state of mind. She shall be protected, Lucy, from better principles of action; and protected, as Mr. and Mrs. Howard's child ought to be protected. But I am not altogether satisfied with her remaining under the care of her good uncle. I wish to prepare her for a situation under the roof of her sister Rachel Cowley, when with the name of Hardcastle I shall be qualified to act as a mother to her. She would by remaining at the Abbey be precluded from those improvements she needs for the world; and Mrs. Heartley, whom I have consulted, is of my opinion, that her mind might be strengthened and benefited by being placed more remote from Tarefield, and the extreme tenderness of the Wilsons. She must, whilst with them, experience an attention which tends to confirm the habits of dependance, and to increase the natural timidity of her mind. But I wish to see Mary Howard my equal and friend. Let me have your opinion on this point; consult my dear father. Ask him whether his Rachel Cowley is right in her judgment,—that, with a simplicity which knoweth no evil, and a humility which needs encouragement, something more than the cultivation of the good affections is necessary, in order to meet the world. Mary, at the Abbey, will be made too good for an acquaintance with it; and I wish her sphere of knowledge to be enlarged; yet I am aware of the hazard of entrusting her innocence and beauty the care of strangers; nor would the captain concur in such a plan. I am much perplexed on this point: my views being to produce Miss Howard as she ought to be produced, and as her future provision will render necessary. You know me, Lucy; and you will not call the present object of my attention one unworthy of my principles, or unsuitable to my abilities. "I am an enthusiast," it will be said. This has been said a thousand and a thousand times by a cold-hearted apathy, which sees nothing beyond its own forlorn limits, and in its dread of deviating from that narrow path, rests stationary there, till its powers of action are irrecoverably torpid. Peace be with such! Rachel Cowley is contented to be an enthusiast, and still, "like the needle true," will she turn "at the touch of joy and woe;" though "in turning she trembles too."

I shall expect to have your advice on this subject; being resolved to be governed by a discretion which has never failed to guide safely.

LETTER XXI.

From the same to the same.

I have somewhere read that wonder is the child of ignorance; it was fortunate for me that I recollected this sage remark, for I was in danger of oversetting it, by wondering without being ignorant. Have I ever yet seen Mr. Hardcastle act like a wise and prudent man during my whole life, except in one melancholy instance? And yet, Lucy, the folly and extravagance of his letter to Captain Flint produced so sudden an impression of surprise on my mind, that experience was confounded; and I exclaimed to Mrs. Allen, "Who could have believed this, even of Mr. Hardcastle!" On reflecting more deliberately on this proof of his inveterate opposition to all that is proper and suitable, I find however a consistency in his eccentricities, which might have secured me from wondering. After having laboured in meliorating a stubborn and unfruitful soil, he has taken the fancy to shew his skill in the flower garden, and to please his taste by cultivating the sweeter blossoms of a more genial spring, and a more productive mould. Peace be with him! His work is worthy of his hand! Under his culture will Mary Howard shed her mild fragrance around, and, secure from nipping colds or wintry blasts, she will, with, amaranthine bloom, cheer and delight his bosom! And you, my Lucy, "will be cheered by a companion your friend loves." These are your words. What shall I say to you in return? Nothing. Let Mary speak my thanks, whilst I bless Heaven for permitting me to be the means of sheltering innocence, and communicating to others the happiness I have enjoyed. I must nevertheless check my gratitude, in order to tell you, and this unaccountable Mr. Hardcastle, that I mean in future, to decline the honour of being the bearer of letters, which turn honest people's heads giddy. I am aware, that my own would not better sustain me, on the sight of some signed Hardcastle, than the poor captain's has sustained him; this, however, escaped your good father's consideration, so let it pass; whilst I proceed to inform you, that "gold may be bought too dearly," and that my nerves are not strong enough for heavenly delights. We are, however, somewhat more settled into mortal cares; and the captain, I presume, will, in his letter, find room to tell you when you may look for your guests. We have now something else to do; and which is doing with April faces. Mary is so busy that she does nothing. I am asked over and over again, "whether Miss Hardcastle will not think she dresses too much for a young creature in her condition of fortune; whether, I think Miss Hardcastle will not find her aukward for her age." Then comes hope, to dispel her doubts and fears. "If she should please, if Miss Hardcastle should take a fancy to her as I had done, how happy would be her lot! Her dear uncle's heart would be at rest, and she in a course of improvement!" Why do I write all this to you? Alas! I cannot impose on you. It is not Rachel Cowley that is preparing to set out for Heathcot; and I must weep, and envy.

I will not go to the Abbey to-morrow: what have I to do with trunks and band-boxes destined for your abode! No, I will not go near them! Pity me, my dear Lucy! Tell me that your good uncle has produced some change in your father's inflexible resolutions. Mr. Freeman is a wise man, although he loves my poor Horace so tenderly. Surely he might convince Mr. Hardcastle without invading on the prerogatives of the immortal Newton, that no material injury would be done to the planetary system by our writing to each other! He might go farther, and safely predict, that our marriage would not hasten a single comet. No extraordinary thunders would announce to the world, that happiness had triumphed over cent. per cent. and over certain scruples, unheard of by multitudes, and which multitudes would laugh at. Urge him to try his utmost eloquence in favour of an union of pure and unmixed affection. Can there exist a reason for the cruel separation to which we are doomed? I have no father to offend now; none to implore, but Mr. Hardcastle! Pity your

Rachel Cowley!

LETTER XXII.

From the same to the same.

You bid me hope for every thing that can relieve my spirits from their present oppression; and again you repeat, that Horace cannot have a better advocate than his uncle; yet, my Lucy, I am as weak as an infant. Why am I not permitted to accompany Captain Flint and Mary to Heathcot? I would return to my captivity with patience, could I but see this Mr. Freeman; it would satisfy me: no one here would oppose my journey. Oh! that cruel and too firm spirit may be trusted. Mr. Flamall's ward will not be seduced,—will not be inveigled by Mr. Hardcastle—his son is nothing to him! Malcolm gave me last night a note from Mary, "believing that Miss Cowley can effect every thing." So it appears. She and the captain intreat her to employ her influence with Sir Murdock and Lady Maclairn to favour them with a visit at the Abbey; or to permit Mary to pay her respects at the hall before her departure. Unwilling to disturb the baronet, or to distress his lady, I mentioned Mary's note to her only. She requested me to assure Miss Howard that she sincerely participated with her best friends, in the satisfaction they felt, on the subject of her absence. "Her removal from Mrs. Wilson's," added she, "will do more, I trust, than the captain thinks, towards conciliating her aunt's mind; but independently of this consideration, the advantages she will derive from her situation with Miss Hardcastle, are obvious; and I rejoice at her good fortune. It grieves me to refuse Captain Flint's invitation," continued she; "but the implacable animosity which his sister entertains for the whole family at the Abbey, has been hurtful to Mary's interest. I cannot, without injury to that interest, and exasperating Miss Flint, lose sight of the neutrality I have hitherto maintained. I wish you to give this sweet girl every assurance of my regard and esteem: tell her, Miss Cowley, that I never was her parents' enemy, nor am I capable of being hers. She must not come hither, unless her aunt consent to see her. Say nothing of this application to Sir Murdock. He will attend you as usual. It is utterly beyond my power to act otherwise than I do." Her eyes filled with tears, and to conceal them, she hastily quitted me, saying, that Miss Flint had not sent for her, being too ill to rise.

If I am to believe Mrs. Allen, this "poor woman" is hourly manifesting a better frame of mind; but I am under a fit of the spleen, and want faith for her charity. I am disposed to think that horsewhipping, like Doctor Lob's muscular exercise, or the dumb bells, might have been useful to her constitution. Why may not evil spirits be dislodged, in the same way that certain peccant humours go off, by perspiration? If I thought the remedy a specific for discontent, I would try its efficacy, provided the prescription admitted of a whipping-post, instead of my own bosom, or one as white and as soft as the cygnet's down.

I am just returned from Miss Flint's room; her civility supports me in my theory. She insists on my using the coach as my own. "The weather will not do for an open carriage, and I ought to be careful of my health." Poor woman! on saying this, she exhibited the havoc which sickness has made of late in her robust frame. She looks dreadfully; is much fallen away; and is nearly confined to her bed-room. She mentioned her niece's journey; said she was glad to hear she was going from Wilson's, and thanked me for my recommendation of her to you, adding, "that Mary could be useful when it pleased her, having a pretty taste and a quick hand." Suppose you commission me to purchase for you the unfinished cross-stitch carpet; as needle-work of this sort goes on with you, it will employ Mary very well for seven years; and by that time the Turkey carpeting in Sedley's study, will be the worse for wear. You will think, no doubt, of availing yourself of this "quick hand" in some way or other.

To-morrow, yes, to-morrow, I dine with Miss Howard. Her friends will be collected for the special purpose of taking leave; wishing her a pleasant journey, with such like ceremonies: I have escaped the word fooleries! so much in honour of my self-command. But is it not nonsense, to wish people a pleasant journey who are going to Heathcot? Oh! how much good would it do me, only to behold the direction-post that points out "Heathcot-farm," and that is within one little mile of Lucy. Not a word more will I add in this froward humour; but still subscribe myself

Your own

R. Cowley!

LETTER XXIII.

From the same to the same.

"You shall expect a letter by Miss Howard." Well, I will try, and convince my dear girl that I am not a simpleton, whose philosophy resembles the feather in her hat, discomfited by a falling shower, or a rough blast. I will be your Rachel Cowley, although no longer your Beatrix.

I was pleased on Thursday morning to find that my good baronet had not finally renounced all "the pomps and vanities of this wicked world;" being convinced that in a moderate use of them, he will be in less danger of corruption, than many who think sackcloth and ashes the only guards to keep off temptation. He entered the music-parlour, in which Mrs. Allen and myself were prepared for the carriage, with an erect air, and as I thought a firmer step than usual, to ask when the coach should draw up. He wore his bridal suit, somewhat modernized; an embroidered waistcoat, and, as Mrs. Allen and myself both believe, a rich diamond stock buckle; a new hat, and a gold-headed cane. We made no remarks on his finery; he prevented it, by instantly adverting to my robe, which was the one we embroidered together; and paid it many compliments. Mrs. Allen observed, that her grey silk gown and black bonnet would disgrace the well-dressed party. "No," replied he, with easy politeness, "that can never happen, till you keep bad company. Wisdom acknowledges her children under any attire; and sober matron grace is your ornament. But Malcolm means to leave his boots behind him, and begs a corner in the carriage with us," added he, taking a pinch of snuff from a superb gold box; "I am not sorry to see him now and then lay aside the farmer for the gentleman, as of the latter class he may always be, though of the former, without sinking his character; whereas, I have seen farmers, and rich ones, who were not, nor could be gentlemen." Malcolm's entrance and dress produced the consequences to be drawn from Sir Murdock's inferences. He smiled on him with complacence, and said, "Why, now, indeed, you look like a lover, and a Maclairn!"—"When I forget what either of those titles claim," replied he, gaily, "hang a calf skin on my recreant limbs."

Thus attired we reached the Abbey. The captain in his best regimentals was prepared to receive his guests; and leaving the baronet to survey at his pleasure, those stationary friends which lined the room, Mrs. Allen and myself went to Mrs. Heartley's. Mrs. Wilson was with her; the girls were with Malcolm in the garden, and in our view. "Poor Miss Heartley will sadly miss her friend," observed the good woman, looking attentively on them as they walked leaning on Malcolm's arm. "It might have been as well for us had Miss Howard not passed the last month here, as it must make parting with her more hard." I spoke of my Lucy. "I have no doubts of her being happy," replied Mrs. Wilson, "and I know she will be respected, and improved in her learning, as Mr. Howard's daughter ought to be; but as to her comforts with us, they have been always our blessings. To be sure, we could not introduce her as you will do; but otherwise——But, if she be happy? Yet, as my husband and I have told the captain hundreds of times, there was no reason for his troubles on Mary's account. Thank God, we have enough for her and ourselves too, and, though we have relations to maintain, we never grudged them assistance, and surely we had a right to be happy in our turn. But I saw how it was," added she, wiping her eyes, "when the innocent lamb was sent to that savage aunt; the captain thought I should love her too well to please my husband's nieces. Dear me! duty and affection will not always march side by side! They were not born in my house, I never dandled them on my knees, nor saw them frisking before me! yet I do not forget them, they are relations. But this child!"—She wept.—"I beg your pardon, Miss Cowley, but I cannot help being sorry that she is going from us." I consoled her with the assurance that her absence would not be many months; and mentioned my hope of seeing you under her roof, as much a favourite as Mary. "So Mrs. Heartley tells me," replied she rising; "but in the mean time what is become of our young folks. They do not consider how cold it is turned." She disappeared in order to give them the caution. "How little do those understand the genuine goodness of human nature," said Mrs. Heartley, following with her eyes the retreating Mrs. Wilson, "who maintain, that it is indebted to acquired attainments and borrowed lustre for its excellence and stability! No one can estimate the advantages of a good education more highly than myself; but there are some of our fellow-creatures, so richly endowed with virtuous propensities, that they appear to me to be peculiarly marked, in order to humble the pride of human reason; and to exhibit virtue in her native dignity and simplicity. What system of education, or what refinements of the polite world, could have better taught this woman the art of conferring benefits without oppressing the receiver, than her own heart, and the precepts in the gospel. That which thousands in the world would consider as a work of supererogation and superlative merit, she is firmly persuaded, is doing no more than what Mr. and Mrs. Howard's child has a right to exact, because they were good and unfortunate; and she left an orphan under her roof. She has not a doubt of her being answerable for this young creature's comforts; and her regret on losing sight of her, is by no means unmixed with the fear, lest some mischief should arise from her acquaintance with the world. We have happily succeeded in satisfying her on this point; and she blesses God, that Miss Mary is not likely to see London. I am frequently so struck by this good woman's purity of heart, and sound principles of action," continued Mrs. Heartley, "that I am in some danger of despising too much the philosophy and refinements of the world. I cannot help believing, that, whilst immersed in its cares and its pleasures, not only my enjoyments were more controuled, but my heart less pure than it is at present. My ambition, which then looked forwards to the well-earned recompence of my husband's toils, and the honourable establishment of my children in that class to which their parents had a claim, is now settled into the wish of seeing Alice a good wife, and a farmer's wife: and I should be contented to leave her with the qualities of a Mrs. Wilson, and in the protection of a man like Wilson."

"A little refinement," answered I, with an arch smile, "will not spoil your plan of rural innocence and peace. Malcolm may work as industriously as Mr. Wilson, notwithstanding his wicked taste for Virgil and Theocritus; and it will be Alice's own fault, should she neglect the churn for the harpsichord."—"Rather say, her foolish mother's," replied she, laughing, "who, in spite of her convictions, could not leave her bad habits with the world she quitted. However," continued she, "I can give you no stronger proof of being a sincere proselyte to the opinions I have supported, than in the disposal of my daughter. On this important point I have so far deviated from the prescribed rules of parental prudence, as to hazard the censure of weakness, if not indiscretion, in permitting a girl who has no fortune, to engage herself in a promise of marriage to a man nearly as little favoured as herself in this essential article. It may not be amiss," continued she, laughing, "to endeavour to justify my conduct on this particular head, with one so rigidly attached to the doctrine of the 'suitable,' 'convenient,' and 'equal bargain' in this grand business of human life. The truth was, I had no alternative in the question concerning the happiness of my child. I foresaw, that circumstanced as she was, Malcolm Maclairn would either remain a second brother, or become her lover. There was no inequality of condition or of character, to oppose to their growing attachment; both were virtuous and amiable; both had the same moderate expectations; both had been educated for a decent mediocrity, I wrote to Lady Maclairn my observations, not my fears; for I had none. Malcolm's visits were not restrained. I considered, Miss Cowley, that worldly prudence was not without its victims; that human wisdom was not unfrequently frustrated, and that an anxious eye to the future often overshot its mark. In the dread of poverty we sometimes forget to appreciate justly the barriers which talents, industry, and sobriety can oppose to its encroachments, and still more heedlessly, turn from the numberless examples, in which wealth, with the habits it induces, has been the high road to penury. Malcolm is a practical farmer; and from the application of better opportunities, and superior talents, he has enlarged Mr. Wilson's agricultural knowledge, who calls him 'his master.' Malcolm was not sixteen when I warned his mother of his danger," continued Mrs. Heartley smiling; "since his father has sanctioned his views, I have regarded him as my son. Fortunately, Alice's pedigree pleased the good baronet; and he told Malcolm, that with such an education as he described, and from so honourable a stock, any girl was rich to an independent and wise man. From that hour his plans have been brought forward; and when, by means of his friend Wilson's assistance, he can find a farm, my children will be happy. An advantageous project in order to effect this, is now before them; and I hope will turn out as profitably to Mr. Wilson, who is a sensible and prudent man, as to Mr. Maclairn: in the mean time he is contented with the privileges I allow him; and Alice calls me her friend and confidant, and is in no hurry to change her name."

