F ce and, . er and, may I tell thee, I left my fa. cc mily, and, in many different ſtations, * rambled about the world; ſaw man- « kind in every rank of life; and, in cc order to be independent, exerted thoſe « talents Nature has given me: theſe « exertions improved my underſtanding; cc and the miſeries I was witneſs to, gave « a keener edge to my ſenſibility. My ce conſtitution is naturally weak; and, < perhaps, wo or three lingering diſ- te orders in my youth, firſt gave me a cc habit of reflecting, and enabled me to obtain ſome dominion over my paſ- « fions. At leaſt,” added he, ſtifling a figh, © over the violent ones, though I c fear, refinement and reflection only te renders the tender ones more tyran- «© nic.
I have told you already I have & been in love, and diſappointed the cc object .
« object is now no more; let her faults ce ſleep with her! Yet this paſſion has « pervaded my whole foul, and mixed « itſelf with all my affections and pur- « ſyits.—I am not peacefully indifferent; « yet it is only ro my violin I tell the « ſorrows I now confide with thee. ' The © object I loved forfeited my eſteem; « yet, true to the ſentiment, my fancy ce has too frequently delighted to form a cc creature that I could love, that could © convey to my ſoul ſenſations which ce the groſs part of mankind have not ce any conception of.“ He ſtopped, as Mary ſeemed loſt in thought; but as ſhe was till in a liſten- ing attitude, continued his little narra- tive. © I kept up an irregular oorre- « ſpondence with my mother; my bro- te ther's extravagance and ingratitude e had almoſt broken her heart, and «© made cc cc ec 2 cc "© conſtant, made her feel ſomething like a pang of remorſe, on account of her beha- viour to me. I haſtened to comfort her—and was a comfort to her.
e My declining health prevented my taking orders, as I had intended; but I with warmth entered into literary purſuits; perhaps my heart, not hav- ing an object, made me embrace the ſubſtitute with more eagerneſs. But, do not imagine I have always been a die-away ſwain. No: I have fre- quented the cheerful haunts of men, and wit!—enchanting wit! has made many moments fly free from care. I am too fond of the elegant arts; and «© woman—lovely woman! thou haſt charmed me, though, perhaps, it would not be eaſy to find one to whom my reaſon would allow me to « have .
« T have now only to tell you, that « my mother inſiſted on my ſpending « this winter in a warmer climate; and « ] fixed on Liſbon, as I had before vi- « ſited the Continent.” He then looked Mary full in the face; and, with the moſt inſinuating accents, aſked © if he « might hope for her friendſhip 2 If ſhe « would rely on. him as if he was her fa- ce ther; and that the tendereſt father 4 could not more anxiouſly intereſt him- « ſelf in the fate of a darling child, than & hedid in her's.“ Such a crowd of thoughts all at once ruſhed into Mary's mind, that ſhe in vain: attempted to expreſs the ſentiments which were moſt predominant. Her heart longed to receive a new gueſt; there was a void in it: accuſtomed to have ſome one to love, ſhe was alone, and comfort- leſs, if not engroſſed by a particular af- fection.
2 Henry 2 Henry Henry ſaw her diſtreſs, and not to in- creaſe it, left the room. He had exerted himſelf to turn her thoughts into a new channel, and had ſucceeded; ſhe thought of him till ſhe began to chide herſelf for _ defrauding the dead, and, determining to grieve for Ann, ſhe dwelt on Henry's misfortunes and ill health; and the in- tereſt he took in her fate was a balm to her ſick mind. She did not reaſon on the ſubject; but ſhe felt he was attached to her: loſt in this delirium, ſhe never aſked herſelf what kind of an affection ſhe had for him, or what it tended to; nor did ſhe know that love and friend- ſhip are very diſtinct; ſhe thought with rapture, that there was one perſon in the world who had an affection for her, and chat perſon ſhe admired— had a friendſhip -He had called her his dear girl; the words might have fallen from him by accident; Lad — fy accident; but they did not fall to the ground. My child! His child, what an aſſociation of ideas! If I had had a father, fuch a father!—She- could not dwell on the thoughts, the wiſhes which obtruded themſelves. Her mind was unhinged, and paſſion unperceived filled her whole ſoul. Loſt, in waking dreams, ſhe con- ſidered and reconſidered - Henry's account of himſelf; till ſhe actually thought ſhe would tell. Ann—a bitter recollec- tion then rouſed her out of her reverie; and aloud ſhe begged forgiveneſs of her. By theſe kind of conflicts the day was lengthened; and when ſhe went to bed, the night paſſed away in feveriſh ſlum- bers; though they did not refreſh ber, ſhe was ſpared the labour of thinking, of reſtraining her imagination; it ſported uncontrouled; but took its colour from her waking train of thoughts. One infant ſhe was ſupporting her dying mo- ther; then Ann was breathing her la, and Henry was comforting her.
