L'exercice des plus ſublimes vertus deve et nourrit le genie, | ROUSSEAU.
LONDON; >} PRINTED FOR I. JONNSON, ST. PAUL'S CHURCH-YARD.
MDCCLXXIYIID.
7 n m —« CY 7 OI Saad Lf a EE "om PS HE * htm SF KTESEMEN Tc: * 0 Fad * this Fiction, the Author attempts to develop a charaQer different from thoſe generally portrayed.
This woman Is neither a Clariſſa, 5 a Lady G—, nor a * Sophie, —It would be vain to mention the va- rious modifications of theſe models, . it would to remark, how widely artiſts wander from nature, when they copy the originals of great * Rouſſeau, ©: 0h I: N delineating. e Heroine of Eq —.
2 ADVERTISEMENT.
maſters. They catch the groſs parts; but the ſubtile ſpirit eva- Porates; and not having the juſt ties, affectation diſguſts, when grace was expected to charm. | Thoſe compoſitions only have power to delight, and carry us wil- ling captives, where the ſoul of the author is exhibited, and ani- mates the hidden ſprings. Loft in a pleaſing enthuſiaſm, they live in the ſcenes they repreſent; and do not meaſure their ſteps in a beaten track, folicitus to gather expected flowers, and bind them in a wreath, accord- 8 the preſeribed rules of art.
pf 1 2 Theſe ADVERTISEMEN T.
Theſe choſen few, wiſh to ſpeak for themſelves, and not to be an echo—even of the ſweeteft ſounds —or the reflector of the moſt ſub- lime beams. The paradiſe they ramble in, muſt be of their own creating—or the proſpe& ſoon grows inſipid, and not varied by a vivifying principle, fades and dies.
In an artleſs tale, without epiſodes, the mind of a woman, who has thinking powers is diſplayed. The female organs have been thought + here give the Reviewers an opportunity of being very witty about the Paradiſe of Fools, &c, 5 too ADVERTISEMENT.
too weak for this arduous employ- ment; and experience ſeems to juſtify the ' aſſertion. Without ar- guing phyſically about po/ibilities— in a fiction, ſuch a being may be allowed to exiſt; whoſe grandeur is derived from the operations of its own faculties, not ſubjugated to opinion; but drawn by the indi- vidual from the original ſource.
„ CHAP. I.
Minz the heroine of this fiction, was the daughter of Edward, who mar- ried Eliza, a gentle, faſhionable girl, with a kind of indolence in her temper, which might be termed negative good- nature: her virtues, indeed, were all of that ſtamp. She carefully attended to - the ſhews of things, and her opinions, I ſhould have ſaid prejudices, were. ſuch. as the generality approved of, She was edu- cated with the expeRation of a large for- tune, of courſe became a mere machine: B the BE ) BE ) the homage of her attendants made 2 great part of her puerile amuſements, and ſhe never imagined there were any rela- tive duties for her to fulfil: notions of her own conſequence, by theſe means, were interwoven in her mind, and the years of youth ſpent in acquiring a few ſuperficial accomphſhments, without hav- ing any taſte for them. When ſhe was - firſt introduced into the polite circle, ſhe danced with an officer, whom ſhe faintly wiſhed to be united to; but her father ſoon "after recommending another in a more diſtinguiſhed rank of life, ſhe rea- dily ſubmitred to bis will, and promiſed t love, honour, and obey, (a vicious fool „) as in duty bound. While they reſided in London, 5 lived in the uſual faſhionable ſtyle, and feldom aw each other; nor were they ach: more fociable when they wooed 4 rural 8 rural felicity for more than half the year, in a delightful country, where Nature, with laviſh hand, had ſcattered beauties around; for the maſter, with brute, un- conſcious gaze, paſſed them by unobſerved, and fought amuſement in country ſports. He hunted in the morning, and after eating an immoderate dinner, ge- nerally fell aſleep: this feaſonable reſt enabled him to digeſt the cumbrous load; he would then viſit ſome of his pretty tenants; and when he compared their ruddy glow of health with his wite's countenance, which even rouge could not enliven, it is not neceſſary to fay which a gourmand would give the preference to. Their vulgar dance of ſpirits were infinitely more agreeable to his fancy than her