A summons to the party below prevented more on this subject. But tell me, Lucy, what is your opinion of this mother? I thought whilst I listened to her, that I was with ours! I found Mrs. Wilson presiding at the head of Captain Flint's table. The feast, for such it was, was in her parlour. A noble room, with a dark wainscoat, and a profusion of carving, gave dignity to the repast, and also a contrast peculiarly striking to the appearance of the guests; for we ought to have been dressed in farthingales and Queen Bess's ruffs; and the donor of the feast, as we suspect, to have had pages and gentlemen ushers. Simplicity, gaiety, and ease, supplied the place of ancient ceremonials; and I could not help recalling, in remarking the modest but independent farmer Wilson, the times of vassalage, when pride and abject submission bound the human race in the fetters of ignorance. Mrs. Allen, who appeared to be particularly Mrs. Wilson's favourite of the day, assures me, that I am forgiven for my wickedness in sending Mary from the Abbey. Miss Hardcastle's character has effected this lenity on Mrs. Wilson's part. "Her gentleness is exactly the thing; for to Mary Howard, gentleness is meat, drink, and clothing. She hopes Miss Hardcastle will attend to the little cough, which from time to time alarms her fears, Mary's dear parents having died of consumptions; but then indeed these were brought on by sorrow and the barbarity of the wicked. Miss Howard will have no such troubles; yet she has given her the recipe for the cough, which was always useful. How so tender a creature got through her hardship at the hall is beyond her conception! It appears to her a miracle! She who never went to bed or rose without a fire in her room, and who was reared like a cot-lamb!" Mrs. Allen received these hints with due attention, and with good-natured seriousness told her, that she had only one fear to combat with, namely, that Mary would be still too much the cotted-lamb at Heathcot. She smiled, and nodding her honest and contented head, answered, "That is well: she will never be spoiled by nursing, as they are, poor fools!"

Malcolm waits for my letter. He sleeps at the Abbey in order to accompany the travellers one stage. I have written a note to Mary, in which I have inclosed a bank note of fifty pounds, and in the most dictatorial language of an elder sister, recommended to her care the escort which Providence has given her to her new abode. I could not take leave of this dear girl; it is better as I have managed matters; nor shall I go to the Abbey to-morrow. Malcolm shall have the triumph of consoling the simpletons there; I have enough to do, to make reasonable your

Rachel Cowley.

CHAP VIII.

LETTER XXIV.

From Rachel Cowley to Miss Hardcastle.

It has fallen out exactly as Mrs. Allen predicted: my restlessness has done no more than to weary my body; my mind travels to you, and I must humour it. We will not talk however of those, who, with palpitating hearts, are, as they journey on, thinking of their first reception, and the embarrassments of an introduction to beings of an higher order than such poor mortals as croud this busy scene. How I should enjoy your defeat, Lucy, when your eyes, for the first time, behold "My fairest amongst women," an epithet you have so unmercifully rallied. You will be candid, and I shall forgive you; only in future acknowledge that I can praise accurately, and, in this instance, have praised soberly. It is an age since I have examined my talents in this way; but so confident am I that the sight of Miss Howard and her uncle will establish my excellence as a painter, whose hand is guided by truth and nature, that I fearlessly send you two other portraits, which ought long since to have graced your cabinet. I wish Sedley was thirty years older than he is, it would save me the time necessary to delineate not only the features, but the character of Mr. Greenwood, who,

"In manners gentle, in affection mild,
In wit a man, simplicity a child,"

brings to my fancy what Sedley will be when a grandfather, and whom I already reverence as one every time Mr. Greenwood speaks. They certainly are near relations; only nature, always provident as well as kind in her donations, thought that one at a time would be sufficient for her honour; and one in a country enough to allure mankind to a love of goodness and simplicity of heart. One trait which they possess in common, convinces me that my hypothesis is not altogether fallacious; for I dare not be saucy with either, though I love them both. You who are deeper than myself in metaphysics, will descover the cause for my respect and good behaviour with them, when, with others, "my lips utter folly," and I am as "a bubbling brook."

Doctor Douglas is the delight of my eyes, and, like Falstaff, not only witty himself, but the cause of wit in me; and although it may not be Attic salt to all palates, it supplies a seasoning necessary to my hard fare. Douglas is a true and genuine North-Britain, large, muscular, and six feet at least in height. He is by no means a beau; nor is he a sloven, although he looks more like a London watchman than a physician. His dress is the result of system, raised probably upon his early modes of attire, and abhorrence of ligatures. Cold bathing and Bath-coating, a sort of cloth, such as your curricle wrapping-coat, are with him the essentials health and longevity; and he maintains, that with those, and Scotch barley, a man needs not either a carriage, a carpet, turtle soup, crutches, or an apothecary. He is a widower, Lucy, and has too great boys, whom he has rendered, as I am told by himself, fit for any climate, and taught to be contented with even barley-broth and a knapsack. A healthy countenance, and eyes which still sparkle with the vigour of his mind, would deceive you in his age, for he is more than three-score by his register; but the loss of two or three of his fore teeth, are mementos that his youth is past. These several defects and impediments have preserved me from the sin of inconstancy; for I was in danger of admiring, for the first time in my life that I can recollect, one of those figures which you would expect to find at the head of a banditti, in the scenery of a Salvator Rosa. After dinner Mr. Greenwood, observing him making his dessert of a piece of sea-biscuit, which he took from his pocket, could not help expressing his surprise, that he should hazard the loss of such teeth as he envied. "I have every grinder," replied he, "as sound as when Nature gave them me."—"Of this fact I needed no better evidence," answered Mr. Greenwood, "than the seeing you grind that flinty biscuit; but I conceive you might have been taught, by the loss of two or three of your fore teeth, to understand that yours, like your neighbour's, were perishable."—"Why does he not get them supplied?" cried Alice; "they make false teeth now, I am told, of a substance as white and as firm as his own."—"Why do you not plaister over that honest and honourable testimony of your having faced your enemy, Captain Flint?" asked he, with gravity. "The girls like a smooth, though empty front."—"Oh, that is pure malice!" replied Alice, "Captain Flint's scar is his glory, and was acquired in fighting for his country."—"Well, hussey," retorted he, "and mine was gained in buffetting with the stormy surge; and saving from its overwhelming fury twa bonnie lasses, I could not make more arms than I had, and one steered the float, the other grasped one of the sinking wretches, and my teeth I gave to the second; and shall I not wear my laurels in rememberance of my prowess, without cramming my mouth with sea-horse teeth and vile springs?"—"You are quite right, doctor," remarked I; "and what is more, they would, like every thing artificial about you, be disgraced by the gifts of Nature. You can bite close enough with the teeth you have, whilst a fool and a sea-rusk cost you so little to reduce them to dust." He laughed, and displayed from ear to ear, the snowy white and even teeth; not of Lucy Hardcastle's sort, because one would make four of her pearls, but yet as well adapted to the mouth they reside in. So much for the doctors teeth; now for his humour. Some one asked him whether he had lately seen a certain Sir Peregrine Lofley, a gentleman of consequence somewhere in the neighbourhood. "No," replied he, with a peculiar expression of contempt. "He has not had the cholic of late; and when he has, he will not apply to the Scotch quack for physic; he found mine unpalatable."—"How did that happen?" asked Mr. Greenwood; "when I last saw Sir Peregrine he told me you had saved his life, and that the London physicians were fit only to beat your pestle and mortar."—"That opinion speaks the fool," answered he; "but neither the Scotch nor English physicians can cure him of a radical want of brains. You saw him three or four days after I had accomplished the same business which they had done more than once; the only difference consisted in the mode. This fellow," continued he, turning to Sir Murdock, "had, by his gluttony, produced a malady, which, without a miracle, might have killed him in twenty hours; and having heard of 'one Douglas,' who had saved a man from a mortification of the bowels, I was sent for. The danger of Sir Peregrine was not less imminent, but happily yielded to medicine. Perfectly knowing the cause of the malady, I became the friend of nature and of him; and for a few days longer than was absolutely necessary, kept him on a very spare diet. He had been terrified into docility, and, on enlarging his bill of fare, I honestly told him, that his health was in his own hands; that temperance would preserve it, and that excess in eating would shorten his life. From this well-meant caution he drew an inference perfectly useless. He would eat nothing that Doctor Douglas did not order; and during the course of a fortnight I received my fee, for directing his cook to boil his mutton and make his panada. I saw the machine was going on well; and, without farther concern, took his superfluous gold for advice and controul so beneficial to him. Not, however, classing him with my sick patients, I one morning omitted my visit. The following evening as I called on passing his door, I was questioned on the cause of my neglect. He had expected me in the morning. 'I had a great desire for a stewed carp for my dinner,' added he, with a disturbed air, 'but I did not dare to eat of it without your permission.'—'It is not my intention, my good Sir,' replied I, 'to play le docteur Pedro Rezio with you: with the constitution and appetite of le governeur Sancho Panca, all things are lawful with one sauce, moderation and exercise. Eat like a ploughman if it please you, on condition you work like one.' He graciously smiled, and said he would try what he could do when stronger. I now mentioned the melancholy accident which had engaged me the whole of the day. A man working on the roof-beams of a house had fallen; he had broken his thigh, and, as it was supposed, had fractured his head. It appeared that this unfortunate man had been Sir Peregrine's carpenter, but had incurred his sore displeasure by two offences equally unpardonable. The first was, refusing him his vote for the candidate he supported; the second, the man could read; and with this dangerous talent he had discovered, that he was not altogether a piece of elm or oak. 'And was it for this fellow, doctor, that Sir Peregrine Lofley was neglected?' said he, rising from an easy-chair, with much resentment; 'surely you must know that he is a notorious Jacobin! a rascal who reads newspapers and seditious tracts, at alehouses; and prates of magna-charta and the liberty of the press! He is the veriest dog in the neighbourhood a common nuisance! Surely you must have known this!'—'I was perfectly acquainted with the man's reputed character,' answered I, drily; 'but I was called upon to judge of his fractured skull, not of his political creed. It happens, however, fortunately for my hopes of saving his life, which is not unuseful to his wife and six children, that he has loved politics better than ale: the remarkable sobriety of his habits is much in his favour, and I hope to conquer the fever. You must not expect me to call to-morrow, I shall be engaged with him.'—'It will not suit me,' answered he, with evident haughtiness, 'to place my health in any man's hands, on whom I cannot depend for punctuality as well as judgment; and I should conceive that Doctor Douglas has had no reason to complain of my want of attention to his visits.' He offered his guinea: I declined it. 'This was a call en passant,' observed I, 'but it has led to an explanation of your expectations. These, Sir Peregrine, may, on certain occasions, be regarded by me, as not less incumbent on your medical attendant's observance, than they appear useless at this moment. All are men, without distinction, on my list of patients; the urgency of the case settles their precedence. You want not medical aid at present; nor do I want your guineas, in return 'for small talk and bowing,' although born on the other side of the Tweed.' I left him swelling with rage, and have never seen him since; and finding that I am neither a democrat, nor a nuisance, he calls me a pretending quack!'—'And yet,' observed the delighted Sir Murdock, 'the united suffrages of every university in Europe could not have better qualified a man for the purposes of healing the sick. Your remedies must be infallible, doctor, if you can prescribe to other diseases as well as you have done to pride and narrowness of spirit.'—'The patient was heartily welcome to it,' replied he, with invincible gravity. 'I am not an ill-natured man, Sir Murdock, and when a good action of this sort falls in my way I conceive it to be my duty to be useful. It is true that my nostrums, on such occasions, are like most of my unlicensed brethren's, more rough than infallible; but I am more generous than the common herd of venders of this class; I give my pill and bolus gratis to all who apply for them."

"I wish I could give you a special diploma, Douglas, for prescribing your physic to those who do not ask for it," observed the mild Greenwood; "you might find plenty of patients, who, not thinking 'they need a physician,' become incurable by neglect."—"Is not that your fault," asked he, smiling; "you are too tender and compassionate. The diet you prescribe of self-knowledge and self-discipline, will not do for all constitutions. Some need caustics and the probe, and with such patients will Douglas exercise his functions without interfering in your trade." The good doctor had, however, as I thought, been rather too tender of a foible of his own. His national prejudices had not been pruned. "Scotland was the genial soil of philosophy, courage, and honour." The conversation took, from some assertions of this sort, an argumentative form. Malcolm with delight listened to his father's eloquence. Stimulated by his opponents, Mr. Greenwood and the captain, and supporting Douglas's arguments, he forgot the past; and brought forth his long-concealed stories of knowledge, with an animation which marked the acuteness of his mind and the strength of his memory.

Wherefore is it, my dear Lucy, that so many are found who, in the pride of reason, appear to forget the feeble tenure on which depends their boasted privileges; their justly prized prerogatives? The pulsation of an artery more or less rapid than suits our fragile frame, may, in a moment suspend, and, for a time, annihilate those faculties that distinguish us from the brute that perishes. Are we not liable to diseases, to accidents, to sorrows, which no human skill can remedy, no human prudence can prevent, and which, in a moment, may reduce us to idiots, or render us as ferocious and dangerous as beasts of prey? Suspend, but for a moment, the agency of that Being in "whom we live and move," and what are we? Surely there needed not the awful interdiction of eternal truth, to teach us, that "Pride was not made for man." Our own weakness, our own feebleness, might have sufficed to point out the lesson! You are fortunately released from a train of thoughts more useful to myself than needful to one who "bears her faculties so meekly." I am summoned to the card-table; Lady Maclairn requested me so earnestly to make up a rubber for poor Lucretia, that I cannot refuse her. There are sceptics to be found who deny that there is constancy in love. It would save much cavilling if these ingenious people would use proper terms. No one, I presume, would contradict them in their assertion, that people cannot eat with such an appetite, or drink when not thirsty, as if they were hungry or thirsty; but leaving such to their ignorance, I will start a new subject of argument, for I will maintain that one cannot always hate. No, Lucy, irreconcilable hatred, like a raging fever, must either kill the patient or wear itself out. My cheek no longer flushes on seeing Miss Flint; nothing rises in my throat when I ask her how she passed the night. Are not these gracious signs, Lucy, that I am becoming truly your sister? You shake your dear head. Well, "Rome was not built in a day," says the proverb; and after all, can I help that people should reap that which they have sowed? Would you wish me to give to Miss Flint the tribute due to suffering virtue? and to think, with Mrs. Allen, that the wicked are more to be commiserated than the good? If you do you must give me time, and in justice commend these dawnings of virtue; for I have, in consequence of my charity, been two days writing this, instead of one. Love me, Lucy; be sure to love me with all my faults. Nothing you can do for my benefit will so soon correct them.

I am impatient to hear what you think of "My lilley of the valley!" There! it is breathed! Take the dear blessing amongst you! and, oh! that I could add: take with it your

Rachel Cowley.

CHAP. IX.