The unwelcome light viſited her lan- guid eyes; yet, I muſt tell the truth, ſhe thought ſhe ſhould fee Henry, and this hope ſet her ſpirits in motion: but they were quickly depreſſed by her maid, who came to tell her that ſhe had heard of 'a veſſel on board of which ſhe could be accommodated, and that there was to be another female paſſenger on board, a vulgar one; but perhaps ſhe would be more uſeful on that account Mary did not want a companion.
As ſhe had given orders for her paſ- fage to be engaged in the firſt veſſel that "failed, ſhe could not now retract; and muſt prepare for the lonely voyage, as the Captain intended taking advantage of me fuſt i She had too muck ſtrength firenpth of mind to waver in her deter- mination; but to determine wrung ber very heart, opened all her old wounds, and made them bleed afreſh. What Was ſhe to do? where go? Could ſhe fet a ſeal to a haſty vow, and tell a deliberate te; promiſe to love one man, when the image of ahother'was ever preſent to her her foul revolted. © I might gain the ce applauſe of the world by ſuch mock « heroiſm; but ſhould I not forfeit my te own? forfeit thine, my father!“ There is a ſolemnity in the ſhorteſt ejaculation, which, for a while, ſtills the tumult of paſſion, Mary's mind had been thrown off its poiſe; her devotion had been, perhaps, more fervent for ſome time paſt; but leſs regular. She forgot that happineſs was not to be found on earth, and built a terreſtrial paradiſe liable to be deſtroyed by the H 2 firſt ( wo) firſt ſerious thought: when ſhe reaſoned _ the became inexpreſſibly ſad, to render life bearable ſhe gave * to fancy — this was madneſs. In a few days ſhe muſt 2gain go to ſea; che weather was very tempeſtuous—what . of chat, the tempeſt in her ſoul rendered every other trifling —it was not the con- tending * but. ſhe feared!
ow CHAP.
— eee - C HAP. XVII.
IN order to gain ſtrength to ſupport the expected interview, ſhe went out in a carriage. The day was fine; but all nature was to her a univerſal blank; The could neither enjoy it, nor weep that ſhe could not. She paſſed by the ruins of an old monaſtery on a very high hill; fhe got out to walk amongſt the ruins; the wind blew violently, ſhe did not avoid its fury, on the cantrary, wildly bid it blow on, and ſeemed glad to contend with at, or rather walk againft it. Ex hauſted, ſhe returned to the carriage was ſoon at home, and in the old room. Henry ſtarted at the ſight of her al- zered appearance; the day before her H 3 com- N . bu . ö : plexion had been of the moſt pallid hue; but now her cheeks were fluſhed, and her eyes enlivened with a falſe vivacity, an unuſual fire. He was not well, his ill- neſs was apparent in his countenance, and he owned he. had not cloſed his eyes all night; this rouſed her dormant ten- derneſs, ſhe forgot they were ſo ſoon to part— engroſſed by the preſent happineſs of ſeeing, of hearing him.
Once or twice ſhe eſſayed to tell him chat ſhe was, in a few days, to depart; but ſhe could not; ſhe was irreſolute; it will do to-morrow; ſhould the wind change they could not fail in ſuch a hurry; thus the thought, and inſenſibly grew more calm. The Ladies prevailed on her to ſpend the evening with them; but ſhe retired very early to reſt, and ſat on the ſide of her bed ſeveral hours, then threw herſelf on it, and waited for the dreaded to-morrow. CHA F.
CH AP. XVIII.