fickly, die-away lan- guor. Her voice was but the ſhadow of "A _— and ſhe had, to complete her de- [ licacy, ſo relaxed her nerves, that ſhe became a mere nothing. Many ſuch noughts are there in the . female world! yet ſhe had a good opinion of her own merit, —truly, ſhe ſaid long prayers, and ſometimes read her Week's Preparation: ſhe dreaded that horrid place vulgarly called Hell, the re- gions below; but whether her's was a mounting ſpirit, I cannot pretend to de- termine; or what fort of a planet would have been proper for her, when ſhe left her material part in this world, let meta- phyſicians ſettle; I have nothing to ſay to her unclothed ſpirit. As ſhe was ſometimes obliged 1 to be alone, or only with her French waiting- maid, ſhe ſent to the metropolis for all the new publications, and while ſhe was - "_ her hair, and ſhe could turn her eyes from the glaſs, ſhe ran over 4 thoſe 3 3 thoſe moſt delightful ſubſtitutes for bo- dily diſſipation, novels. I ſay bodily, or the animal ſoul, for a rational one can find no employment in polite circles. The glare of lights, the ſtudied inelegan- cies of dreſs, and the compliments of- fered up at the ſhrine of falſe beauty, are all equally addreſſed to the ſenſes. - When ſhe could not any longer in- dulge the caprices of fancy one way, ſhe tried another. The Platonic Marriage, Eliza Warwick, and ſome other intereſt- ing tales were peruſed with eagerneſs. Nothing could be more natural than the developement of the paſſions, nor more ſtriking than the views of the human heart. What delicate ſtruggles! and uncommonly pretty turns of thought! The picture that was found on a bramble- buſh, the new ſenſitive- plant, or tree, which caught the ſwain by the upper-: B 3 gar- 1 garment, and preſented to his raviſhed eyes a portrait. Fatal image! It plant- ed a thorn in a till then inſenſible heart, and ſent a new kind of a knight-errant Li into.the world. But even this was nothing 1 to the cataſtrophe, and the circumſtance on which it hung, the hornet ſettling on 1 the ſleeping lover's face. What a heart- 2 8 rending accident! She planted, in imi- tation of thoſe ſuſceptible ſouls, a roſe buſh; but there was not a lover to weep: in concert with her, when ſhe watered it with her tears. — Alas! Alas! If my readers would excuſe the ſpor- tiveneſs of fancy, and give me credit for genius, I would go on and tell them ſuch 2 tales as would force the ſweet tears of 1 3” == ſenſibility to flow in copious ſhowers. '= = down beautiful cheeks, to the dif- i — compoſure of rouge, &c. &c. Nay, 1 would make it ſo intereſting, that the fair peruſer ſhould beg the hair-drefſer to ſettle the 206% himſelf, ad not inter- rupt her. k dd Ua ant od} ietrob- She had ** ther moſt beautiful dogs, who dhared het bed, and reclined on cuſhions near her all che day. Theſe ſhe watched wich the moſt aſſiduous care, and beſtowed on them the warmeſt careſſes, This fondneſs for ani- mals was not that kind of attendrifſ#- ment which makes a perſon take plea- ſure in providing for the ſubſiftence» and comfort of a living creature; but ĩt pro- ceeded from vanity, it gave her an op- portunity of liſping out the prettieſt French expreſſions of ecſtatic fondneſs, in 28 accents that had never _ — tenderneſs. She was chaſte, according to the vulgar acceptation of the word, that is, ſhe did not make any actual aux pas; ſhe B 4 feared .
feared the world, and was indolent; but then, to make amends for this ſeeming ſelf-denial, ſhe read all the ſentimental - movels, dwelt on the love-ſcenes, and, had the thought while ſhe read; her mind would have been contaminated; as ſhe accompanied the lovers to the lonely ar- bors,' and would walk with them by the _ clear light of the moon. She wondered her huſband did not ſtay at home. She was jealous— why did he not love her, ſit by her fide, ſqueeze' her hand, and look unutterable things? Gentle reader, I will tell thee; they neither of them felt what they could not utter. I will not pretend to ſay that they always annexed an idea to a word; but they had none of thoſe feelings which are not eaſily ana- * * W Py CHAP, Il.