During an interval of three or four weeks, the period during which Captain Flint was on his excursion to Heathcot, no occurrences of importance to this history appear in Miss Cowley's letters to her friend. It is my duty to supply this chasm by detailing a few particulars relative to Mr. Horace Hardcastle's situation and pursuits, these being so immediately connected with the thread of the narrative as to claim attention.

The young nobleman, his friend, with whom he went abroad, continued gradually to yield to the slow, but fatal malady which had so long menaced the hopes of his family. Intervals of comparative ease, with that flow of spirits which commonly attends this disease, and which was further sustained by his patience and principles, had, from time to time, beguiled him in the course of his unprofitable search after health. He became weary of the sea, and disgusted by the confinement of a ship's cabin; and he expressed much reluctance to quitting Lisbon, where he had wintered. His friends about him strongly recommended to him a retreat from the heat of the summer, which was within their reach, and the accustomed resort of the society to which he was attached and endeared. Doctor Innes, his tutor, convinced of the inutility of the many cruises he had patiently submitted to undertake, and the necessity of amusing his mind, immediately secured, in this delightful asylum, a convenient house for his reception, to which the family repaired in the early months of the summer.

The mutual confidence which subsisted between Lord William and Horace Hardcastle, was of that nature which precludes all concealment; and the dejection of the lover's spirits was not only a subject of disquietude to Lord William, but of anxiety to Doctor Innes. He was influenced, by the account given him of the young man's difficulties, to write to his uncle, Mr. Freeman; and, stating to him his fears for his nephew's health, he with much earnestness expatiated at large on the effects of a domineering passion. "I have, my good friend," added the doctor, "said thus much of Mr. Hardcastle's inclination, because I well know it was implanted, and is nourished, by the purest affections of his nature. Opposition will never destroy it; but it checks his activity, preys on his spirits, and may blast the hopes of his family. It is time his father should know this. Some indulgence is necessary, unless he means to sacrifice his happiness to a point of honour." Alarmed by the seriousness of this application, Mr. Freeman determined to quit his beloved home, and to plead in person for the lovers; conceiving that Mr. Hardcastle would be more accessible to his remonstrances, when urged by an affection which had led him to think Horace a match for the first woman breathing, in point of merit. He was successful, or rather Doctor Innes's letter prevailed. The interdiction of writing was removed; and Horace was informed that he had only to be cheerful till Miss Cowley ceased to love; and to wait patiently for Counsellor Steadman's operations with the redoubtable Mr. Flamall. These letters, and the change of measures which Mr. Hardcastle had adopted, were carefully concealed from Miss Cowley. Horace had been mentioned as not only depressed but indisposed, and the confederacy who had jointly aided in the victory over his good father, concurred with Miss Hardcastle that it was more prudent to leave Miss Cowley in repose, and to Horace the pleasure of telling his own tale. Mr. Freeman, contented with these advantages, and encouraged by Mr. Steadman's concurrence, with whom he had an interview in London, in his way to Heathcot, returned home. Captain Flint and Miss Howard's arrival immediately followed. Some conversation, relative to her beloved brother, led Miss Hardcastle to say to her guests, that she had been very unhappy from the time he had left England; "but Heaven be praised," added she, with unguarded warmth, "we shall be happy soon!"—"Do you expect your brother home?" asked the captain. "No, but he will be more comfortable than he has been abroad," answered she, with vivacity; "and it has been his dejection as much as his absence which have been the subjects of my regret. Thank God! all goes well at present." She instantly checked herself, and changed the conversation.

The captain's return to Tarefield was followed by the letter before us.

LETTER XXV.

From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle.

Pray, Lucy, by what enchantment has it happened that Captain Flint, with the loss of his idolized niece, has also lost his care-worn face? How has it happened that in a mail-coach, and exposed to cold and fatigue, he has contrived to leave behind him his rheumatic pains and nervous head-achs? But our first interview gave me a nervous head-ach, and a nervous tremor into the bargain! for, after having, with the patience of Job himself, listened to his rhapsodies in praise of all his ravished eyes had beheld at Heathcot; giving him his full swing in the history of the concerts at Worcester, and the feasts at the baron's, and the Chudleighs, &c. I did contrive to edge in; "and what did you hear them say of Horace?"—"Mr. Hardcastle," replied he, "walks every morning in the little plantation"—he shewed me the children's oaks—"raised from acorns of your setting. His son's have got the start of yours and Miss Hardcastle's?"—"Well, I know all this," answered I pettishly; "but did his father never speak of him to you?"—"He talks of him perpetually," replied he, "as every one does, and Miss Hardcastle appears to be quite reconciled to his absence, for she assured me, that he would be happier than he had been."—"Good God!" exclaimed I, "what could she mean!" Something in my too honest face betrayed me. "Be composed, my dear Miss Cowley," said the terrified captain, "I am certain there is no cause for alarm, when Miss Hardcastle says 'all will be well:' these were her words, in speaking of her brother." Judge, Lucy, of the effect of such ambiguous information on my irritable mind. "All will be well"—yes, all will be well when I am in my grave, if I am deserted and forgotten! Write to me; write only these three words, "Horace loves you," then all will be well with

R. Cowley.

A short letter from Miss Hardcastle indicating the success of Mr. Freeman's interference, without any mention of his apprehension on the subject of Horace's health, reached Miss Cowley by return of post. The subjoined letter will, speak for itself.

LETTER XXVI.

Horace Hardcastle to his Sister.

Cintra, Sept. 20th.

MY DEAR LUCY,

My last letter informed you of our intention of remaining stationary for some months; and I have now the satisfaction of telling you, that I think Lord William has, on the whole, gained more from this climate than from any he has tried, and that hitherto we have had no reason to regret the plan we have adopted. An assured refuge from the heats of summer and the advantages hoped for from his vicinity to the sea, have not altogether failed. He has been amused, his thoughts divested from what he calls "a cowardly flight from death," and free from the inconveniences of Lisbon, he enjoys placidly, the few short days of his allotted space. We have been constant residents in this terrestrial paradise only since the first of June. Our spacious house and elevated situation at Lisbon, being perfectly adapted to our dear invalid's comforts; and to say the truth, we quitted the view of the noblest harbour in Europe, with an intire persuasion, that we might have remained with safety under its protection and the sea-breeze, which blew on our faces from every balcony. But Lord William had not then seen Cintra! He had not then seen from the Cabo de Penah, nor from Cape Roque, the sublime objects of nature which surround them. Rocks and mountains; the expanded ocean; the wide-stretching Tagus; plains rich in cultivation; impending woods; bubbling fountains, and falling cascades! Nor had he then traced the footsteps of havoc and confusion, left by the earthquake, and which the broken fragments and ponderous masses of the bare rock, mark at every approach.—But recommending to my Lucy the names of those writers who have embellished their works with a description of this favoured haunt of nature, I will proceed to place before her an adventure much more interesting to myself. Twiss, Baretti, Southby's Tours through Spain and Portugal will satisfy your curiosity, as to the spot in which I met with my good genii. You will not wonder, that your brother seeks solitude. My Curro[1], who knows his master for his friend, is no less impatient than he is, for the early dawn; about that hour he conducts me daily to some otherwise almost inaccessible haunt, and contentedly browzes the verdant paths in his way. The sun had gained upon us, whilst my Grison breakfasted on what nature made to him a luxurious repast. I conversed with an intelligent friar, one of the inmates of this singular retreat, who has been banished by the superior of his order to this place from his convent in Lisbon, to expiate the sin of loving English heretics, and English books; both of which temptations are yet too strong for him, in a spot

"Whose darksome round contains
"Repentant sighs and voluntary pains;
"The rugged rocks, which holy knees have worn,
"The grots and caverns shagg'd with horrid thorn."

But leaving these allusions and poetical flights, let us proceed in our usual way.—Slowly winding up the steep ascent we reached the ruins of a Moorish castle, which is on one of the three highest promontories. You will imagine that the prospect from this elevation is unconfined. Alas! my Lucy, your brother saw only one! It was clouded by despair, and rendered intolerable by the certainty that I was not the only sufferer who was enveloped in its frowning aspect. "Were I alone to suffer, I would try to meet disappointment and contradiction like a man," thought I: "but to know that I am beloved, that I am as necessary to the happiness of the being whom I love, as she is to mine! To know that we might be happy, but for considerations——" I checked my murmurs then, as I suppress them now; and with my usual despondency, quitted the spot. In descending I saw, not far remote, an elegant girl, seated on a fragment of a rock; a gentleman on his knees before her, and she in evident distress. The narrow path admitted of no deviation; I was obliged to pass the supposed lovers. In so doing I perceived that the pretty creature had hurt her ankle, which the gentleman was rubbing; and the expression of her countenance, indicated that the application of his hand had not allayed the sense of pain. I stopped, and learned, that fearful of trusting herself to the sagacious animal she had rode, she had left her party at the Cork convent[2], preferring to walk. "With a shoe of this fashion," added the gentleman producing a green satin slipper, which might have rivalled Cinderella's, you will not be surprised at our disaster; the heel snapped, and here we are, with a sprained ancle! The husband, rather than the lover, appeared in this observation; and my idea was confirmed; for the pretty creature, rubbing the ancle with a hand which did not disgrace it, displayed a wedding ring; and with assumed gaiety, said, "The accident was nothing, she was certain the sprain was trifling; the pain was already subsiding, it was only numbed. If the gentleman would only have the goodness to call as he passed the Convent, and send forward the beasts, all would be well." The gentleman, as in duty bound, assisted her in mounting his own; and with the utmost caution, we proceeded down to the village. Having safely gained the more easy road, our timid charge unaffectedly thanked me for my goodness; and in reply to her companion's raillery on being such a coward, she remarked the superiority of the beast she was on, to the wretched animal they had lent her at the hotel; adding, that the satisfaction of leaving him feeding, was one motive for her preferring to walk. "I might have guessed as much," replied her companion; "but after all, my dear Margaret, you have been more charitable than fortunate. You should have kept your glass slipper for more level ground: it will be long enough before you see again a spot like this, or find a mountain to ascend."—"That may be," answered she with cheerfulness, "but I shall have time to rest on ship-board." This observation led to my being informed that she was going with her brother to Jamaica, where her husband was expecting her. "It will be a long and a tedious time before we shall meet," added she with tenderness: "and when I think of the many hours of expectation!"——"Never fear!" cried the brother, "you are a good sailor, Margaret, and with fair winds we shall go quicker than we do at present."—"God grant us them!" replied she with emotion.

We reached the hotel, and I took my leave of the strangers. The following morning on passing it, civility prompted me to enquire after the sprained ancle. The brother gave me a favourable account of the accident, adding, that Mrs. Flint, his sister, would be happy to see me again; and instantly leading the way to the next room, introduced me to his sister, and another lady whom I recollected as being the wife of a merchant resident in Lisbon. The name of Flint had visibly discomposed me; and for some moments I had only to listen to the reiterated acknowledgments of the delicate Mrs. Flint. She was still at the breakfast-table, and with the most perfect contentment she told me that her friend had not only enjoined her the penance of remaining in her bed longer, by some hours, than was her custom, but had doomed her to the sofa for the whole day; and with a sweet and amiable frankness of manner she reminded me of my little services; intreating me to assist her again, and by dining with them to make her peace with her brother, who had threatened to reduce her to a pigmy-height by obliging her to wear flat-heeled shoes. I bowed my acceptance of this invitation. The island of Jamaica and the appellation of "Mrs. Flint" had rivetted me to my seat. At length I summoned up resolution to ask her, whether she was connected with the Flints of Tarefield-hall. She coloured deeply; and the brother, without hesitation, answered, that his sister was the wife of Mr. Philip Flint, the youngest son in the family. "Then you know Miss Cowley," said I trembling with agitation, "you know she is at Tarefield with Lady Maclairn?"—"Margaret knows little of her husband's family," answered he, "having always resided in Scotland." I was silenced, and a certain air of embarrassment was dispelled from Mrs. Flint's countenance by the lady's asking her brother, whether it was still his intention to leave Lisbon on the Saturday. He replied in the affirmative, allowing for winds and tides; then turning to me, he asked me to take a ramble in the gardens of Penah Verde. I complied; but on sallying out we found the potent rays of the mid-day sun inconvenient; and allured by a fountain within two hundred paces of the hotel, we took our seats by it, under the umbrageous shelter of the cork and elm-trees.

I immediately began the conversation by apologizing for the warmth and earnestness of my interrogations relative to Tarefield; and proceeded to inform him of so much of Miss Cowley's history as was needful, in order to account for the interest I had discovered in relation to her. In the course of my little narrative, I spoke of Mr. Flamall, as having by his authority removed his ward from friends devoted to her, and to whom she was attached; and I added that, having learned from you the repugnance with which Miss Cowley had quitted her wonted asylum, I wish to know, that, with Lady Maclairn, her situation had been such as she merited. "We know none of Philip's connections," answered he, carelessly lading the limpid water with a brass bason attached by a chain to the fountain; "but if Philip's mother resembles him, she must be worthy of the guest you have described; for he is a good and an honest man. For the rest of his relations, to give you my honest opinion of them, I do not believe they would give this cup of water towards the happiness of any one. As for his precious uncle Flamall, he is a complete scoundrel."—"Then you know him!" observed I, eagerly. "Yes, yes," answered he, with warmth, "I know him, and I trust he will know Sinclair before many months elapse. He will not be the first rascal this arm has chastised!"—"Would to God," cried I, "that mine could second you!" He smiled and observed, "He would recollect my wish, and that it should strengthen his own." I now, my dear Lucy, more explicitly detailed to him Miss Cowley's connection with this villain: and if my own wretched anxieties appeared, I could not help it. He listened to me with the deepest attention, and grasping my hand, swore a solemn oath, to search to the bottom of a business so perfectly consonant to the man's character and conduct. "Hear my story, Mr. Hardcastle, and then judge whether your Miss Cowley's cause can be in better hands," added he, in an impressive tone. "I do not believe she would need a defender whilst an honest man can be found; but to me she shall be another sister, and with Margaret's injuries will I remember Miss Cowley's! My situation in life," continued he, "separated me from my mother soon after she became a widow; a maternal uncle, who lives at Boston in America, having destined me to the same pursuits in life, from which he had risen to respectable opulence. I had quitted my father's study, who was a minister of the kirk of Scotland, some time before his decease; and under the favour of my good uncle had then risen nearly to my present station, to wit, commander of one of his ships, instead of one of my own, which is at present in this port. I was fortunately not too remote from my father for his last blessing and embrace. I had also the consolation to find, that my uncle was disposed to render my mother and sister comfortable; an attention peculiarly necessary in the low condition of my father's finances. I am eight or nine years older than Margaret, and, both in principles and affection, disposed to perform the relative duties of a father and a brother. Such were my sentiments when I left her, after the events which I have mentioned, to return to America. During an absence of three years from my native home, I heard with contentment of my mother's tranquillity, and of the improvement of the poor little girl you have seen. She was, Mr. Hardcastle, my delight and pride from her cradle; and I knew that in my mother's care, her innocence was secure. This spring I had an opportunity I had long desired; and I failed not to avail myself of it to visit my mother. I was so pressed for time, and urged by impatience, that I arrived unexpectedly; and with some surprise I found that my mother had given up her house in Edinburgh, and lived near it, at a small village indicated to me. On reaching her abode, the cause of her removal was apparent in the emaciated form which poor Margaret exhibited. I was told she had been some months declining in health; and that country air had been judged more favourable to her, than that of the town. We are no adepts at hypocrisy. My mother's agitations betrayed her. On my asking whether any love disappointment had laid the foundation of the illness, she burst into tears; and unable to contain the secret, told me the sorrows of her aching heart.