'THE ladies heard that her ſervant was to be married that day, and that ſhe was to fail in the veſſel which was then clear- ing out at the Cuſtom-houſe. Ienry heard, but did not make any remarks; and Mary called up all her fortitude to ſupport her, and enable her to hide from the females her internal ſtruggles. She durſt not encounter Henry's glances when ſhe found he had been informed of her intention; and, trying to draw a veil over her wretched ſtate of mind, ſhe talked inceſſantly, ſhe knew not what; flaſhes of wit burſt from her, and when the began to laugh the could not ſtop herſelf, H 42 Henry Henry ſmiled at ſome of her ſallies, and looked at her with fuch benignity and compaſſien, that he recalled her ſcattered thoughts; and, the ladies going to dreſs for dinner, they were left alone; and remained filent a few moments: after the noiſy converſation it appeared ſolemn. Henry began. You are „ging, Mary, and going by yourſelf; 0 your mind is not in a ſtate to be left « to its own operations —yet I cannot, <« diſſuade you; if I attempted to do it, I ſhould ill deſerve the title I wiſh to << merit. I only think of your happineſs; ** could I obey the ſtrongeſt impulſe of *© my heart, I ſhould accompany thee 4 to England; but ſuch a ſtep might * endanger your future peace.” Mary, then, with all the frankneſs which marked her character, explained er ſituation to him, and mentioned her fatal fatal fatal tie with ſuch diſguſt that he trembled for her. I cannot ſee him; he is not « the man formed for me to love!” Her delicacy -did not reſtrain her, for her diſlike to her huſband had taken root in her mind long before ſhe knew Henry. Did ſhe not fix on Liſbon rather than © France on purpoſe to avoid him? and if Ann had been in "tolerable health ſhe would have flown with her to ſome re- mote corner to have eſcaped from him. e intend,” ſaid Henry, © to follow « you in the next packet; where ſhall 1 © hear of your heath?” * Oh! let me * hear of thine,” replied Mary. ® T « am well, very well; but thou art very “ill thy health is in the moſt preca- * rious ſtate.” She then mentioned her intentien of going to Ann's relations. « 1 am her repreſentative, I have duties, < to fail for her: during my voyage I «« I hall have time enough for reflection though I think I have already determined.”
ge not too haſty, my child,” inter- rupted Henry; far be it from me to * perſuade thee to do violence to thy er feelings —but conſider that all thy future life may probably take its colour * from thy preſent mode of conduct. *<. Our affections as well as our ſentiments are fluctuating; you will not = perhaps always either think or feel as te you do at preſent: the object you now < ſhun may appear in a different light.” He pauſed. * In adviling thee in this < ſtyle, 1 Oy 999) ar hear, <c Mary.
She only i to expoſtulate.
« My affections are involuntary—yet they can only be fixed by reflection, * and when they are they make quite a s part of my ſoul, are inter woven in it, c animate «. animate my actions, and form my ce taſte: certain qualities are calculated « to call forth my ſympathies, and make « me all I am capable of being. The « governing affection gives its ſtamp to « the reſt becauſe I am capable of « loving one, 1 have that kind of cha- « rity to all my ſellow- creatures which is « not eaſily provoked. Milton has aſ- « ſerted, That earthly love is the ſcale « by which to n we may aſ- cc cend.” | | She went on with 8 « My « opinions on ſome ſubjects are not ce wavering; my purſuit through life has t ever. been the ſame: in ſolitude were % my. ſeatiments ſormed; they are inde- e lible, and nothing can efface them but death No, death itſelf cannot « efface. them, or my foul muſt be *. created afreſh, and not improved.
* Yet «< Yet a little while am] parted from my * Ann -I could not exiſt without the * hope of ſecing her again—I could << not bear to think that time could wear << away an affection that was founded on hat 1s not liable toperiſh; you might <« as well attempt to perſuade me that « my ſoul is matter, and that its feelings « aroſe from certain modifications of «7 «© Dear enthuſiaſhc creature,” whiſ- pered Henry, © how you. ſteal into my * ſoul.” She ſtil continued. The r ſame turn of mind which leads me to < adore the Author of all Perfeftion— «© which leads me to conclude that he < only can ful my ſoul; forces me to te admire the faint image the ſhadows * of his attributes here below; and my * imagination gives ſtill bolder ſtrokes — J know I am in ſome dee grer « gree under the influence of a delu- « ſion — but does not this ſtrong delu- « ſion prove that I myſelf © am of te ſubtiler eſſence than the trodden clad ** « theſe flights of the imagination point « to futurity z I cannot baniſh them. Every cauſe in nature produces an 8 effect; and am I an exception to the « general rule? have I deſires implanted « in me only to make me miſerable? will they never be gratified? ſhall I never be happy? My feelings do « not accord with the notion of ſolitary ie happineſs. In a ſtate of bliſs, it will « be the ſociety of beings we can love, « without the alloy that earthly infirmi- © ties mix with our beſt affections, that * will conſtitute great part of our hap- “ pineſs..