IN due time the brought forth a foriy. a feeble babe; and the following year a daughter. After the mother's throes - ſhe felt very few ſentiments of maternal tenderneſs: the children were given to nurſes, and: ſhe. played with her dogs. Want of exerciſe prevented the leaſt chance of her recovering ſtrength; and twqwor. three milk-fevers brought on a conſumption, to which her - conſtitution tended. - Her children all died in their infancy,. except the two firſt, - and ſhe began to grow fond of the ſon, as he was remarkably handſome. For years ſhe divided her time between the ſofa, and the card-table. She thought not of -— v—_— death, death, though on the borders of the grave; nor did any of the duties of her ſation occur to her as neceſſary. Her children were left in the nurſery; and when Mary, the little bluſhing girl, ap- peared, ſhe would fend the awkward thing away. To own the truth, ſhe was awkward enough, in a houſe without any play- mates; for her brother had been ſent to ſchool, and ſhe ſcarcely knew how to employ herſelf; ſhe would ramble about the garden, admire the flowers, and play with the dogs. An old houſe-keeper told her ſtories, read to her, and, arJaſt, taught her to read. Her mother talked of enquiring for a governeſs when her Health would permit; and, in the interim deſired her own maid to teach her French. As ſhe had learned to read, chat came in her way, Neglected in « every (cri) (cri) 4 every reſpect, and left to the operations Wof her own mind, ſhe conſidered every thing that came under her inſpection, and learned to think. She had heard of Wa ſeparate ſtate, and that angels ſome- Wrimes viſited this earth. She would fit Win a thick wood in the park, and talk to them; make little ſongs addreſſed to them, and ſing them to tunes of her own compoſing; and her native wood notes wild were ſweet and touching. Her father always exclaimed againſt female acquirements, and was glad chat his wife's indolence and ill health made her not trouble herſelf about them. She had beſides another reaſon, ſhe did not wiſh to have a fine tall girl brought forward into notice as her daughter; ſne ſtil] expected to recover, and figure away in the gay world. Her huſband was. very tyrannical and paſſionate; indeed ſo very 2 — always connected with devotional ſenti- SN - very eaſily irritated when inebriated, that Mary was continually in dread leſt he ſhould frighten her mother to death; her ſickneſs called forth all Mary's ten- derneſs, and exerciſed her compaſſion ſo cantinually, that it became more than a match for ſelf-love, and was the go- verning propenſity of her heart through life. She was violent in her temper; but ſhe ſaw her father's faults, and would weep when obliged to compare his tem- per with her own. She did more; artleſs prayers roſe to Heaven for pardon, when ſhe was conſcious of having erred; and her. contrition was ſo exceedingly painful, that ſhe watched diligently the firſt movements of anger and impatience, to fave herſelf this cruel remorſe. Sublime ideas filled her youg mind— ments; extemporary effuſions. of grati- tude, SS. rn r dude, and rhapſodies of praiſe would burſt W often from her, when ſhe liſtened to the birds, or purſued the deer. She would gaze on the moon, and ramble through the gloomy path, obſerving the various ſhapes the clouds aſſumed, and liſten ro the ſea that was not far diſtant. ' The wandering ſpirits, which ſhe imagined _ inhabited every part of nature, were her conſtant friends and confidants. She began to conſider the Great Firſt Cauſe, formed juſt notions of his attributes, and, in particular, dwelt on his wiſdom and goodneſs. Could ſhe have loved her father or mother, had they returned her affection, ſne would not ſo ſoon, per- haps, have ſought out a new world.