"My sister had for a playmate and friend an amiable girl, somewhat older than herself, of the name of Montrose. They were near neighbours, and their parents were in the habits of familiar and friendly intercourse. On the death of Mr. Montrose, his widow, unwilling to give up her house, received, but with extreme circumspection, boarders. Philip Flint was recommended to her by her usual adviser, an old friend of her husband and a professor in the college. The young man was particularly committed to his care, and as peculiarly formed for the suitable inmate of a house remarkably sober and well regulated. Young Montrose was a pupil of the same gentleman, and had already distinguished himself for talents and application. I will abridge my romance, by telling you at once the result of his love advances to Margaret. Their measures were wonderfully prudent, when you take into the account the age of the lovers, who could only reckon eight or nine and thirty years between them; and those of their faithful and zealous confidants, who, in their calculation might have a right to four or five more. With the assistance of Montrose, they were married, and with the consummate prudence of an old civilian this young man saw, that the marriage was duly and legally valid, according to the laws of Scotland, his friend being anxiously solicitous on this point; pleading his dread of his despotical uncle, and the influence he maintained over every branch of his family. A few short weeks of perfect happiness were the prelude to Margaret's cares. The fond husband took all the blame on himself like an honest fellow; and at my mother's feet made a confession which subdued her; for it finished by imploring her pity and consideration of his wife's condition; urging her to permit the marriage ceremony to be renewed in her presence, if she were dissatisfied with the proofs which her daughter could produce of the legality of those vows which had united them. 'My own marriage was not more binding,' added my dear mother, 'and what could I do, Henry?' 'Exactly that which you have done,' answered I. 'Proceed.' 'Nothing could be more amiable than his conduct was to Margaret and myself,' continued my mother, 'nor more prudent. He explained his situation to us over and over again: said he was certain he should have a friend in his mother, and that his sister Lucretia would make him independent the day he was of age; for that she hated to see him controuled by a man so tyrannical as Mr. Flamall.' A letter from this sister, broke in upon our comforts: it was affectionate and tender in the extreme; it contained bank notes to the amount of a hundred and twenty pounds, and a letter from Mr. Oliver Flint, his eldest brother, with an invitation to come over to him to Jamaica. My mother then mentioned Philip's being a posthumous child, with those particulars which you know relative to his father's second marriage, and extraordinary will, continued Mr. Sinclair, which particulars I pass over. Miss Flint urged him, in this letter, to avail himself of his brother's good intentions. 'You will,' added she, 'by this means shake off the yoke, which now oppresses you more than it serves you. You will soon be independent of your mother's family; and I think you ought to lose no time. The bills enclosed are for your use. Say nothing of them to your uncle. You may have incurred some little debts, which although not disgraceful to a young man, he will call profusion, and tease me, and torment you for months with lectures, should they be brought to his accounts. For once in his life, at least, during the term of years, he has concurred in your mother's and my opinion relative to you. Lose no time in coming hither. We must enjoy your society a little while before you commence your voyage. Your absence has already been tedious to your affectionate—Lucretia Flint.'

"In a postscript she again added her caution: respecting the bills informing him that she had got the start of his uncle by a post or two, who was then writing to his father! 'The doctor,' adds Miss Flint, 'is to settle every thing of a pecuniary sort, and to supply you with cash for your journey. I have insisted on your not travelling in the stage-coach; you will therefore on your part be prepared for his intentions on this point.'

"'This letter,' continued my mother, 'occasioned all the distress that it was calculated to produce on the mind of your sister. Her husband consoled her with sanguine hopes, arising from his prospects in this cruel separation. His brother Oliver was very rich, had buried all his children, and had promised to provide amply for him, on condition he paid him a visit. He would be a mediator he stood in need of with his uncle; and his sister Lucretia's letter was brought forwards in proof of her affection. He also exulted in his prudence. 'I have not,' said he, 'a single debt that I fear leaving to my tutor's examination. My wife will have a little supply, and Providence has rendered my best friend useful to my first of earthly blessings.' He quitted us, leaving his sister's remittance with his wife. His letters from the hall and till he embarked were cordials to Margaret. In his last from London, was inclosed another bill of a hundred pounds, and in this he suggested the expediency of our retiring into the country. We had already determined on so doing. Your sister advanced in her pregnancy, and concealment was becoming daily necessary. From this time we have not heard from Mr. Flint. During the course of these events,' pursued my mother, 'poor Mrs. Montrose was suddenly removed by an apoplectic fit. Her family was broken up. Charles went to the south; and Miss Montrose took a situation as governess in a family at Leith. I shall only say,' continued she weeping, 'that during these trials Fanny Montrose was our consolation. She also is removed from us! A Mr. Lindsey, the head clerk in Mr. Maclin's office, married her; and they removed to London, with advantageous views of his going abroad as supercargo to the West Indies in a ship of Mr. Maclin's. Poor Margaret, who had not recovered from her lying-in, and the shock of losing her little boy, whom grief had prepared for a speedy grave, sunk under the loss of her affectionate Fanny, and the doubts which distracted her: she will soon quit this world of sorrow!'

"It is needless to mention to you, Mr. Hardcastle," added Sinclair, "the inducements I had for suppressing those resolutions from appearing, which, as a man, and as the guardian and only prop of an injured sister, it became me to adopt. To comfort and to sooth was my business whilst I remained with her; and her spirits relieved from the oppressive secret with me, became more composed. In the third week of the four which I was permitted to be absent from my vessel, then undergoing some necessary repairs, we were one morning surprised into a state of more imminent danger to Margaret's life than any she had hitherto sustained. A double letter was delivered to my mother by the servant-maid, in my sister's presence. She saw the address, and uttering a faint scream, instantly fainted. The contents of Philip's letter will better please you, than a description of the alarm which it produced," added Sinclair smiling. "To my mother he recommends the utmost caution in the delivery of the one enclosed 'to his beloved wife, to his long lost and only blessing.' To Margaret he writes with incoherent joy. His brother Oliver was stiled 'his saving angel,' 'his more than father:' 'Providence in rescuing him from the blackest treachery, had in its mercy, he confidently trusted, preserved her. She could not, it was not possible that she could have believed him a faithless villain, unless the same wickedness which had been employed to destroy him, had reached her.' This letter concluded with ample instructions, to repair immediately to London; where his brother's agent would receive her, and provide for her immediate passage to him. An unlimited credit on this gentleman, with a draft for two hundred pounds on a banker at Edinburgh, were inclosed, with a positive injunction written by the good old man, to take care of herself as well as of the dear infant: to bring with her a female servant, qualified to be useful to her, as well as the nurse; and to be heedful about fashions, he having promised some of the girls, who had been unsuccessfully employed in setting their caps at Philip, the pattern of the one which had gained his heart. Poor Margaret on reading this passage forgot for a time her joy; but the hurry of the moment and my presence, checked her useless lamentations. My duty was prescribed. I was resolved never to lose sight of her till she was in her husband's arms. When in London I made some inquiries respecting this Flamall. From what I could collect from Margaret relative to her husband's opinion of this worthy uncle, I made no doubt of his having been the cause of all the mischief. The character he bears in London justifies me in this suspicion; for I was informed, that he had the talents of a swindler, and the impudence to face any danger but the frown of an honest man. I shall put this to the test whenever we meet."—"You would do much, better," observed I, "to turn him over to those as well disposed as yourself to rid the world of a rascal; and who have not your impediments in their way. Remember that your sister's worthy husband is his nephew; and beware of breaking into the happiness which now invites her to Jamaica."—"We shall see," answered he rising, "much will depend on my knowing the particulars of this story. I am no Drawcansir; but by G-d he shall find me a Sinclair!"—We returned to the ladies; and after dining with my new friends, and drinking to the health of Philip Flint, with the utmost sincerity of heart, I escaped from Sinclair's toasts of Miss Cowley, with a head still sufficiently cool to detail my adventure to his lordship. He has done what he never fails to do; he has entered with the most lively interest into my concerns. Sinclair has letters from him to the governor of Jamaica and some others of his father's connections. He dined with Mrs. Flint; and was charmed by her sweet and modest manners. She is one of the prettiest women I ever saw. The perfect symmetry of her form and features is wonderful! and with an expression of innocent vivacity and an infantile simplicity, she appears the beautiful school-girl, rather than the wife. She wants not solidity; for with some address she entered on the subject of her past troubles; and with a direct application to mine, bade me never despair, for that virtue would always attain its recompence. "You will have friends in Jamaica," added she affectionately, "who, in their own happiness, will not forget yours nor Miss Cowley's interest. Be assured of this, and contrive to inform the young lady that my husband will vigilantly watch his uncle. Philip is, Mr. Hardcastle, the most amiable and worthy of the human race! I was always convinced that he could not desert me; and I am certain he will serve Miss Cowley if he can."

I have seen my friends depart from this port. The ship sailed on Sunday evening. Sinclair will write to me immediately on reaching Jamaica.—My father will expect to hear something of my health and pursuits. I have no inducements to wish the former of these articles better than it is: the latter are such as will not disgrace him or myself. To any nearer inquiry I cannot reply to his satisfaction, without deviating from that sincerity and truth, which he has taught me to respect even with more veneration than himself. I wish I were able to deceive myself in regard to my dear friend Lord William. Alas, Lucy, he must die! Nothing can save him from the ravages of the cruel though insidious destroyer. He knows this; and it is his concealed wish to die any where rather than at home. "My absence," said he to me the other evening, "has prepared my mother for the more final separation. She will not see my last struggle, nor hear my last sigh. Her home will not be a perpetual remembrance of my funeral obsequies. I will winter at the Madeiras, Hardcastle, in order to be more remote from her." Poor fellow! amiable as thou art, what can lessen the sorrow which thou art doomed to inflict, long before that period, on all who know thee? I think he cannot live two months!

Yours, affectionately,

Horace Hardcastle.

Here also is found a break of a few weeks in the correspondence between the friends. Letters, however, regularly passed from and to Lisbon, and the animated Miss Cowley, with renewed health and gaiety, thus continues her correspondence to Heathcot.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Jackass.

[2] A convent near Lisbon, so called from being built of the Cork-tree.

CHAP. X.

LETTER XXVII.

Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle.

December the 29th.

I Shall leave to Alice's descriptive powers Mrs. Wilson's triumph on Christmas-day. With all her mild and sympathizing qualities she would nevertheless have been an object of terror, had a poor Hindoo heard her tale of the slaughtered poultry, and her secret of making them fat and fair. Such is opinion, Lucy! But leaving this disquisition to wiser heads than my own, and honestly confessing myself implicated in the crime of conniving at the shedding of innocent blood, I will proceed to inform you that I am deserted for a plum-cake, which will not be eaten till Twelfth-day at Durham, and which Mrs. Heartley and her train annually assist to cut up. I am, however, proof against all discontents. The Bay of Biscay continues open notwithstanding a Dutchman with skaits might go from hence to you in a strait line, in an hour or two. The weather has been celestial here during the frost. It gives to me aerial lightness, and I defy the intense coldness of the atmosphere. Wisely, however, reflecting that I had not the sylph's wing, I attired myself in my habit yesterday morning, and with my snow-shoes and India-shawl, I scudded away to the village, in order to see dame Dobs's fire-side. A bright sun, and the wind at my heels, sent me forward with a blithsome heart. I found her hearth blazing, and the good old woman so cottoned up with Mary's comforts, that even the rheumatism is kept in check. She was quite amazed how I could "brave such deadly cold weather; and yet I looked like a full-blown rose, and so cheerful! But that did not amaze her, for in warming other people's hearts my own would always be gay." On leaving her cottage the whim took me to visit some friends of my own; and cheered by a few benedictions, and as many welcomes, I resolved to return home, by taking the circuit of the mill. Now, knowing that the finest description of a frost-piece that the most poetical imagination ever composed, would not please Mary, at least so well as one of my long stories, I will spare myself the disgrace of being censured as the dullest of mortals in this art; and the shame of feeling, that this is probably one reason for my yawning over descriptive subjects, except with a crayon at my fingers' ends. But we have all our several gifts; holding forth is, unquestionably, mine, and I will begin my story by an exordium for Mary's edification. My text is drawn from my recollection of one of Quarles's emblems. You may, if your less retentive memory need it, still borrow the book from Deborah; and with the pictures recall the days when the restless Rachel stood for hours quietly listening to her expounding histories of them. One of these ingenious devices, if I be not mistaken, exhibits a youth borne on the wing of Hope, Fancy, and Desire, to an elevation remote from his safe abode. Careless of the approaching storm he still advances in his heedless career, till nature, exhausted, prompts him to pause. He does so, and with terror and amasement beholds the blackened sky, and hears the threatening thunder roll over his defenceless head. Now for the application. Thus did your heedless friend press on, although the friendly sun, from time to time warned her, by his retiring brightness, that he had something else to do besides gladdening her path. At length I took the alarm, and on looking towards his late refulgent road, saw him covered with a black curtain, which, from time to time, he put aside, to see whether the heedless wanderer had wisdom and was seeking a refuge. I had the wisdom to speed as fast as I could to the miller's house, which was the nearest; but, like my emblem, I had not learned to know, that sailing with a fair wind, and an adverse one, made some difference in the course of the ship. I had now a north-easter in my teeth; and as if in return for my temerity, he rattled with his rude blast a shower of hailstones about my ears, which, though they did not subdue my courage, greatly discomfited me. The gracious luminary once more peeped through his veil and smiled on me. I had gained the last field between me and my retreat when I took advantage of the hedge in order to adjust my shawl more about my face, which smarted with the keen blasts, and to recover my panting breath for renewed buffettings. At this providential moment I heard a child, concealed from my view by some hurdles, crying most lamentably, and repeatedly saying, "Get up, Johnny! pray get up! let us go home! I will go without you!" I removed the hurdle, and perceived the mourner in the hollow path. He was a stout boy of about nine years old, and was endeavouring to raise from the ground one of about seven, who appeared insensible. The danger was apparent; I flew to the children. "Where is your home?" asked I. "At the mill," answered the shivering boy. "Pray wake brother Johnny, he does not mind me; and my granny will scold me if leave him, because I took him out without leave." Unmindful of this petition, with the sturdy boy's help, I wrapped the torpid child in my shawl, which, as you know, is of the largest size, and I hastened to the house, with the offending and terrified culprit. He complained that he was weary and must rest; whilst I, with an air of authority, dragged him on till I became nearly exhausted myself, though remote from his danger; for I did not even feel it was cold, so great was my terror respecting the poor child I had left behind me, and the dread of seeing the one with me refuse to advance; for he hung back from time to time, saying that I hurt him, that he would sit down a while, and bade me go on without him.

From this terrible dilemma I was relieved by meeting with a servant of the house, who was looking for the vagrants. He called to another, and I was soon relieved from my burden, who had conquered me, and had composedly laid down on the ground. I followed the person who bore the child in his arms to the house, and the other man went forwards to the succour of the poor abandoned boy.