With theſe notions can I conform * to the maxims of worldly wiſdom?
= Cal te can I ſiſten d che cold dictates of „ Prmunns and bid my tuae multuous paſſidns ceaſe to vex me, * de ſtill, find content in grovelling - purſuits; und the adriiration of the ee misjudging crowd, when' i is only one I wih do pleaſe one who could e be all che world to me. Argue not ec with me, T ut bound by human ties; 4 but did my ſpirit ever promiſe to love, ce r could I conſider when forced to e bind myſelf. to take a vow; that at e the awful day of judgment I muſt r give an account of. My conſcience e does not fmite me, and that Being who is greater than the internal moni- < tor, may approve of what the world _-«. condemns z ſenſible that in Him 1 c live, could I brave His preſence, or * hope in ſolitude to find peace, if I acted de contrary es convition, that the world « might approve of my condu&—what « could the world give to compenſate « for my own eſteem? it is ever hoſtile « and armed againſt the feeling heart! « Riches and honours await me, and « the cold moralift might defire me to « ſit down and enjoy them cannot conquer my feelings, and till 1 do, « what are theſe baubles to me? you « may tell me I follow a fleeting good, « an ignis fatuus; but this chaſe, theſe « ſtruggles prepare me for eternity— « when I no longer ſee through a plaſs « darkly I ſhall not reaſon about, bur « fze] in what happineſs conſiſts.” Henry had not attempted to interrupt her; he ſaw ſhe was determined, and that theſe ſentiments were not the effu- fion of the moment, but well digeſted ones, the reſult of ſtrong affections, a high ſenſe of honour, and reſpect for the ſource 10 Hurce of all virtue and truth. He was flartled, if not entirely convinced by her Arguments; indeed her voice, her get tures were all perſuaſive. | Some one now entered the room; he looked an anſwer to her long harangue; it was fortunate for him, or he might have been led to. ſay what in a cooler moment he had determined to conceal; but were words neceſſary to reveal it? He wiſhed not to influence her conduct vain precaution; ſhe knew ſhe was be- loved; and could ſhe forget that ſuch a man loved her, or reſt fatisfied with any Inferior gratification. When paſſion firſ enters the heart, it is only a return of affection that is ſought after, and every other remembrance. and wiſh is blotted CHAP.
CHAP. XIX.
'Two days paſſed away without any particular converſation; Henry, trying to be indifferent, or to appear ſp, was more aſſiduous than ever. The conflict was too violent for his preſent ſtate of body ſuffered; he Joſt his appetite, and looked wretchedly; his ſpirits were calm- ly low—the world ſeemed to fade away —what was that world to him that Mary did not inhabit; ſhe lived not far him; He was miſtaken; his affection was her only ſupport; without this dear prop ſhe had: ſunk into the grave of her laſt —long-loved friend;— his attention I wache — 1ꝛ) rn I ee nn — — —— * — ſnatched her from deſpair. Inſcrutable are the ways of Heaven!
The third day Mary was deſired to prepare herſelf; for if the wind continued in the ſame point, they ſhould ſet fail the next evening. She tried to prepare her mind, and her efforts were not uſe- leſs; ſhe appeared leſs agitated than could have been expected, and talked of her voyage with compoſure. On great occaſions ſhe was generally calm and collected, her reſolution would brace her unſtrung nerves; but after the victory ſhe had no triumph; ſhe would ſink into a ſtate of moping melancholy, and feel ten · fold miſery when the heroic enthu- ſiaſm was over.
The morning of the day fixed on for ' her departure ſhe was alone with Henry only a few moments, and an awk ward kind of formality made them flip away without 2 We without their having ſaid much to each other. Henry was afraid to diſcover his paſſion, or give any other name to his regard but friendſhip; yet his anxious ſolicitude for her welfare was ever break- ing out—while ſhe as artleſsly expreſſed again and again, her fears with reſpect to his declining health. ce We ſhall ſoon meet,” ſaid he, with a faint ſmile; Mary ſmiled too; ſhe caught the ſickly beam; it was ftill fainter by being reflected, and not know- ing what ſhe wiſhed to do, ſtarted up and left the room. When ſhe was alone ſhe regretted ſhe had left him fo precipitately, * The few precious mo- « ments I have thus thrown away may « never return, ſhe thought the re- flection led to miſery. She waited for, nay, almoſt wiſhed for the ſummons to depart. She could s not not avoid {pending the intermediate tine with the ladies and Henry; and the tri- vial converſations ſhe was obliged to bear a part in harafſed her more than can be well conceived.