Her ſenſibility prompted her to ſearch for an object to love; on earth it was not to be found: her mother had often diſ- appointed her, and the apparent partiality Tiality the ſhewed to her brother gave her exquiſite pain — produced a kind of ha- bitual melancholy, led her into a fond- MI neſs for reading tales of woe, and made her almoſt realize the fictitious diſtreſs. She had not any notion of death till a little chicken expired at her feet; and her father had a dog hung in a paſſion. She then concluded animals had ſouls, or they would not have been ſubjected to the caprice of man; but what was the foul of man or beaſt 2 In this ſtyle year after year rolled on, her mother ſtill ve- getating.
A little girl who attended in the nur- ſery fell fick. Mary paid her great at- tention; contrary to her wiſh, ſhe was ſent out of the houſe to her mother, a poor woman, whom neceſſity obliged to leave her ſick child while ſhe earned Her daily bread. The poor wretch, in a It fit ct of delirium tabbed herſelf, and Mary as her dead body, and heard the diſmal account; and ſo ſtrongly did it impreſs her imagination, that every night of her life the bleeding corpſe preſented itſelf to her when ſhe firſt began to ſlumber. Tortured by it, ſhe at laſt made a vow, that if ſhe was ever miſtreſs of a family ſhe would herſelf watch over every part of it. The impreſſion that this accident made was indelible. As her mother grew imperceptibly worſe and worſe, her father, who did not underſtand ſuch a lingering complaint, imagined his wife was only grown ſtill more whimſical, and that if ſhe could be prevailed on to exert herſelf, her health would ſoon be re-eſtabliſhed.. In gene- ral he treated her with indifference; but when her illneſs at all interfered with his pleafures, he expoſtulated in the moſt x | oY a cruel manner, and viſibly haraſſed the invalid. Mary would then aſſiduouſly try to turn his attention to ſomething elſe; and when ſent out of the room, would watch at the door, until the ſtorm was over, for unleſs it was, ſhe could not reſt. Other cauſes alſo contributed to - diſturb her repoſe: her mother's, lukewarm manner of performing her religious duties, filled her with anguiſh; and when ſhe obſerved her father's vices, the unbidden tears would flow. She was miſerable when beggars were driven from the gate without being relieved 7 if ſhe could do it unperceived, ſhe would give them her own breakfaſt, and feel gratified, when, in conſequence of; i, ſhe was pinched by hunger. 4 She had once, or twice, told her little * to her mother; they were laughed ande and ſhe determined never to do it _— 4 again.
2 "MF 10 * CO again, In this manner was ſhe left to reflect on her own feelings; and ſo ſtrengthened were they by being medi- tated on, that her character early became ſingular and permanent. Her under- ſtanding was ſtrong and clear, when not clouded by her feelings; but ſhe was too much the creature of impulſe, and the Have of compaſſion. ' CHAP. III.
N EAR her father's houſe lived a poor widow, who had been brought up in af- 'fluence, but reduced to great diſtreſs by the extravagance of her huſband; he had deſtroyed his conſtirution while he ſpent his fortune; and dying, left his wife, and five ſmall children, to live on a very ſcanty pittance. The eldeſt daugh- ter was for ſome years educated by a diſtant relation, a Clergyman. While ſhe was with him a young gentle- man, ſon to a man of property in the neighbourhood, took particular notice of her. It is true, he never talked of love; but then they played and ſung in concert; drew landſcapes together, and while ſhe worked he read to her, cultivated vated her taſte, and ſtole imperceptibly her heart. Juſt at this juncture, when ſmiling, unanalyzed hope made every proſpec̃t bright, and gay expectation danced in her eyes, her benefactor died. She returned to her mother the companion of her youth forgot her, they took no more ſweet counſel together. This diſap- pointment ſpread a ſadneſs over her countenance, and made it intereſting. She grew fond of ſolitude, and her cha- rater appeared ſimilar to Mary's, though her natural diſpoſition was very different.