A neat and genteel-looking woman met us in the yard, whom, from her terror and grief, I supposed to be their mother. I tried to allay her fears, but finding that was not possible, contented myself with supplying her duty. She carried the boy to the kitchen fire, and, weeping bitterly, began to chafe his hands. My authoritative voice was at length heard, and in spite of his outcries he was put to bed in the blankets. Happily the village farrier was present, and supported me in my opinion. He said he had read some published cases of the Humane Society, and that he would answer for the other child if they would trust to him. The child appeared, and my shawl having been useful, he was judged to be in no danger by the doctor, who began his operations by rubbing him with snow. The children being considered as safe, I was next thought of. With many excuses the young woman led me through a large brick-floored parlour to a neat staircase, which conducted us to a very pretty snug room, in which was quietly seated an old lady knitting; and who had, as it appeared, escaped the general horror of the family in the kitchen, by being somewhat deaf and lame. She looked surprised by my intrusion, but instantly enquired whether the children were returned. The daughter, with more self-command than I expected, replied in the affirmative, adding that I had been so good as to lead them home. Her face betrayed, however, in part, the disaster, and I assured the grandmother that the danger was past and both children doing well. Her thanks for my services were followed by her "being certain I wanted some refreshment." She was not mistaken, for I was faint with hunger. Her little dinner was just ready, and she thought something warm and comfortable better for me than wine. I was entirely of the same opinion. Susan was dispatched to hasten matters below stairs; whilst with officious zeal I was placed in her own white dimity easy chair, and the hearth was replenished with fuel. The neatness of the apartment, the order which presided at the dining-table, the delicacy of my napkin, and the china in which was served a boiled fowl with vegetables and bacon, and a bread-pudding, excited in my mind a curiosity to know something more of my courteous hosts, concluding that these relics of former opulence did not belong to the miller's lady. I had no sooner obeyed the calls of my famished stomach, than I thought of my friends at the hall, and dispatched a note to Mrs. Allen, informing her simply, that, finding the air too sharp for me, I had stopped at the mill till the coach came for me. I added a verbal commission to the note, and desired that the person who was to carry it, might be cautioned to say nothing of the cause of my delay. The old lady heard more of this message than I intended. She turned pale, and with much emotion said, she was sure the truth had been kept from her: she would see her children, and if they could not come to her she would be carried to them. A more particular detail of the disaster followed; and her daughter assured her both her boys were in a fine perspiration, and the apothecary had no doubt but they would be fit to truant again on the morrow. The grandmother still looked incredulous. "My dear Madam," observed I, "you see their mother composed, and satisfied that the children are doing well: why should you now doubt of their safety?"—"Poor creature," replied she, "she has with myself to thank God's providence and you, for their preservation. She would have lost her senses had they perished, though she is not their mother; but these poor babes have no parents, nor any friends to love them but ourselves." She wept. "However," added she, "their aunt is father and mother to them." Susan mentioned as a sort of apology for her carelessness, that the eldest boy had persuaded Johnny to leave the mill-chamber where they were playing, to go and slide with some boys of the parish. It appeared that he enjoyed for some time his pastime with these children; but Johnny cried, and complained of the cold, and his chilblains, and said he would go home. Frank, his brother, soothed him from time to time, bidding him sit down on his coat, which the vigorous boy gave him. The hailstones sent the boys to their cottages which were at hand, and the truants began their walk, till Johnny would rest, saying he was sleepy, and would "stay a bit where he was."—"You know the sequel," added the grateful Susan addressing her mother, "and what we owe to this young lady."—"Would it be credited," observed the good woman, with visible thankfulness to Heaven, "that a creature so delicate and seemingly feeble, should have been the chosen instrument of a work of such mercy! But he who destined her for the work, will recompense her! Thousands more equal to the trial of strength would have turned aside!"—"I cannot think so," returned I. "Ah, my dear young lady!" answered she mournfully, "I have lived to see that what was every one's business was no one's business. Their poor grandfather might have been saved, had there been one with a heart like yours, amongst fifty, who saw him sink." To divert her from the silence which ensued, I praised her abode, observing that I could not have supposed the house so commodious from the road. "Why, in fact," replied she, "this wing can hardly be said to belong to the miller's house. It is quite separate, except by the back stairs you came up. In summer we enter by the garden, which is our own, we have our little kitchen and parlour below stairs, and four chambers. This wing was built for her own use, by the friend who left us the estate, and is not included in the lease of the farm. I also kept it for my own use. But my good tenants," added she, "not contented with having us for their next door neighbours a part of every summer, persuaded us to pass our Christmas holidays here; and what with the severe cold, and the rheumatism in my hip, they are likely to have me on their own hands some time; for Susan must mind her business, and the boys will be safer at school than here; for Frank is the copy of his dear father, always in harm's way, with the spirit of a lion, and the heart of a dove!" She wiped her eyes again, and knitted with astonishing quickness. "What business does your daughter follow?" asked I. "She was a milliner and mantua-maker; had a shop at Bishops-Auckland; clear-starched and mended lace; nothing came amiss to her hand; for she was industry itself, and the best of daughters."—"You have been fortunate," observed I, smiling, "in keeping to yourself this comfort: she is a very pretty woman."—"She was pretty at twenty," answered she, "but more than fifteen years may be added to that reckoning; and the troubles we have had have greatly changed her. She had once in her cheeks a colour like a rose; but like yours, my dear young lady, it could not stand all attacks. But you are not so pale as you were an hour since; I hope you feel warm. How you contrived to keep yourself from perishing is astonishing. I wonder how you kept your feet, or had courage to face such an air." She stirred the cheerful fire, and begged me to draw my chair closer to it. I smilingly told her that she gave me credit for more courage than I had, for that on sallying out I had turned my back on the enemy, forgetting that he would not turn his on me on my return home. But he shall not intimidate me, added I; "for I will come again and see you, in spite even of hail storms. She looked pleased, and said the sight of me would do her good as long as she lived.'You look healthy,' observed I.—'Pretty well for my years,' replied she,'but within sight of four-score one must expect infirmities. Thank God, I have not outlived my memory, and that reminds me of him, who from the hour I was an infant at my mother's breast, has watched over me, and whose arm of mercy will support me to my grave. Here is another instance of his loving kindness to those who lean on him!'—She renewed her tears. Susan now entered to say that the carriage was in sight, and I instantly took my leave of the good woman, whose spirits did not appear quite composed enough to receive more guests; and as I perceived Mrs. Allen and Sir Murdock in the coach, I tripped down stairs to them. My ruddy face and gay air, somewhat surprised them; for notwithstanding my prohibition and the fidelity of my messenger, the story had reached them; the farrier having related his share of the miracle in the stables at the hall whilst doctoring his patients there. The frost-bitten Miss Cowley was received with greetings and endearments which might have warmed her had she been congealed; and during the first enthusiasm of humanity, no one thought of chiding her for her folly in leaving a warm covert for a freezing walk. But, alas! who is perfect? Mrs. Allen, even our Mrs. Allen is mortal. Before night her philanthropy cooled. My colour offended her: I was, (she insisted it should be so,) feverish: and she gave the most solid reasons in the world for the partinacity of her opinion: 'it was impossible I should be otherwise.' As my stiff joints and aching head were rather too stubborn evidences in her favour; and, being moreover too sleepy for a debate, I passively suffered her to make me up like a bale of flannel; and drinking with docility a treacle posset, to her great contentment I fell asleep; when, lo and behold! the fever had disappeared, and I had lost eight hours of my existence; for not a dream had found access to my fancy in all those dormant hours. The dear and too tender Allen is now only anxious for my complexion. Peeling lips are however within her diploma: and with a face more crimsoned than my own, she has now brought me some lip-salve. Who can help loving her? I am sometimes afraid I shall love her too much. She wishes me not to write any longer. The second dose of treacle posset is preparing, and my flannels are at the fire. I never felt more comfortable in my life; but no matter, she is gratified. Good night. The frost could not find the heart of your R. Cowley; that was in another latitude secure from its influence."

Dec. 30th.

P.S. I would not seal my letter last night, lest I should have boasted too soon of my triumph over the northern blasts; but this morning finding even my complexion not the worse for its malice, I no longer hesitate to say, that Eolus resembles his stern-faced sister Adversity, only oppose each in their own way: he may be fearlessly encountered, and she softened down to a friendly aspect. Activity and firmness are the only guards against both. With this armour within and without, we shall neither shrink from the storm of the elements, nor faint at the visitation of the angel who is sent to purify our hearts with an efficacy not less salutary than that agent of mercy, which directs the whirlwinds in their desolating career to sweep away plagues, pestilence, and death, from the air we breathe. I have just now made my dear Mrs. Allen look grave. I had forgotten my wrappers this morning, in crossing the passage to Lady Maclairn's apartment. She appealed to Lady Maclairn, and again, it was "impossible" my blood could be in a state to resist cold. I had just finished my last moral inference, and I could not at once be made to tremble at the tempered breeze of a covered passage. I argued in favour of my own theory; she maintained that I had more confidence in my strength than was prudent. "Alas!" replied I, "how many wretches, more feeble than myself, bide the pelting of the pitiless storm!"

"Poor naked wretches, with houseless heads and unfed sides who protects them from cold, my dear friend?" "Who indeed!" replied she, with the glow of pity we have so often remarked, "who but that Being whose providential care is with many a subject of speculation, with some a doubt, and with multitudes neither remembered nor acknowledged."

Do you know I begin to suspect that Mrs. Allen has taken an unfair advantage of me; for seeing since the arrival of the Lisbon packet that my charity is enlarged to "good will to all men," she fancies it admits of no limitation, and that Miss Flint stands a chance of coming in for a share. She has therefore trepanned me into her room so often of late under some pretence or other, that my harp is nearly stationary in her apartment; and if I am to credit Mrs. Allen, it has something of the powers of David's, and from time to time lulls into temporary repose a spirit not less perturbed than poor Saul's. I am not yet an entire convert to Mrs. Allen's creed in favour of repenting sinners, although I can pity them. I cannot exactly think with her, that they deserve our peculiar commiseration and tenderness, still adhering to the maxim of, "as you sow, so must you reap." But I am becoming more placable, and more worthy of you; and I am going to read to Miss Flint an hour or two; for to tell you the truth, I do relent when I behold her writhing with pain. The total loss of the limb she hurt, would be nothing to the exquisite pain she suffers in the means used for its cure. Mary will think this a penalty sufficiently severe for the discipline she gave to her niece, and I may as well confess, that I am of the same opinion. Heaven bless you, and remember in your prayers your

Rachel Cowley.

CHAP XI.

LETTER XXVIII.

From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle.

"Six mails due from Lisbon! and yet Rachel Cowley talks with contentment of the celestial weather!" To be sure she does, my dear Miss Hardcastle, and for the simplest reason on earth. If I be disappointed, Horace is not; and I can subsist upon his happiness, and be thankful. Besides, it is something in my favour to reflect, that the very elements can be obstinate as well as myself. You tell me, that it is begun to be suspected, that my rejection of my Jamaica pretender, with my refusal of Sir George's reiterated and generous offers, arise from some engagement of a tender kind between Horace and myself. Be so good as to inform the good people who so carefully qualify their words, that I am engaged, that I make no secret of my engagement, and that in defiance of Lady Coldstream's lecture to me at ten years old, I still love, passionately love, Horace Hardcastle, and almond biscuits. I remember perfectly the solemnity of her face when she observed that "young ladies were to love nothing passionately." It may therefore be as well to inform her, that I only love obstinately; if such it must be thought, to prefer that virtue which has rendered me virtuous. If to cherish an affection resulting from the best gifts of nature, and sanctioned by my reason and principles, be to be culpable, I am of all women most to be censured and condemned; for I glory in my shame, and rejoice at my defeat. But you will say, that even Horace Hardcastle must fall short of that elevation to which my fond imagination has raised him. You are deceived; I neither expect, nor even wish for absolute perfection in a husband. My eyes are human, too strong a light would but dazzle and confound them. But I love Horace even in his foibles; twelve years acquaintance with them have made them my own, as well as his virtues. But to be serious, tell me to whose influence was your dear mother indebted for a docility on my part which she did not even expect from the untamed rebel to all constraint. To whom am I indebted for patience, and forbearance now? What moral attainment, what acquired knowledge do I possess, that has not been encouraged by Horace's example? I never was, nor ever shall be, one of your sentimental misses who can at pleasure decorate any man with the trappings of a hero in romance. I think, if I can judge of myself, that I am ungentle by nature, and so fond of freedom, as to love but little the shackles which some so eagerly seek. I am confident however, that I have one ingredient necessary for perfect love: for I fear, and I always have feared Horace. How often has his reproving eye recalled me to obedience and submission! What has been the delight, when by my little exertions, and petty triumphs over my turbulent spirit, I have seen his face glowing with pleasure, and heard his joy expressed by his saying, "Rachel Cowley will be as gentle and amiable as my mother!" I am persuaded that Heaven has destined Horace Hardcastle to be my guide and my protector. I should faint and tire in the road of duty with a companion whose paths I had to chuse and point out. But with Horace Hardcastle I shall be safe, for he will neither loiter himself, nor permit me to relax in search of that virtue which leads to peace. I would rather live to feed monkeys and nurse cats and kittens, than to be the wife of a man no wiser than myself. Negative virtues will not satisfy me, I must be the wife of a man whose understanding and whose conduct will preserve active the emulation my mind requires. In a word, I must esteem, respect, and even fear a little the man, whom it will be my duty to obey. Now have the charity to point out to me a man better qualified to direct my mutinous spirit than your brother? You cannot. Be then perfectly indifferent to the nonsense you hear from empty heads and cold hearts. I leave such without malice to their opinions of happiness; if they be satisfied it is well. It is not my business to investigate the solidity of those principles from which their opinions originate; but whilst I feel that my own correspond with all that is worthy of a reasonable and responsible being, I will adhere to them, and laugh at the advice I know to be no better than folly in a grave dress. You will perceive I am not in one of my gentle moods. I should not have been so guarded, had I met my kind friend Lady V——. She is a simpleton. Her son behaved properly, and Rachel Cowley's rejection of his hand has neither lessened his merit, nor his consequence. Adieu my dear girl, and believe me always yours,

R. Cowley.

LETTER XXIX.

From the same to the same.

Some benevolent fairy, my dear Lucy, who presided at your birth, on finding nature had done so much for you, that her intended and usual donations would be but kindness thrown away, has graciously reserved her gifts for me, foreseeing the hard destiny to which I was subjected. Being condemned, like the sleeping beauty of the wood, to a hundred years nap, it is presumable she would, had her power been equal to her benevolent wishes, have bestowed perpetual youth on me, and a face that in any night-cap would have been worthy of a lover at the expiration of my captivity. But as this effort was beyond the power of her magical wand, she has been contented with gaining permission for me to walk in my sleep, and to seek adventures for your entertainment, and my own relief from despair. But to my tale, lest you should fancy it a dream, and that, far inferior to Prince Rufus's enchanted palace, cooks, turnspits, fidlers, and beaux and belles, awakened to eat, drink, and be merry.