Tbe ſummons came, and the whole party atrended her to the veſſel. For a while the remembrance of Ann baniſhed her regret at parting with Henry, though his pale figure preſſed on her ſight; it may ſeem a paradox, but he was more preſent to her when ſhe failed; her tears then were all his own.
My poor Ann!” thought Mary, * along this road we came, and near this « ſpot you called me your guardian an- « gel—and now I leave thee here! ah! * no, I do not thy ſpirit is not con- * fined to its mouldering tenement! « Tell me, thou ſoul of her I love; tell * me, ah! whither art thou fled?” Ann occupied 4 occupied her until they reached che ſhip.
The anchor was weighed. Nothing can be more irkſome than waiting to fay farewel. As the day was ſerene, they accompanied her a little way, and then got into the boat; Henry was the Iaſt; he preſſed her hand, it had not any life in it; ſhe leaned over the fide of the ſhip without looking at the boat, till it was ſo far diſtant, that ſhe could not fee the countenances of thoſe that were in it: a miſt ſpread itfelf over her ſight — ſhe longed to exchange one look tried to recollect the laſt; the univerſe contain- ed no being but Henry! —The grief of parting with him had ſwept all others clean away. Her eyes followed the keel of the boat, and when ſhe could no longer perceive its traces: ſhe looked round on dhe wide waſte of waters, thought of the 13 Precious — — precious moments which had been ſtolen from the waſte of murdered time.
She then deſcended into the cabin, regardleſs of the ſurrounding beauties of nature, and throwing herſelf on her bed in the little hole which was called the ſtate-room—ſhe wiſhed to forget her exiſtence. On this bed ſhe remained two days, liſtening to the daſhing waves, unable to cloſe her eyes. A ſmall taper made the darkneſs viſible; and the third night, by its glimmering light, ſhe wrote the following fragment.
« Poor ſolitary wretch that I am; ee here alone do ] liſten to the whiſtling « winds and daſhing waves;—on no « human ſupport can I reſt— when not % loſt to hope I found pleaſure in the e ſociety of thoſe rough beings; but % now they appear not like my fellow « creatures; no ſocial ties draw me to « them.
« them. How long, how dreary has « this day been; yet I ſcarcely wiſh it « over — for what will to-morrow bring — « to-morrow, and to-morrow will only « be marked with unvaried characters « of wretchedneſs. —Yet ſurely, I am ce not alone!“ Her moiſtened eyes were lifted up to heaven; a crowd of thoughts darted into her mind, and preſſing her hand againſt her forehead, as if to bear the intellectual weight, ſhe tried, but tried in vain, to arrange them. © Father of Mercies, | « compoſe this troubled ſpirit: do 1 “indeed wiſh it to be compoſed—to ce forget my Henry?“ the my, the pen was directly drawn acroſs in an agony.
I 4 CHAP.
e. XX.
Tur mate of the ſhip, who heard her ſtir, came to offer her ſome refreſnment; and ſhe, who formerly received every offer of kindneſs or civility with pleaſure, now ſhrunk away difguſted: peeviſhly ſhe defired him not to diſturb her; bur the words were hardly articulated when her heart {mote her, ſhe called him back, and requeſted ſomething to drink. After drinking it, fatigued by her mental ex- - extions, ſhe fell into a death-like ſlumber, which laſted ſome hours; but did not refreſh her, on the contrary, ſhe awoke languid and ſtupid. The wind ſtill continued contrary; a week, a diſmal week, had ſhe ſtruggled with with her ſorrows; and the ſtruggle brought on a flow fever, which ſome- times gave her falſe ſpirits.
The winds then became very tem- peſtuous, the Great Deep was troubled, and all the paſſengers appalled. Mary then left her bed, and went on deck, to ſurvey the contending elements: the ſcene accorded with the preſent ſtate of her ſoul; ſhe thought in a few hours I may go home; the priſoner may be re- leaſed. The veſſel roſe on a wave and deſcended into a yawning gulph— Not ſlower did her mounting ſoul return to earth, for—Ah! her treaſure and her heart was there. The ſqualls rattled amongſt the fails, which were quickly taken down; the wind would then die away, and the wild undirected waves ruſhed on every ſide with a tremendous roar, In a little veſſel in the midſt of ſuch Ea ) ſuch a ſtorm ſhe was not diſmayed; ſhe felt herſelf independent.