She was ſeveral years older than Mary, yet her refinement, her taſte, e 1 caught her eye, and ſhe eagerly ſought ber friendſhip: before her return ſhe had j aſſiſted the family, which was almoſt re- d c(uced to the laſt ebb; and now ſhe bay another motive to actuate her. 15 As ſhe had often occafion to ſend mef- ſages to Ann, her new friend, miſtakes were frequently made; Ann propoſed that in future they ſhould be written ones, to ob- Wil viate this difficulty, and render their intercourſe more agreeable. Young people are moſtly fond of ſcribbling; Mary had had very little inſtruction; but by co- pying her friend's letters, whoſe hand ſhe -admired, ſhe ſoon became a proficient; a little practice made her write with to- lerable correctneſs, and her genius gave force to it. In converſation, and in writing, when ſhe felt, ſhe was pathetic, tender and perſuaſive; and ſhe expreſſed , contempt with ſuch energy, that few could ſtand the flaſh of her eyes.
As ſhe grew more intimate with Ann, her manners were ſoftened, and ſhe ac- quired a degree of equality in her be- haviour: yet ſtill her ſpirits were fluo- .. tuating, tuating, and her movements rapid. She felt leſs pain on account of her mother's partiality to her brother, as ſhe hoped now to experience the pleaſure of being beloved; but this hope led her into new ſorrows, and, as uſual, paved the way for diſappointment. Ann only felt grati- tude; her heart was entirely engroſſed by one object, and friendſhip could not ſerve as a ſubſtitute; memory officiouſly retraced paſt ſcenes, and unavailing wiſhes made time loiter.
Mary was often hurt by the involun- tary indifference which theſe conſe- quences produced. When her friend © was all the world to her, ſhe found ſhe was not as neceſſary to her happineſs; and her delicate mind could not bear to obtrude her affection, or receive love as an alms, the offspring of pity. Very frequently has ſhe ran to her with de- 2 C3 light, light, and not perceiving any thing of the ſame kind in Ann's countenance, ſhe has ſhrunk back; and, falling from one extreme into the other, inſtead of a warm greeting that was juſt flipping from her tongue, her expreſſions ſeemed to be diftated by the moſt chilling in- ſenſibility. - She would then imagine that ſhe look- ed ſickly or unhappy, and then all her tenderneſs would return like a torrent, and * bear away all reflection. In this man- ner was her ſenſibility called forth, and exerciſed, by her mother's illneſs, her friend's misfortunes, and her own un- fettled mind. | 2 1 eee Ea. As 0 and — 2 r PIE - OC.
of 0 2 .
H 4 EMAP. Iv.
Near to her father's houſe was a' range of mountains; ſome of them were, literally ſpeaking, cloud-capt, for on them clouds continually reſted, and gave grandeur to the proſpect; and down many of their ſides the little bubbling caſcades ran till they ſwelled a beautiful river. Through the ſtraggling trees and buſhes the wind whiſtled, and on them the birds ſung, particularly the robins; they alſo found ſhelter in the ivy of an old caſtle, a haunted one, as the ſtory went; it was ſituated on the brow of one of the mountains, and commanded a view of the ſea. This caſtle had been inhabited by ſome of her anceſtors; and C 4 many * friend looked cool, ſhe would ſteal to diſpoſitions of light and ſhade, the beauof a rock covered with a thin layer of which grew on its ſides, and nodded over the ſummit, A clear ſtream broke out many tales had the old houſe-keeper told her of the worthies who had reſided there. | | When her mother frowned, and her this retirement, where human foot- ſel- dom trod—gaze on the ſea, obſerve the grey clouds, or liſten to the wind which ſtruggled to free itſelf from the only thing that impeded its courſe, When more cheerful, ſhe admired the various tiful tints the gleams of ſunſhine gave to the diſtant hills; then ſhe rejoiced in ex- iſtence, and darted into futurity. One way home was through the cavity earth, Juſt ſufficient to afford nouriſhment to a few ſtunted ſhrubs and wild plants, of = , of it, and ran amongſt the pieces of WE rocks fallen into it. Here twilight al- ways reigned—it ſeemed the Temple of WT Solitude; yet, paradoxical as the aſſer- ton may appear, when the foot ſounded on the rock, it terrified the intruder, and g inſpired a ſtrange feeling, as if the Wrightful ſovereign was diſlodged. In Wchis retreat ſhe read Thomſon's Seaſons, WY oung's Night-Thoughts, and Paradiſe ost. 7; A At a little diſtance from it were the Whuts of a few poor fiſhermen, who ſup- ported their numerous children by their precarious labour. In theſe little huts ſhe frequently reſted, and denied herſelf very childiſh gratification, in order to Felieve the neceſſities of the inhabitants. er heart yearned for them, and would lance with joy when ſhe had relieved eir wants, or afforded them pleaſure.