Finding I began to be weary of my good friend Eolus (for one may be tired of what is good, by having too much of it,) I determined, in order to vary the scene, to pay a morning visit to my new friends at the mill. "I should like," said I, "to see these boys now warmed into life by a pinch of snuff and snow water." The whole junto took the alarm. The roads were impassable; I should get my death of cold. I only laughed at their prognostics, and persisted in my intention, urging that the thaw, which has began here, had moderated the severity of the air. Lady Maclairn, always ready at an expedient, recollected that the coach-wheels wanted some repair, and her cook some corn to be ground for the fowls; and that at all events it was better for me to ride than to walk in the dirt. I readily conceded to this opinion, and, being wrapped up in pelisses and shawls, to the exact resemblance of the bag of corn, I departed. I found the little family one of those who, according to Deborah, "go as they would be met, and sit as they would be seen." Wisdom is wisdom with me, Lucy, "whether," as my darling Sancho says, "it is in a silk purse or in a sow's ear." There is nothing, in my opinion, more indicative of good sense than a habit of order. But let us go on. The old lady was giving the boys their reading-lesson when I entered, in a bible which was before them. Susan was making a muslin gown. My entrance interrupted them; and my notice of the children was followed by their being dismissed, but not before the grandmother, with unaffected anxiety, dictated to them their speech of gratitude to the dear good young lady who had saved their lives. This ceremony performed, they with glowing cheeks retired to enjoy, unconstrainedly, their existence. My observations were next directed to the beautiful muslin robe Susan was trimming with very fine edging: it was made with taste, in the Circassian stile, as the fashion has named it. "It is intended for a bride who lives in this neighbourhood," observed Susan, with a suppressed smile; "perhaps you may have seen the young lady: she rides frequently on horseback." Finding this insufficient for my information, she proceeded to tell me that it was Miss Gubbins she meant, who was going to be married to a young farmer. "Her father," added she, "knows what is to be done in that line of business by experience: he has got a good fortune by the plow." I instantly recollected having met this Miss Gubbins on her road; and the idea of her singularly short and corpulent person, in a Circassian robe, was too ludicrous for my gravity. "Dear me!" observed the old lady, who had joined in my laugh with great glee, "what would you say to many of my daughter's best customers! I am sure they divert me, though they make me stare. Young women whom I remember with a flowered-cotton short cloak, now buy what they call patent lace, and the straw or black silk bonnet is supplied by velvet, flowers, and feathers. It was only yesterday that a dairy-maid was here to get Susan to shorten the waist of her Sunday-gown, and to make it draw round the neck with a frill like the ladies'."—"My mother makes very free with my customers, Madam," observed Susan, smiling; "she forgets that those who keep a stall in vanity fair live by the folly of those who buy; and to say the truth, so do I sometimes, for it is amazing to see the money now expended by a class of people who, a few years since were in the habits of frugality. This gown, for example," added she, "is one of four I have made for Miss Gubbins; and you will laugh again when I tell you that her best dress has tassels and loops of silver." Susan folded up the robe, and made her apology for quitting me. She was going to her shop with Miss Gubbins in the gig, which was in sight, and she left us. I mentioned my intention of employing her to the good old lady, and engaged to speak to the ladies of the hall, not doubting but we should want Circassian robes with the rest of our neighbours. "You are very kind," answered Mrs. Crofts, slightly bowing, "but pray, Madam, is it true that Miss Howard is gone to London to serve in a milliner's shop?" I replied in the negative, expressing my surprise at her question. "Why to be sure," answered she, knitting with amazing rapidity, "one can hardly believe her aunt to be so unfeeling as to suffer such a young creature to be thrown into the wide world in such a way. But after what has lately happened, and what I know of Miss Flint, nothing of her cruelty would surprise me! Yet I did imagine her uncle would not permit Miss Mary to leave him for such a situation." She dropped some stitches and turned from me to repair them, wiping her eyes at the same instant. I now consoled her by briefly mentioning Mary's precise situation with you; said I would read to her a part of Miss Howard's last letter to me, and I immediately read to her Mary's account of Lucy Hardcastle's mode of treatment. "May the Almighty shower his blessings on her and hers for generations to come!" exclaimed the good woman in an extasy. "May the orphan she shelters be to her a blessing! and may her cruel aunt live to see Howard's child in no want of her protection!"—"Miss Flint has suffered much, I fear," observed I, "from the violence of her temper, and also from the misrepresentations of her conduct to you as well as to others. She is truly blamable on some points, but I am persuaded she never meant to place her niece in a situation of danger to her innocence. I think she has feeling; I am certain she is sorry for the late instance of her want of self-command."—"Ah, my dear young lady!" replied Mrs. Crofts, shaking her head, "you judge by the goodness of your nature; I have heard of Miss Cowley. My children are not the only objects of her benevolence! But I cannot think charitably of Miss Flint. The friend who left me this estate knew her better than you do. Poor soul! she suffered enough by knowing her! and I have had many a heart-ach in hearing Miss Flint's degeneracy from the angel, her mother! If I thought it would not tire you, I would tell you by what means I have gained a knowledge of the family, and a competency so far beyond my expectations; for when the first Mrs. Flint saw me, I was poor and wretched. It was the day or two after I had seen my husband a corpse, that she came to succour me. Susan was then at my breast, and I had a boy and a girl besides her to support. My poor husband," continued she, brushing away a tear, "was well known at Chelsea; he was a boatman, and always called 'honest Frank' by the gentry; for he was sober, diligent, and civil. He lost his precious life in endeavouring to save a man from drowning who was intoxicated, and could do nothing for himself. A subscription was raised for my relief. But it was Mrs. Flint who poured the oil into my wounds. She it was who raised my eyes to God, and bade me trust to the never-failing friend of the widow and the fatherless. She found I was expert at needle-work, and she furnished me with plenty of it, besides assisting me with money, for my rent and coals. I got on with comfort like this. When my daughter Jenny was fourteen, she fixed her with an old lady, a widow, with whom she went to live at Newcastle. Jane was a clever, active girl, and could read and write well. Her lady became so fond of her that she made her, as one may say, her favoured child, and when she died left her all her clothes and linen with three hundred pounds. She was too well trained to forget her mother in her prosperity; and on her marrying a farmer, to whom she had been sometime engaged, I removed, and settled at Newcastle, Jane being fixed near that town. Thus I lost sight of Mrs. Flint, and escaped, in part, the sorrow of her death, which happened soon after. But I shall never forget her! No, nor the angel who used to accompany her to see us, with her pockets filled with cakes for Frank, who was nearly of her own age. I think I now see her putting on Susan's new shoes, and exulting over her, because she could step alone! But she was formed for the heaven she is in! and surely never was there beheld so perfect a beauty! I do not think Miss Howard altogether so beautiful as her mother; for Mrs. Howard had height, and more vivacity; but if she is as good, it will be well for her that she has lived in this world of trial! Well, my dear young lady, time went on with me, sometimes sunshine, sometimes cloudy; but the widow's friend was always near me! My Susan was an apprentice to a milliner and mantua-maker. Mr. Webster, my son-in-law, grew wealthy every day; and acted by me like a child. Frank gave us some sorrow; he was discontented with living at the farm, and wished to be a sailor. I had suffered enough from water! and I could not be brought to consent. Besides, his brother loved him, and had promised to make a man of him, if he would continue to be diligent and sober; and this Frank was, to his dying-day!" She dropped a tear, and proceeded. "I had just settled myself and Susan in a well accustomed shop, when Frank secretly left us, and for a time my sorrows were renewed. At last I received a letter from him, and I found he had not forgotten his poor mother, nor his gratitude to her benefactress and his own. He was actually groom at the hall under another name, whilst I thought him exposed to the dangers of the sea. The account he gave me of Mrs. Howard's (then Miss Mary Flint) distressful situation, in her father's house, and left as it were to the mercy of the merciless, quite overpowered me. I went with Frank's letter to my daughter Webster's; and she declared, that Frank was sent by the Almighty for the purpose of delivering this innocent lamb, who had a hundred times been kind to him, and whose dear mother had saved us from ruin. So we continued, Madam, with the blessing of God, and the worthy Mr. Greenwood's assistance, to rescue Miss Mary from her cruel sister's power; and Mr. Webster, who went for her, conducted her in safety to his house, where for some days she was very ill. A month's good nursing, and our love, set her up again; and then, following Mr. Greenwood's instructions, I accompanied her to Berwick, where Mr. Howard met us. I was not surprised, when I saw the lover, at her preference of him; nor that Miss Flint should want to marry him, for he was one of the handsomest men I ever set my eyes on; but beauty was the least of Mr. Howard's advantages! You have heard how much he was respected here, Madam, and to this hour his name is reverenced. Well, my business was finished at Berwick and I witnessed a marriage, which, with all its difficulties, united two hearts and two creatures who were gazed at as being made for each other's happiness. Mr. Howard returned to Tarefield with his wife; and I neither repented then, nor have I since, of the part I had in bringing them together. Let those who blasted their comforts answer for the mischief!"—Her hands trembled, and she put aside her work to wipe away the falling tear.—"Frank, finding that he could be no farther serviceable to Miss Mary, returned home; but we soon after lost sight of him again, though with contentment. He married a very good girl, and went into partnership with her father, who was a wheelwright, and lived many miles from us. They were, however, comfortable, till a dreadful fever swept them away."—She paused.—"I had yet a child with me. Susan was my anchor of hope, and again I took heart. She refused several suitors for my sake, Madam; and her industry and good behaviour gained her many friends. To ease the rest of a house, which suited her increasing business, we let the first floor; and my son's attorney, a very worthy gentleman of the name of Lloyd, knowing it to be vacant, and that we only received one lady, recommended to us a Mrs. Barnes, a client of his, who had recently lived near London, as a suitable lodger for us; being a very quiet retired lady, and having no connections in the town but his family. Little did I suspect, when she arrived, that I was taking under my roof the wretch who had so barbarously treated Mrs. Howard! nor could I have conceived that time and repentance could have produced such a change in any one; for a more quiet and obliging woman could not be found than my lodger. She was satisfied with every thing; and we were so pleased with her, that at last we agreed to her request, that we should provide her table for her; and for which she paid so handsomely, that I was enabled to keep a maid-servant. She was, in the mean time, evidently a sickly and melancholy woman, but never, with us, a discontented one; and when, in the evening, we were with her, in her apartment, she took delight in helping Susan in her work, at which she was not less expert than herself. She never quitted her room, but to go to morning prayers, and sometimes to Mr. Lloyd's; but these visits were rare. Thus passed three years, and her increasing fondness for Susan was returned by every endeavour on our part to make her comfortable. But it was clear to us that she was a declining woman, and broken down by grief. Soon after this period, she told us one morning, as she passed through the shop, that she should go from chapel to Mr. Lloyd's, and meant to dine with him. We both remarked, when she returned, that she was more chatty than usual, and we renewed our usual exhortations, to induce her to use more exercise, and try to amuse herself: her answers were as they had always been, desponding; and we changed the subject. That very day week, she went again to the attorney's, and again we fancied that she returned home more cheerful. Some few days after she went again, telling us that we should think her a gossip; but that she should drink tea at home. We consequently waited some little time for her; but concluding her friends had detained her, were just set down, when she arrived in a sedan chair, and as we thought, in a dying condition. The people who attended her, kept a snuff-shop; and they informed me that she had been seized with a fit in the shop, whilst waiting for some snuff. You may suppose we did all that could be done; and in less than an hour, she was in bed, with a doctor and a nurse to attend her, both of whom Mrs. Lloyd sent us. I was, however, too much concerned for her, to leave her that night with a stranger. She was hurried and confused till near morning, when she slept, and awoke composed. We had soon the satisfaction of seeing her better; but her melancholy was more apparent than ever; and from that time she never left her room.—On her sending me one day to Mr. Lloyd's on business, soon after her recovery, I asked her why she would not take my arm and try to go herself, the morning being so pleasant. 'No, no!' answered she with great uneasiness, 'I will never expose myself to such another shock as I have had, I have enough on my mind without such terrors.' On my questioning her, she owned that the sight of Mr. Flamall had occasioned her fit. He entered into the snuff-shop with his nephew Mr. Philip Flint, as it appeared, and she was overpowered by seeing them. I was nearly being so, Madam, continued the good woman, when I discovered by her discourse whom I had harboured in my house; but I concealed my surprise; for I said to myself, assuredly God has created in her a new heart; and it is not for me to judge her. She wept most grievously; and from what I could gather, I thought she had been seduced by Mr. Flamall when a young woman, and had thus become subservient to Miss Flint's cruel purposes. She perceived my suspicions, and redoubling her tears, told me that I was quite wide of the mark; for that she had been always too homely for his pleasures, though not so for purposes more base and wicked than I suspected. 'But,' added she, with a look of despair, and wringing her poor hands, 'for God's sake, do not question me farther. I cannot shew the villain without bringing destruction on the heads of the innocent: and that I will never do! Besides, I cannot prove the fact. All I know for certain is, that he has ruined my poor soul!' From this time she frequently talked of the Tarefield family; and in such a way, that I persuaded her to open her mind to a clergyman; but she always said, that God would bring the truth to light in his own time; she would not be the ruin of more of her dear lady's children. She even solicited the visits of the minister notwithstanding this; but always chose that either myself or Susan should be present, and he was struck by her piety and submission. She never got the better of the surprise of meeting with Flamall. The doctor said, she died of a consumption; but I know it was of a troubled conscience, and a broken heart; although a penitent one. I was with her the last night she breathed in this world. I shall never forget her! Such a dying-bed, Madam! She raved continually of Miss Flint, of Mrs. Howard, of Mr. Flamall; then looking piteously in my face, she would ask me twenty times 'who told me the secret.' Weary with hearing her, I at length said, 'What secret?' 'The coffin! put me in! put me in, they will not find me there!' said she. Another time, she called on Mr. Philip Flint. 'Oh, do not let him hang me!' said she, struggling and tearing off the cap on her head, 'I nursed you; I was faithful to you; I loved you as the child of my own body! Poor child! you could not help it!' 'Help what!' asked I. 'That Mrs. Howard died for want of bread,' answered she. Then followed another struggle for breath. Then she knew me, and said, 'Pray for me, I am dying. All is over with me!' So, I soothed her; and she pressed my hand, and held it so fast I could not get it from her. Then she whispered so low, I could understand only these words:—'They told me it was a deed!' In this manner she continued till five o'clock in the morning. When, poor, poor soul! she sunk into her last sleep, trying to spell the word Philip; which she never could do: at nine her sufferings closed.

"You will not wonder, after this account, at my opinion of Miss Flint," continued the good woman. "I am not the only one in this neighbourhood who believes she has no more right to the wealth she enjoys than I have; though but few have my reasons for this belief. However, what I think I keep to myself, not even Susan knows what I have told you; who, like an angel, have taken care to remove from this vile woman a niece whom she hated; for the wicked can never bear the sight of those whom they have defrauded. God is just, Madam, even in this world. Let Miss Flint try to purchase, with her ill-gotten wealth, one sleep like yours, when you close your eyes, thinking of the innocent lamb you have protected! Poor wretch! poor wretch!" added she, shaking her venerable head, "I pity her. But to proceed, you may guess at our surprise, when we found that Mrs. Barnes had left to us every shilling she had; and you may judge of what passed in my mind, when I found she had signed her will that very day on which she so accidentally met Mr. Flamall and his nephew. This estate was left me only for my life. Susan had her legacy, in the furniture and clothes. The dear children are my heirs. They are orphans, Miss Cowley," added she, sinking her voice to a whisper, "poor orphans! What could I do in such a strait! But I often think of the price my poor friend gave for the means of these children's future bread. How do I know that the wages of sin will prosper even in the hands of the innocent?"—"Leave that consideration," replied I, "to the Providence which directed its uses to the innocent. Forbear to consider too minutely the retributive justice of an all-wise Being; but in this instance of his mercy to you, do not forget the conduct of your worthy son."—"You encourage me," replied she, "to trust every thing that troubles me on this subject to your better reason. I have a paper or two of poor Mrs. Barnes's that do me no good at times. I found them by chance, and even Susan knows not of them. I do not like to destroy them, lest it should be improper; and yet I should be sorry to leave them for other's finding, when I am gone. You shall see them." She turned towards a bureau at her hand, and from a private drawer produced the papers. "I found them here," said she, placing them in my hand; "put them in your pocket, and at your leisure read them. Keep them, or destroy them as you think fit. I am certain you are the friend of Miss Howard, and her worthy uncle. But as I was saying," continued she, settling herself with more composure, "this unexpected legacy and my son Webster's going to America with his family, where, according to him, they pay neither tithes nor taxes, induced us to take a good-accustomed shop at Bishop's-Auckland, which has answered very well although we pay taxes and tithes; and I shrewdly suspect my son Webster has repented selling his farm in Old England, although Jane will not own it. I have told you a long story, my dear young lady," continued she, "and I think you will no longer wonder at my thinking Miss Flint 'up to any mischief.' But may I take the liberty of asking you whether it is true that she rules Lady Maclairn with a rod of iron?" I satisfied her curiosity with discretion. "I am glad to hear she is so considerate," replied she, "for Mrs. Barnes always said she was a lamb amongst wolves. But pray, how does Miss Flint bear her brother Philip's absence so long?" I mentioned his prospects, adding, that although her spirits were much depressed from the probability of his remaining in Jamaica with his elder brother, who had declared his intention of making him his heir, yet she considered his interest as something. "God be praised!" exclaimed she, "who knows what this may do! Poor Captain Flint may, at last, have his own; and Mrs. Howard's child will be secure of comfort. I do not wish to see the proverb verified," added she, "which says,'out of sight, out of mind;' because I never heard any one speak ill of young Mr. Flint; but there is money enough to make more happy than one; and whether I am right or wrong in what I think, I must say that Captain Flint is as deserving as his young brother, and has a just title to be considered. He was his dear mother's pride, and Mrs. Howard's comfort! However, rich or poor, he will be reverenced here, and happy hereafter." The carriage appeared, the corn was ground, and your Rachel Cowley took her leave.