Juſt then one of the crew perceived a ſignal of diſtreſs; by the help of a glaſs he could plainly diſcover a ſmall veſſel diſmaſted, drifred about, for the rudder had been broken by the violence of the ſtorm. Mary's thoughts were now all engroſſed by the crew on the brink of deſtruction. They bore down to the wreck; they reached it, and hailed the trembling wretches: at the ſound of the friendly greeting, loud cries of tumul- tuous joy were mixed with the roaring of the waves, and with ecſtatic tranſport they leaped on the ſhattered deck, launched their boat in a moment, and committed themſelves to the mercy of the ſea. Stowed between two caſks, and leaning on a ſail, ſhe watched, the boat, and when a wave intercepted it from her 3 view ſhe ceaſed to breathe, or rather held her breath until it roſe again.
At laſt the boat arrived ſafe along ſide the ſhip, and Mary caught the poor trembling wretches as they ſtumbled into it, and joined them in thanking that gracious Being, who though He had not thought fit to ſtill the raging of the ſea, had afforded them unexpected ſuccour.
Amongſt the wretched crew was one poor woman, who fainted when ſhe was hauled on board: Mary undreſſed her, and when ſhe had recovered, and ſoothed her, left her to enjoy the reſt ſhe required to recruit her ſtrength, which fear had quite exhauſted. She returned again to view the angry deep; and when ſhe gazed on its perturbed ſtate, ſhe thought of the Being who rode on the wings of the wind, and ſtilled the noiſe of the ſea; and the madneſs of the people—He only only could ſpeak peace to her troubled ſpirit! ſhe grew more calm; the late tranſaction had gratified her benevolence, and ſtole her out of herſelf.
One of the ſailors, happening to ſay to another, that he believed the world was going to be at an end;“ this obſervation led her into a new train of thoughts: ſome of Handel's fublime compoſitions occurred to her, and ſhe ſung them to the grand accompaniment. The Lord God Omnipotent reigned, and would reign for ever, and ever! — Why then did ſhe fear the ſorrows that were paſſing away, when ſhe knew that He would bind up the broken-hearted, and receive thoſe who came out of great tribulation. She retired to her cabin; and wrote in the little book that was now her only confident. It was after anidnight. | C 12s F C 12s F « At this ſolemn hour, the great day « of judgment fills my thoughts; the « day of retribution, when the ſecrets of « all hearts will be revealed; when all « worldly diſtinctions will fade away, « and be no more ſeen, I have not « words to expreſs the fublime images « which the bare contemplation of this « awful day raiſes in my mind. Then, * indeed, the Lord Omnipotent will te reign, and He will wipe the tearful « eye, and ſupport the trembling heart « —yet a little while He hideth his « face, and the dun ſhades of ſorrow, and * the thick clouds of folly ſeparate us e from our God; but when the glad « dawn of an eternal day breaks, we * ſhall know even as we are known. Here we walk by faith, and not by * ſight; and we have this alternative, either to enjoy the pleaſures of life, e which & which are but for a ſeaſon, or look « forward to the prize of our high call- ce ing, and with fortitude, and that wiſ- « dom which is from above, endeavour « to bear the warfare of life. We « know that many run the race; but he ec that ſtriveth obtaineth the crown of cc victory. Our race is an arduous one! « How many are betrayed by traitors C Jodged in their own breaſts, who wear e the garb of Virtue, and are fo near « akin; we ſigh to think they ſhould e ever lead into folly, and ſlide imper- « ceptibly into vice. Surely any thing e like happineſs is madneſs! Shall pro- « bationers of an hour preſume to pluck tc the fruit of immortality, before they . « have conquered death? it is guarded, « when the great day, to which I allude, Lc arrives, the way will again be opened. « Ye dear deluſions, gay deceits, farecc cc 6c cc ec cc cc cc cc cc cc ec cc cc cc wel! and yet I cannot baniſh ye for ever; ſtill does my panting ſoul puſh forward, and live in futurity, in the deep ſhades o'er which darkneſs hangs. I try to pierce the gloom, and find a reſting-place, where my thirſt of knowledge will be gratified, and my ardent affections find an object to fix them. Every thing material muſt change; happineſs and this fluctat- ing principle is not compatible. Eternity, immateriality, and happi- neſs, — what are ye? How ſhall I graſp the mighty and fleeting concep- tions ye create?