© Tn theſe purſuits ſhe learned the luxury i benevolence frequently moiſtened her eyes, and gave them a ſparkle which, il excluſive of that, they had not; on the 1 1 contrary, they were rather fixed, and 1 would never have been obſerved if her 1 ſoul had not animated them. They were not at all like thoſe brilliant ones which look like poliſhed diamonds, and dart from every ſuperfice, giving more light to the beholders than they receive them- ſelves. \ - Her benevolence, indeed, * no bounds; the diſtreſs of others carried her out of herſelf; and ſhe reſted not till ſhe had relieved or comforted them. The warmth of her compaſſion often made her ſo diligent, that many things_oc- Wl curred to her, which might have * a leſs intereſted obſerver.
10 In like manner, ſhe entered with ſuch fpirit into whatever ſne read, and the emotions thereby raiſed were ſo ſtrong, that it ſoon became a part of her mind.
Enthuſiaſtic ſentiments of devotion at this period actuated her; her Creator was almoſt apparent to her ſenſes in his works; but they were moſtly the grand or olemn features of Nature which ſhe de- Wlichted to contemplate. She would Witand and behold the waves rolling, and —. OE ITY — lt we ond chink of the voice that could ſtill the tumultuous deep.
= Theſe propenſities gave the colour to her mind, before the paſſions began to exerciſe their tyrannic ſway, and particu- larly pointed out thoſe which the ſoil would have a tendency to nurſe. Fears after, when wandering through de ſame ſcenes, her imagination has 38 80 back, to trace the firſt placid ſen- timents fentiments they inſpired, and ſhe would 9 earneſtly deſire to regain the ſame peace- A ful rranquillity. 4 Many nights ſhe fat up, if I may be 0 allowed the expreſſion, conver/ing with i * the Author of Nature, making verſes, Þ and ſinging hymns of her own compoſing. She conſidered alſo, and tried to diſcern what end her various faculties were de- ſtined to purſue; and had a glimpſe of a truth, which afterwards more fully un- folded itſelf. She thought that only an infinite be- ing could fill the human ſoul, and that when other objects were followed as a means of happineſs, the deluſion led to miſery, the conſequence of diſappoint- ment. Under the influence of ardent affections, how often has ſhe forgot this conviction, and as often returned to it again, when it ſtruck her with redoubled 7 force.
1 W Corce. Often did ſhe taſte unmixed de- uicht; her joys, her ecſtacies aroſe from genius.
She was now fifteen, and ſhe wiſhed do receive the holy ſacrament; and peruſing the ſcriptures, and diſcuſſing ſome points of doctrine which puzzled her, ſhe would fit up half the night, her fa- vourite time for employing her mind; ſhe too plainly perceived that ſhe. ſaw through a glaſs darkly; and that the bounds ſet to ſtop our intellectual re- ſearches, is one of the trials of a proba- tionary ſtate. | | But her affections were rouſed by the diſplay of divine mercy; and ſhe eagerly deſired to commemorate the dying love of her great benefactor. The night before the important day, when ſhe was to take on herſelf her baptiſmal vow, ſhe could not go to bed; the ſun broke in on her meditations, Auxuriant ſhoots reſtrained by culture, The ſervants and the poor adored her.