It were time lost to follow my train of thoughts; yours will run in the same channel. But it delights my soul, Lucy, to contemplate the proofs of a Providence visibly interfering in the cause of the virtuous. Poor Frank's children! How succoured! How relieved! But I will say no more, lest you fancy me more superstitious and presumptuous than rational, in those thoughts which at this moment occupy me. I know your ascendency, and will repress my enthusiasm, till you decide, whether I have been the appointed instrument of a deserving power, in its peculiar mercy to this family; and whether, my strong affection for Mary Howard does not originate from the same efficient cause of all good. Be this as it may, I am grateful to my Maker for the pleasure he has annexed to my duty; and for a heart, which knows no gratification, that equals the sense of living to perform his will. And in what does this consist, Lucy, if not, in loving our neighbour as ourselves, and our Maker supremely. God bless you, my friend; I am oppressed, but not depressed by the reflexions of the present hour. But you know your own

Rachel Cowley.

Papers found by Mrs. Crofts, copied and sent to Miss Hardcastle by her friend Rachel Cowley.

"Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence? If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there. If I make my bed in hell, behold thou art there also. If I say, surely the darkness shall cover me; even then the night shall be light about me!"

"Will no suffering for sin be accepted, no expiation admitted, but that which would, with my ruin in this world, bring down destruction on the innocent? Thou must suffer, my soul, the penalty of thy transgressions; it would be to multiply them to declare them. No, I will be silent. God knoweth all things. In his own time that 'which is done in secret, shall be proclaimed on the house tops.' Then, and then only, will it appear that I was tempted beyond my strength, nay, even deceived! But let me pause, and curse the love of gold that made me an easy prey!"

"I was told I should be well here, that repose from labour was all I wanted. I was dismissed with kindness, and loaded with the bounty of my lady! But she could not give me what she has not, peace of mind. Yet, she can sleep! She has not dreams like mine! She can laugh at my sufferings, and tell me, that they are fancies, and proceed from fever. Was it fever that suddenly rushed into my views at the sight of Mrs. Howard's coffin? I knew for weeks that she was in a dying condition, and yet I could then sleep. Was it fever that conveyed to my astounded ears the voice of the accusing angel, whilst Mr. Flint was speaking to his sister? She could stand the shock: I was obliged to leave the room, benumbed with horror, and the weight of the whole earth resting on me! Oh! had I died then, what miseries should I have been spared!"

"I was brought up by good and pious parents. When poor and friendless, sick and an orphan, the first Mrs. Flint sheltered me. She gave me good wages, as well as kindness and consideration; told me, that the small-pox, though it had injured my face, had not lessened my good qualities or my good character; and as a proof of her opinion of my prudence, I should be the young lady's-maid. And what was my return for her humanity, her confidence, her unexampled sweetness of temper? Oh conscience, conscience, bitter are thy recollections! sharp are thy wounds!"

"I was doomed to be the author of evil to my benefactors! God abandoned me to my wicked lust of money; the object of my senseless worship! What scenes of misery, of ruin, of treachery, and imposition have been aided by me!"

"I mean to pass over the period which passed after poor Mrs. Flint married Sir Murdock Maclairn. Tarefield-hall was no less fatal to her tranquillity, than to mine. But she was the victim of usurped power; I was the willing captive of sin. I still, however, bore up against conscience. I had laid out my ill-gotten gains in the purchase of this mill and land; and Mr. Flamall advised me to rebuild, instead of repairing the south end of the house, saying I should have a nest for my old age, and be always near my good mistress. This object, for a time, filled my thoughts. It was finished, and Miss Flint's great pleasure seemed to render it comfortable. She observed, that my health declined, and with great kindness listened to my plan of quitting her service.

"I was rejoiced at this relief. In the evening my lady sent me a hamper with wine and other articles of comfort; and a box containing household linen, with a kind note. I was weary with my day's exertions, and requested the miller's wife to place the trunk of linen in my bed-room; she did so; and supported it on two chairs, in order to elevate it for my ease, when I unpacked it. I soon repaired to my bed; a glass of wine had raised my spirits. Whilst undressing myself, I felt a ray of comfort. I was my own mistress; I had a competency; and by riding a double horse, and managing myself with care, my health might return. The good woman who attended me, encouraged these hopes, and left me to enjoy them. But they were fleeting to a mind diseased like mine! Some part of my gown by chance hung over the trunk, which was in my view from the bed. The moon threw its light on the object; and my imagination gave to it the shape and appearance of a coffin. Mrs. Howard rushed into my mind, and the usual train of thought succeeded. Feverish and sleepless, I counted the hours as they passed, till four in the morning, when nature sunk to unquiet repose. I dreamed that I was with my old master, that he was struggling with me, to prevent my looking into the coffin, telling me that it was his, not Mrs. Howard's. My force prevailed, I opened it; and saw only an infant in it, whom I took to my bosom, for it was cold and naked; it uttered a piercing cry, and fell into dust. I awoke: a faint sweat bedewed my whole frame, and an oppression on my chest was for some minutes insupportable. Yet my eyelids were heavy, and again I dosed. I was now, in imagination, closed up in Mrs. Howard's coffin, and striving to put aside her mouldering bones, when a voice bade me repent and live. To this appalling admonition succeeded new terrors. I thought I was flying from my habitation, which was falling, from the convulsion of the ground, in a dreadful earthquake. I sought the hall; it was levelled to the dust. Mrs. Howard, like an angel bright in glory, stood before it. She turned towards me, and said, 'Behold! and tremble!' I started at the loudness of her voice, and the severity of her countenance. The bed trembled under me with my agitations. I dreaded to slumber again. The morning sun rose bright; all nature smiled; the birds raised to heaven their hymn of joy. I sunk on my knees: I endeavoured to send up a petition to infinite Mercy. My lips were closed and parched: my tongue heart was dumb. I wept bitterly; for my mind was contrite, and my soul was humbled before an offended God. Surely these tears reached the throne of grace! for kneeling as I was, with my bursting head supported by the bed, I slept peaceably till I heard the family moving below stairs."

"Was this the pillow of repose for which I had given up my everlasting peace? My soul sickens at the thought! An alms-house, a cave in the earth is preferable to this abode! Let me fly to a spot where I am not known. My God is a reconcilable God: my Redeemer still liveth! The outstretched arm of infinite justice may be suspended by my repentance; by my bitter repentance! My weakness and my ignorance cannot produce any benefit to the injured. Alas! will it be allowed me to plead, that these betrayed me to guilt, to cruelty, to wretchedness; and that I cannot remedy, though wishing so to do, the least of the mischiefs I have done?"

I shall make no comments, my Lucy, on these extraordinary and affecting papers: they evidently make only a part of a more detailed confession. But we may ask,

"What is this secret sin, this untold tale,
"That art cannot extract, nor penance cleanse?"

MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

For I cannot persuade myself that Mrs. Barnes's guilt went no farther, than being subservient to Mrs. Howard's cruel treatment when her love affair was discovered.

I intend to see the good Mrs. Crofts, and to say that I think the papers can be of no use; being evidently nothing more than the effects of a disturbed mind and a great depression of spirits.

CHAP. X.

LETTER XXX.

From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle.

Why, my dear Lucy, after such a dearth of intelligence from our dear Horace, did you scruple to open the budget he sent me? You could not imagine, that he could, or would fill nearly a ream of paper with his vows of unalterable love and fidelity. He well knows, that were he to conjugate the verb aimer with all its moods and tenses, I should look only to the present and future. Je vous aime, et je vous aimerai, contents me. You will find in fact that Horace understood this when he sat down to write me a love letter; and that he wisely considered I should be better pleased with the contents of the packet which swelled his dispatches, than by the most elegant display of his talents for a tender epistle.

In the mean time he has been contending with the winds of heaven; but as I know your father has received a bulletin of his health and spirits, I shall only add, that I am happy.

I send you enough to compensate for the brevity of this letter; but I must caution you not to take a fancy to Mr. Oliver Flint; for, although he is in the main a good sort of Flint, compared with some, yet he is a rough pebble by the side of our captain: and I will not permit him to share with his brother the esteem which he merits. Tell my dear Mary not to be distressed about writing to me. Her letters to the good folks at the Abbey are a common banquet, except now and then, when Alice is penurious, and only treats us with scraps. Be it so; she has rights which no one wishes to invade. Mrs. Wilson, who furnished our last treat, poured forth her blessings on Lucy Hardcastle; and with her honest face glowing with rapture, said, "Aye! never tell me that wickedness abounds in the world and if it did, one family as righteous as Mr. Hardcastle's would again save it from destruction."—Farewell.

R. Cowley.

LETTER XXXI.

From Henry Sinclair to Horace Hardcastle, (sent by the latter to Miss Cowley, and by her inclosed, in the foregoing.)

Kingston, Jamaica.

MY DEAR SIR,

After a safe and speedy passage hither, and having happily witnessed a scene of tenderness, which whilst it unmanned me, gave to my anxious heart the most complete assurance that my sister had nothing for doubts or fears, I hasten to acquit myself of my promise to you, reserving for my future leisure the particulars of Margaret's little romance. I have not seen Mr. Flamall; but enough has transpired, to satisfy me that it is better I should not see him. In the mean time, I have succeeded in gaining the good will and entire confidence of the good old Oliver Flint. I took an opportunity when he was exulting at the prospect of Philip's happiness, and paying his assiduous court to "his Margaret," to ask her whether her head and her shoe-heels were of the same stuff; "for" added I, "the road of happiness and prosperity, though smoother than the rocks at Cintra, have made many stumble." This observation brought forwards Margaret's adventure, and your knight-errantry. With this prelude I began my questions; and I found a willing auditor. "You shall have my opinion of this matter," said Mr. Flint, wringing my hand with eagerness, "on condition that you promise me not to disturb my poor boy's comforts, nor attempt to see this uncle of his. We have done with him, Mr. Sinclair, and the arm of justice will reach him, without your aid; but let me tell you, by what means I have formed this opinion of a man, whom for a time I respected. You need not be told my reasons for desiring my brother Philip to visit me. My last surviving hope was nearly of his age, and bore the same name. I had lost sight of my family in England; and for many years had considered this as no misfortune, having been led to conclude that the conduct of some amongst them, had proclaimed their unworthiness. My sister Lucretia was the only one of my father's children with whom I had any intercourse by letter, and she constantly mentioned this posthumous child with tenderness and promising hopes. Her adoption of him pleased me, even before I was childless myself; and as it was obvious she had an influence with his mother, I wrote to her, stating my wishes and intentions in this boy's favour. Her answer was satisfactory; but I was informed that Philip had an uncle, who claimed his rights in a child who from his cradle had been his care and comfort; and that he intended to share with his nephew the hazards of the voyage, and the pleasure of seeing me; and in this arrangement his mother had concurred. They arrived; and I soon showed Mr. Flamall that I was satisfied with my heir. He, on his part, convincing me by his conduct, of the part he had taken in forming him for a worthy one. My friend Mr. Cowley, the father of the young lady for whom you are interested, was not less pleased with this serpent in disguise, than myself; and indeed, I know of none to whom his company was not acceptable. He was, or affected to be, charmed with his situation, and from certain hints and well-timed displays of his capacity for business, my friend made him very advantageous offers of employing him in the regulation of his accounts. He accepted them, and from that time resided with Mr. Cowley, who became attached to him more and more. About this period my poor friend received his daughter's picture from England; and I was summoned to celebrate its arrival with others of his acquaintance. Curious to see the change which time had produced, on an infant I had carried in my arms many and many a time, I went at an early hour, and found poor Cowley fondly surveying it. I was struck by the beauty of the image before me; but it had recalled to poor Henry his lost wife, and he yielded without restraint to his tender regrets. I endeavoured to soothe him, and amongst other things said, that his girl pleased me, though she had his saucy eyes, adding, 'Suppose, Henry, we make up a match between us? My boy is as handsome as your girl; and he will have reason to be satisfied, if she is only half as good and as beautiful as her mother was.' 'She has my saucy eyes, you say,' replied he, fixing his own on the picture; 'if she have my spirit also, she will wish to chuse a husband for herself; and I am very certain, she is well qualified to chuse wisely.' He continued to expatiate to Mr. Flamall, on her good fortune in having been brought up by Mrs. Hardcastle, and with much satisfaction continued to enumerate his daughter's various attainments, and the proofs he had in his letters from her, of good sense and discernment. This merely accidental conversation produced on Flamall's mind the first suggestions of his ambition; I have no doubt of this; for he frequently mentioned to me the advantages which would result from an alliance with my old friend; and withal intimated, that he was certain that Philip was a favourite with Mr. Cowley. Moreover, he frequently joked with us on the subject, and advised Cowley to send for his daughter. I had, however, by this time seen enough of my youngster, to suspect that he was in love elsewhere. I observed, that whenever Miss Cowley's picture was the theme of praise, Philip paid his tribute of admiration as much to the drapery as the face; and that with the young ladies, he was more pensive, than with their mothers. But hourly, my dear Sir, did he gain upon my heart; for in every thought, word, and deed, he brought to my remembrance my own dear boy, the last of my mortal blessings! But let this pass: you will soon know this worthy lad. I had soon after, having given up listening to Flamall's match-making scheme, the shock of seeing Mr. Cowley seized with his first apoplectic fit at my table. He recovered from this attack; but he was a changed man. He was not insensible of his diminished strength; and his conversations frequently turned on his settling his worldly affairs, before he left me. On an occasion of this kind, he one day in particular consulted me in relation to his two natural children. 'They are mine, Oliver,' said he with great tenderness; 'and their mother is as unconscious of evil as themselves. I have appointed them a provision and a guardian which will be a security for my honour, when I am dust. They will perceive that I was in affection a parent, when I thought of you for my substitute in duty. Tell me, have I taxed your friendship too heavily?'—'You have always been more than a match for me, Henry,' said I taking his trembling hand; 'but for once, I have the ascendency; for without consulting you, or having a doubt of your friendship, you have for years been my appointed executor, and the destined prop of those children now in heaven.' Poor fellow! he was moved to tears.—'I mean,' continued he, 'to try the effects of a change of climate. I wish to see my dear daughter before I die; I wish to recommend to her those proofs of her father's weakness. She will be kind to my innocent Marian; and when the boys are sent to England for instruction, she will protect them as my children. I have no fears for her happiness,' continued he; 'Hardcastle will continue to watch over her safety, and I have named him and Counsellor Steadman joint executors with yourself, in all matters relative to her concerns. Hardcastle has a son,' pursued he, 'of whom my dear girl has written me wonders. I have good reasons for believing that the lad's romantic father has for some years banished this boy from his house, lest he should exchange hearts with my girl. I have never dropped a hint of this suspicion to any one but yourself; but should I live to reach England, and find this young man a Hardcastle, and my daughter disposed to favour him, I will see her married to him, and then die in peace with the world and myself, as having well managed the talents given me.' This conversation finished by his repeatedly thanking me for the comfort I had given to his dejected spirits; and some short time after, he told me that he had finished his most important concerns; and should, whenever he embarked, leave Marian and her little ones under my roof; which promise had reconciled her to his voyage."

The second shock to his enfeebled frame left us little for hope. Yet he again rallied; but with the loss of all power in his legs, and with a general debility, that rendered every exertion fatiguing. He did not quit his apartment, and rarely his bed, for much time together. His faculties were notwithstanding less oppressed, than after his first attack; for he was more cheerful and equal in his spirits. During this term of his trial, how often have I heard him bless me for being the agent in the hands of Providence, in conducting to him Mr. Flamall, who so ably went through the business he was no longer in a condition to superintend, and whose society was a comfort to him! To say the truth, I was no less pleased with his conduct than my friend; 'for this fellow's talents are up to every thing but honesty.'