After writing, ſerenely ſhe delivered her ſoul into the hands of the Father of Spirits; and ſlept in peace.
CT aad J} CHAP. XXI.
Ma RY roſe early, refreſhed by the ſeaſonable reſt, and went to viſit the poor woman, whom ſhe found quite recovered: and, on enquiry, heard that ſhe had lately buried her huſband, a common failor; and that her only ſurviving child had been waſhed over-board the day before. Full of her own danger, the ſcarcely thought of her child till that was over; and then ſhe gave way to boiſterous emotions.
Mary endeavoured to calm her at t firſt, by ſympathizing with her; and ſhe tried d to point out the only ſolid ſource of comfort; but in doing this ſhe encountered r difficulties; the found her groſsly ignorant, yet ſhe, did not deſpair: and a the poor creature could not receive comfort from the operations of her own mind, ſhe laboured to beguile the hours which grief made heavy, by adapting her converſation to her capacity.
There are many minds that only re- ceive impreſſions through the medium of the ſenſes: to them did Mary ad- dreſs herſelf; ſhe made her ſome preſents, - and promiſed to aſſiſt her when they ſhould arrive in England. This employment rouſed her out of her late ſtupor, and again ſet the faculties of her foul in motion; made the underſtanding contend with the imagination, and the heart throb- ontenbed not fo irregularly during tion. How ſhort-lived was the calm when the Engliſh coaſt was deſcried, her forrows returned with redoubled vigor. — She was to viſit and comfort the mother K of her loſt friend And where then ſhould ſhe take up her reſidence? Theſe thoughts ſuſpended the exertions of her under.
ſtanding; abſtracted reflections gave way to alarming apprehenſions; and ten- derneſs undermined fortitude.
CHAP. XXII. 'F b IN England then landed the forlar wanderer. She looked round for ſome few moments— her affections wen nat attracted to any particular part of the Iſland. She knew none of the inhabitants of the vaſt city to which ſhe / was going: the maſs of buildings ap- peared to her a huge body without an informing ſoul. As ſhe paſſed through the ſtreets in an hackney-coach, diſguſt and horror alternately filled her mind. She met ſome women drunk; and the manners of thoſe who attacked- the ſallors, made her ſhrink into | herſelf, and exclaim, arè theſe my fellow crea- K 2 Detained * „„ * * „„ * Petained by a number of carts near the water-ſide, for ſhe came up the river in the veſſel, not having reaſon to; haſten on ſhore, ſhe faw vulgarity, «dirt, and vice—her ſoul ſickened; this was the firſt time ſuch complicated miſery obtruded itſelf on her fight, — Forgtting her own griefs, ſhe gave the world a much indebted tear; mourned for a world in ruins. She then perceived, that great part of her comfort muſt ariſe from viewing the ſmiling face of nature, and be reflected from the view of innocent enjoyments: ſhe was fond of ſeeing animals play, and could not ber to ſee her own ſpecies fink below In a little dwelling in one of the vil- lages near London, lived the mother of Ann; two of her children till remained with h&; but they did not reſemble Ann.
To her houſe Mary directed the coach, and told the unfortunate mother of her loſs. The poor woman, oppreſſed by it, and her many other cares, after an in- undation of tears, began to enumerate all her paſt, misfortunes, and preſent cares. The heavy tale laſted until midnight, and the impreſſion it made on Mary's mind was ſo ſtrong, that it baniſhed ſleep till towards morning; when tired nature ſought forgetfulneſs, and the ſoul ceaſed to ruminate about many things. ' She ſent for the poor woman they cook up at ſea, provided her a lodging, and relieved her preſent neceſſities. A few days were ſpent in a kind of liſtleſs way; then the mother of Ann began to enquire when ſhe thought of returning home. She had hitherto treated her vith the greateſt reſpe&, and concealed WD K 3 | her E ont ) ler wonder at Mary's chooſing a remote room in the houſe near the garden, and ordering ſome alterations to be made, as if ſhe intended living in it.
Mary did not chooſe to explain herſelf; had Ann lived, it is probable ſhe would never have loved Henry fo fondly; but x ſhe had, ſhe could not have talked of her paſſion to any human creature. She deliberated, and at laſt informed the