ſelf in the higheſt degree, ſhe practiſed the moſt rigid œcomy, and had ſuch | power over her appetites and whims, that without any great effort ſhe conquered —- * I th / 2B 3 meditations, and found her not exhauſted 3 by her watching.; 1 4 The orient pearls were ſtrewed around '—ſhe hailed the morn, and ſung with Wl wild delight, Glory to God on high, | good will towards men. She was in- deed ſo much affected when ſhe joined | in the prayer for her eternal preſervation, that ſhe could hardly conceal her violent | emotions; and the recollection never failed to wake her dormant piety when carthly paſſions made it grow languid. Theſe various movements of her mind were not commented on, nor were the R In order to be enabled to gratify her- — * 8 ws —* an e en nr 4 them 1 } | hem fo entirely, that when her under- annding or affections had an object, ſhe timoſt forgot ſhe had a body which re- uired nouriſhment. This habit of thinking, this kind of 1 bſorption, gave ſtrength to the paſ- We will now enter og the more active Wield of life. | CHAP.
[ A FEW months after Mary was turned of ſeventeen, her brother was attacked by -2 violent fever, and died before his father could refch the ſchool. $3 She was now an heireſs, and her mo- Ther began to think her of conſequence, and did not call her the child. Proper maſters were ſent for; ſhe was taught to dance, and an extraordinary maſter pro- «cured to perfect her in that moſt neceſſary of all accompliſhments.
A part of the eſtate ſhe was to inherit had been litigated, and the heir of the perſon who ſtill carried on a Chancery Juit, was only two years younger than Our heroine, The fathers, ſpite of the a diſpute, 3Z BY Þ diſpute, frequently met, and, in order to ſettle it amicably, they one day, over a bottle, determined to quaſh it by a mar- riage, and, by uniting the two eſtates, to preclude all farther enquiries into the merits of their different claims.
While this important matter was ſet- tling, Mary was otherwiſe employed. Ann's mother's reſources were failing; and the ghaſtly phantom, poverty, made haſty ſtrides to catch them in his clutches. Ann had not fortitude enough to brave ſuch accumulated miſery; beſides, the canker- worm was lodged in her heart, and preyed on her health. She denied herſelf every little comfort; things that would be no facrifice when a perſon is well, are abſolutely neceffary to alleviate bodily pain, and ſupport the animal functions.
D There D There There were many elegant amufements, chat ſhe had acquired a reliſh for, which might have taken her mind off from its moſt deſtructive bent; but theſe her in- digence would not allow her to enjoy: forced then, by way of relaxation, to play the tunes her lover admired, and handle the pencil he taught her to hold, no wonder his image floated on her imagi- nation, and that taſte invigorated love. Poverty, and all its inclegant attend- ants, were in her mother's abode; and ſhe, though a good fort of a woman, was not calculated to baniſh, by her tri- __ vial, unintereſting chat, the delirium in which her daughter was loſt, This ill-fated love had given a be- witching ſoftneſs to her manners, a de- licacy fo truly feminine, that a man of any feeling could not behold her with- out wiſhing to chaſe her ſorrows away. 2 She She was timid and irreſolute, -and rather fond of diſſipation; grief only had your to make her reflect, In every thing it was not 4 but the beautiful, or the pretty, that caught her attention. And in compoſi- tion, the poliſh of ſtyle, and harmony of numbers, intereſted her much more than the flights of genius, or abſtracted ſpeculations.
She often it at the books Mary choſe, who, though -ſhe had a lively imagination, would. frequently ſtudy authors whoſe works were addreſſed to the underſtanding. This liking taught her to arrange her thoughts, and argue with herſelf, even when under the influ- ence of the moſt violent paſſions.
Ann's misfortunes and ill health were ſtrong ties to bind Mary to her; ſhe wiſhed ſo continually to have a home to & KG receive (QOH) receive her in, that it drove every other deſire out of her mind; and, dwelling on the tender ſchemes which compaſſion and friendſhip diftated, ſhe longed moſt ardently to put them in practice. Fondly as ſhe loved her friend, ſhe did not forget her mother, whofe decline was ſo imperceptible, that they were not aware of her approaching diſſolution. The phyſician, however, obſerving the moſt alarming ſymptoms; her huſband was appriſed of her immediate danger; and then firſt: mentioned to her his defigns with reſpect to his daughter. She approved of them; Mary was ſent for; ſhe was not at home; ſhe had rambled to viſit Ann, and found her in an hyſteric fit. The landlord of her little farm had ſent his agent for the rent, Which had long been due to him; and he threatened to ſeize the ſtock that ſtill remained.
remained, and turn them out, if they did not very ſhortly diſcharge the arrears.