One morning I went as usual to Cowley's; he was still in his bed, and the sun-blinds were down in the bow-windows of his spacious apartment. I stumbled on entering, from the sudden transition from light to darkness, against some moveable; and with the utmost cheerfulness, my friend said, 'Why, how now, Oliver! you are one of those 'who love darkness rather than light because your deeds are evil;' therefore take care of your shins.' Rubbing the one offended, I approached the bed, and then only perceived, that on a small table close to its side, was a sheet of parchment, with pen and ink, and that Flamall had quitted his station near it to receive me. 'You are busy,' observed I, thinking he was, adding a codicil to his will, for such the lessening obscurity discovered the parchment to be.—'I will call this evening.'—'I had finished, my dear Oliver,' replied he, grasping my hand. 'We have wished for your appearance; I have only to sign and seal.' He rung the bell and desired the servant to show the gentlemen into the room. His physician, with one of the most respectable men at Kingston, entered.—I retreated to the bow, and passing the blind, stood in the balcony. I heard him say something as an excuse for having so long detained them; and he added, 'I have been hearing Mr. Flamall read my will once more. I now, in a sound mind, declare it to be last will and testamentary act, which I am about to sign in your presence.' The business was performed with all due formalities; and his faithful Juba, to whom he had given good learning when he was in England, witnessed this act of his beloved master with such emotions, that he left the room the moment he had written his name. Mr. Flamall asked him where he should deposit the will; and Cowley answered, 'in the cabinet.' The gentlemen saw him place it in the cabinet, which stood opposite to the foot of the bed, and Cowley received the key, which was attached to the chain of his watch. He now called me from my post, and for some time chatted with us. At length the gentlemen departed; and Juba, recovered from his grief, entered with some refreshment for his master. 'Try and get off this key,' said Cowley to him, giving him the watch. He did so without difficulty. 'There, my dear Oliver,' said my friend, giving it me, 'you will take care of it; and I have closed my accounts with this world.' We were both silent, for I could not speak. 'There is one thing,' resumed he, 'which I had like to have forgotten: you will find my wife's jewels and trinkets in that cabinet; let Rachel know I should have sent them to her long since, but that I could not bear to see them. There is a pearl necklace amongst them; her mother wore it the day she was married.' His voice sunk, and he burst into tears. 'Come, come,' said I, 'my dear fellow-sufferer, let us have no more of this; get well, and carry your daughter this necklace yourself. You will find, when placing it on her neck as a bride, that God has many comforts for you yet in store.' He shook his head.—'I trust he has,' replied he, 'but they are not in this world.' Flamall, who had left the room with the visitors, returned, and my friend changed the subject of conversation. He lived only nine days after this interview. You may judge of my surprise at the contents of the will, when called upon to produce it. Mr. Flamall acted his part to the life, but with me his villany stood confessed! I need not tell you his power over poor Miss Cowley, nor Philip's surprise that he was involved in her fate. His spirits, which had visibly declined from the time he had been with me, became totally dejected, and he passed his time here in solitude. I was certain he had the same suspicions with myself; and, although it went to my heart to vex him, I determined to open my mind to him: I did so by relating to him all I have told you; and I added, that if he preferred going to England, I would go with him and leave Flamall 'to the devil's care.'—'I have no wish to return to England,' answered he with emotion 'I wish to die here, and would this hour resign my breath willingly were it not for you!' The poor boy clung to my bosom, and wept bitterly.—'Well,' said I, 'we now understand one another. I would sooner see you dead than Miss Cowley's husband: but you may be her friend; we also will try to be cunning. Flamall is your uncle; so much the worse for you, and the better for him, according to the estimation of danger. We will leave him to an arm which will, in its own time, reach him to his cost. Show some alacrity in the post your uncle has assigned you, and be vigilant over accounts which relate to the heiress he has gained for you. Inventories will not be marriage articles, Philip, but they may be evidences of what Miss Cowley is worth. She may like you as an honest man, though not as a suitor forced upon her. We do not want her money, but Mr. Flamall does; and if he finds he cannot have it one way he will try another.' Philip entered into my views; he worked like a negro in Flamall's office for Miss Cowley, but complained bitterly that his uncle persecuted him daily on the subject of the marriage, and highly resented his reluctance to the voyage to England. About this time the partner of an old and respectable house of correspondence I had in London, arrived here. He met Flamall at my table, for I was a cunning man you will observe, and preserved appearances on many accounts. The stranger, before he quitted me, asked me how long I had known Flamall. I answered; adding that he was nearly related to my brother Philip. 'I should be sorry for the young gentleman,' replied he, 'were I not assured that I must have heard a false representation of Mr. Flamall's conduct in England.' I urged him to explain himself; he evaded for a time my enquiries, saying that he had only common report to produce as an apology for wondering at seeing Flamall in good company, and in an honourable station of trust; but, added he, "I am safe with you; I have heard that he writes too well, therefore take care of him, my good old friend." I smiled and shook his hand: we understood each other. Well! I am making this a long story! but now for the conclusion. One evening Philip returned from Kingston so ill that I thought he was dying. I say nothing of what passed in my mind. Here was my last hope within sight of the grave! He grew better, however, towards the morning, and the doctor told me his disorder was not the cruel fever which had made me childless. Philip was moved to see my distress, and he at once told me that he did not deserve my love and goodness, for that he had been afraid to trust me. He then told me all about his marriage with that poor little girl of ours, and the roguery which that d——d Flamall had practised to make him believe she was a faithless baggage. He had met Miss Lindsey by chance at his friend Dalrymple's, where he had persuaded Flamall to place the two little Cowleys and their mother; and, as you may suppose, poor Margaret's innocence was cleared up. It was well Flamall was then beyond my reach! He was at the large plantation, twenty miles from hence; so instead of shooting him through the head I employed my time in getting my poor boy well; and a contented mind hastened his cure. I shall never forget what passed in my mind when this affectionate, and very anxious uncle came on the wings of the wind to see his "dear Philip!" I met him, however, with my cunning face in the hall, and told him the patient was doing well, for he was asleep; and he followed me into the eating room. A thousand questions ensued, which were all answered by assuring him that he was in the road to better health than he had enjoyed for many months.—"We must part with him," observed he, "Jamaica will be the ruin of his constitution: he was never robust."—"Oh!" replied I, gaily, "he will do very well here when he has his wife."—"He will never have her," returned he, "by remaining here: Miss Cowley must be better wooed to be won."—"We will leave Miss Cowley to be wooed by those suiters who are nearer to her," answered I, "and be contented to receive the wife who has been villified, and it may be ruined in health as well as in peace, by treachery." He began to storm. "You had better be quiet," said I, "and thank fortune you are Lady Maclairn's brother: as for mine, within yonder, he is my care, not yours: I will provide for his happiness without delay, and only by signing Oliver Flint, do more to effect it than you have done with your penmanship. I have seen you, Mr. Flamall, for the last time, for I know you. When Philip is well enough to be disturbed, without risk, he shall wait upon you if you please, and introduce to you Mrs. Lindsey, who wishes to send a letter to her good friend, Doctor Maccleod, whom she finds, to her surprise, you correspond with, although he is in Heaven." I thought the fellow would have dropped at my feet! I never saw a man so cut down! "You will call for what you want," said I, retreating, "I will send a servant to you; but my brother shall not see you to-day."

He followed me, without uttering a word, and, mounting his horse, left the house. Poor Philip, who is the most affectionate of creatures, was vexed when I told him of this visit. He wrote to his uncle, who sent back the letter, and quitted the creek plantation. He resides now at the other, and lives like an angry lion in his lair. "Philip will tell you all the particulars of this villany," added he, rising to meet him and Lindsey. "Be sure to advise him not to regard this fellow's stubborn pride; he has been too humble with him, in my opinion, but his mother's peace is always uppermost, and I cannot bear to see him uneasy, so I never name Flamall."

Thus far, my dear Sir, you have seen Mr. Flamall as the guardian, the friend, and the relative. I leave to you to draw your own conclusions; but as the detention of the vessel permits me, I will continue my history by informing you that they have amongst them made a fool, to say no worse of your friend, of Henry Sinclair.

I perceived in Margaret's face a degree of anxiety and confusion whenever she saw me look serious. Our party, the following day, was augmented by two families, who came, in great form, to pay the bride, as they called my sister, their compliments, and to plague us with their ceremonious intrusion. I was in no humour for such company, and, pleading a head-ach, I kept close in my own apartment. Thus retired, I had just finished my solitary dinner when Lindsey entered the room; and, sitting down, commended my prudence and good fortune in escaping the people who were yet in the house. "I can do no more for Philip," added he, yawning, "and it may do him good if they teach him that no happiness here is permanent." I made no reply. "I find," continued Lindsey, "it is exactly as my wife had foreseen, you have taken offence, and Philip's caution is misconstrued. I will follow her counsels, for I have never had reason yet to repent of so doing. Listen to me, and then be angry if you please. During your brother's voyage hither his uncle informed him that he had long known of his intrigue with Miss Sinclair. Lecture followed exhortation, and exhortation lecture: the unrepenting sinner kept his secret, and listened in patience. One letter from Miss Sinclair, enclosed in one from Montrose, reached poor Philip soon after his arrival here; and the reception he met with from his brother cheered his drooping spirits. At length his intelligence from Scotland failed; and his uncle gave him seriously to understand that Mr. Cowley wished to secure him for a husband for his daughter. Philip endeavoured to laugh at his uncle's having taken up a few random jokes as a premeditated design, but this evasion failing, he firmly told him that his affections were engaged, and that his honour, without other motives, would oblige him to refuse even Miss Cowley's offered hand. 'I would have spared you, Sir,' replied Mr. Flamall, with sternness, 'the pain of blushing before a man whose authority you have of late cast off, although from the hour of your birth he has lived for the purpose of making you a reasonable being. I had hoped to have seen you long since reclaimed from the weakness and infatuation of a boy deluded by his vanity and passions; but I see you require harsher remedies than mine since you have found your path to fortune smooth. Read that letter, and then judge of the nature of those engagements which your delicate honour opposes to a situation the most enviable.' He threw a letter on the table, and abruptly left the room. Philip found that it was one from his college tutor, Doctor Macleod, to his uncle; and, from its contents, it appeared that the discovery of his attachment to your sister had been made by him to Mr. Flamall; for, after his approbation of the measures which Mr. Flamall had pursued of removing the lover from so dangerous a predicament, he proceeds in detailing the conduct of the deserted fair one. 'This imprudent girl, writes the good Doctor, 'soon supplied Mr. Flint's absence by admitting the visits of a new lover. He was more experienced in the wiles of the sex, of her class at least; and, being an independent man, of considerable fortune, she was prevailed upon to quit her mother, and to place herself under his protection at his seat near Dublin, without the name of a wife. I am told that Montrose, her first lover, shares with her in the generosity of her gallant; and that he is in Dublin, and supported by this unhappy girl. Mrs. Sinclair has left Edinburgh. Mrs. Montrose did not, at her death, leave sufficient to pay her debts. No wonder: her daughter is somewhere in service: I hope it is an honest one. When your nephew learns these particulars he will be convinced of the danger he has escaped, for he wants not understanding; nor will his gratitude fail in the acknowledgments due to those who, from their interest in his welfare, have providentially saved him from pain.''This letter,' added Lindsey, 'finished with latin, and cautions Mr. Flamall not to forget that the assumed mask of a Miss Sinclair, and the designing friendship of a Montrose, had been the destruction of men much more experienced in life than his nephew, &c.—Philip's state of mind, on perusing this letter, was such as I shall not attempt to describe. In the confusion and tumult of his thoughts he crushed it in his hand, and putting it into his bosom he left Flamall's house. He wrote to me: no answer was returned. He then wrote to a young man for general information, respecting his old friends, the Montroses and Miss Sinclair. To this letter he had a reply. It was such as confirmed, in part, his tutor's intelligence; for the death of Mrs. Montrose had broken up her little family, and the writer knew not where her son and daughter were. 'Mrs. Sinclair and her pretty daughter had left Edinburgh.' In the interim I reached this place with my wife; and my friend, on whom I relied for my present establishment, placed us in the house of our countryman, Mr. Dalrymple, till all was ready for our final settlement at his plantation. You may judge that my Fanny had formed her designs in favour of her injured friend, and she was not long without information in regard to Mr. Flint's situation and favour with his rich brother Oliver. She listened to his praises, and the Dalrymples were not sparing of them. His conduct in his visits to the Cowleys and their mother; his friendship to themselves, entered into these details; and, finally, the disappointment of certain young ladies who were said to be in love with the handsome stranger, who was soon to return to England to marry the great heiress, Miss Cowley. You will imagine the interview my wife so ardently desired was not long delayed; and without entering into her reproaches or Philip's distress, I will finish my narrative by telling you, that Doctor Macleod's friendly epistle and fatherly advise, was dated just six months after his death. The result was much happier than my poor wife had reason to expect, for she had nearly been the death of Philip in her indiscreet zeal for friendship. We are all at present in the right road," continued Lindsey, "and happy; but in our apprehensions of your warmth; for Flamall is without importance to us."—"I must see him," replied I, "were it only to thank him for all his good intentions. It will not, I presume, disturb the peace of the world, if I should improve Mr. Flamall's art of 'writing letters from the dead to the living,' or be taught by him the secret road to my old friend Macleod."—"This is what your poor sister fears," said Lindsey, "and which is the poison in the cup of poor Philip's present blessings. He cannot speak to you on this delicate subject." "I do not now wish he should," answered I, with warmth, "but by the——." I was interrupted by the entrance of the bewitching widow, who with a smile turning to Lindsey, asked him, if he had explained to me the wishes of my friends. Lindsey made no answer. But I will hasten over my defeat. All I know is, that I was subdued by her tears and pathetic representation of the misery I should introduce, by my noticing this rascal. And so well did she plead the cause of mercy and forbearance, that I do not think I could have shot at a sparrow whilst within hearing of her voice. "Promise me," said the syren, "promise me, Mr. Sinclair, that you will leave this miserable man to the upbraidings of his own conscience. Indeed you are not made for a murderer; nor does this guilty wretch need your blood to condemn him to a heavier punishment than that which now hangs over him; he is forlorn and dejected; and the prey of that remorse and disappointment which his conduct has produced. Shall I tell your brother? Shall I tell Margaret, that you will take no steps to interrupt their peace?" "You may," answered I, seizing her hand, "and if I am deemed a poltroon, you must defend me." She blushed and withdrew as abruptly as she had entered. My pacific intentions have cleared Philip's brow of care. We have had several conversations on the subject of his uncle's late conduct. I am assured that Mr. Cowley could not have found a better agent than this man, for his purpose, as far as related to business. He is acute, active, and regular in his employment; and Philip believes, that the same pride which had nearly been his destruction, will keep him just in regard to Miss Cowley's property. He is persuaded that Flamall will be miserable, till he is again on good terms with him; and he strenuously endeavours to convince me, that his uncle's deviations from honour and integrity may be traced to his unbounded affection for him, and an ambition which, though without excuse in some points, has been vigilantly employed for his benefit in many. "I cannot," added my brother, "cancel from my memory the numberless proofs he has given me of even parental anxiety and care; and I will make every concession to his pride that may tend to a reconciliation; for I know he loves me; and he is wretched. As a man and a christian, this is my duty; as the brother of Lady Maclairn, and the instructor of my youth, he has claims on my heart; and I yet hope to see him restored to himself, and the good opinion of the world." I had nothing to say to arguments of this kind: Philip Flint is not Henry Sinclair; but it is ten to one that he is the happiest and the wisest man of the two. I must try what wedlock will make of me; for I begin to suspect I want smoothing and trimming. I still feel that the current of resentment would carry me down to the creek plantation, for the sole purpose of kicking this uncle to Margaret's feet. Mrs. Dormer, my fair enslaver, keeps a watchful eye over me, and what with balls, feasts, and her smiles, I am a lost man, though yet a steady friend; and if you give the word of command I will kidnap Flamall, and send him to you for the recompence of his deserts.

Yours, most faithfully,

Henry Sinclair.

P.S. I have not room for my sisters prayers for Mr. Hardcastle's and Miss Cowley's felicity.

END OF VOL. II.

J.G. Barnard, 57, Snow Hill.

Transcribers note:
Original spelling, including any possible inconsistencies, has been retained.

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