As this man made a private fortune by haraſſing the tenants of the perſon. to whom he was deputy,. little was to. be expected from his forbearance.
All this was told to Mary - and 5 mother added, ſhe had many other cre- ditors who would, in all probability, take the alarm, and ſnatch from them all that had been ſaved out of the wreck.. © 1 ce could bear all,” ſhe cried; © but what ce will become of my children? Of « this child,” pointing to the fainting Ann, © whoſe conſtitution is already un- « dermined by care and grief—where « will ſhe go?“ — Mary's heart ceaſed to beat while ſhe aſked the queſtion She attempted to ſpeak; but the inarticulate ſounds died away. Before ſhe had re- covered herſelf, her father called him- F ſelf ſelf to enquire for her; and deſired her inſtantly to accompany him home. Engroſſed by the ſcene of miſery ſhe had been witneſs to, ſhe walked ſilently by his fide, when he rouſed her out of her reverie by telling her that in all likelihood her mother had not many hours to live; and before ſhe could re- turn him any anſwer, informed her that they had both determined to marry her to Charles, his friend's ſon; he added, the ceremony was to be performed directly, that her mother might be witneſs of it; for ſuch a deſire ſhe had 2 with childiſh eagerneſs.
Overwhelmed by this intelligence, Mary rolled her eyes about, then, with a vacant ſtare, fixed them on her father's face; but they were no longer a ſenſe; they conveyed no ideas to the brain. As ſhe drew near the houſe, her wonted ; + | preſence preſence of mind returned: after this ſuſpenſion of thought, a thouſand darted into her mind, —her dying mother, —her friend's miſerable ſituation, —and an ex- treme horror at taking—at being forced to take, ſuch a haſty ſtep; but ſhe did not feel the diſguſt, the reluctance, which ariſes from a prior attachment. | She loved Ann better than any one in the world to ſnatch her from the very Jaws of deſtruction ſne would have en- countered a lion. To have this friend . conſtantly, with her; to make her mind eaſy with reſpect to her family, would it not be ſuperlative bliſs? | Full of theſe thoughts ſhe entered her mother's chamber, but they then fled at the ſight of a dying parent. She went to her, took her hand it feebly preſſed her's. My child,” faid the languid mother; the words reached her heart; D 4 the me had ſeldom heard them pronounced with accents denoting affection; My « child, I have not always treated you « with kindneſs — God forgive me! do % you f“ Mary's tears ſtrayed in a diſ- regarded ſtream; on her boſom the big drops fell, but did not relieve the flut- tering tenant. © I forgive you!“ ſaid ſhe, in a tone of aſtoniſhment.
The clergyman came in to read the ſer- vice for the ſick, and afterwards the mar- riage ceremony was performed. Mary ſtood like a ſtatue of Deſpair, and pro- nounced the awful vow without thinking of it; and then ran to ſupport her mo- ther, who expired the ſame night in her Her huſband ſet off for the continent the ſame day, with a tutor, to finiſh his ſtudies at one of the foreign univer- fes.
Ann Ann was ſent for to conſole her, not on account of the departure of her new relation, a boy ſhe ſeldom took any no- tice of, but to reconcile her to her fate; beſides, 1t was neceſſary ſhe ſhould have a female companion, and there was not any maiden aunt in the family, or couſin of the ſame claſs.
CHAP, CHAP. VI.
Mary was allowed to pay the ren which gave her ſo much uneaſineſs, and ſhe exerted every nerve to prevail on her father effectually to ſuccour the family; but the utmoſt ſhe could obtain was a | ſmall fum very inadequate to the pur- poſe, to enable the poor woman to carry into execution a little ſcheme of induſtry near the metropolis.
Her intention of leaving "i part of the country, had much more weight with him, than Mary's arguments, drawn from motives of philanthropy and friend- ſhip; this was a language he did not underſtand, expreſſive of occult qualities he never thought of, as they could not be ſeen or felt.