family, that ſhe had a reaſon for not living with her huſband, which muſt ſome time remain a ſecret they ſtared Not live with him! how will you live then? This was a queſtion ſhe could not anſwer; ſhe had only eighty pounds remaining, of the mone ſhe took with her to Liſbon; when it was erhauſted where could ſhe get more? I will work, ſhe cried, do ay thing rather than be a flave.
2 CHAP.
( UNHAPPY. ſhe wandered about the village, and relieved the poor; it was the only employment that eaſed her aching heart; ſhe became more inti- mate with miſery—the miſery that riſes from poverty and the want of education. $he was in the vicinity of a great city; the vicious poor in and abagt it muſt ever grieve a benevolent contemplative mind, | One evening a man who ſtood weep- ing in a little lane; near che the reſided in, caught her eye. Sit accoſted him; in a uſed manner, he formed her, that his wife was dying, and his children crying for the bread he could not * earn. Mary deſired to be conducted to his habitation; it was not very diſtant, and was the upper room in an old manſion-heuſe, which had been once the abode of luxury. Some tattered ſhreds of rich hangings ſtill remained, covered with cobwebs and filth; round the &i]- ing, through which the rain drop'd, was a beautiful cornice mouldering; and a ſpacious gallery was rendered dark by the broken windows being blocked up; through the 4 apertures the wind forced it way in hollow ſounds, and reverberated along the former ſcene of feſtivity.
It was crowded with dane ſom were ſeqfling, others ſwearing, or ſinging indecent ſongs. Willlat a ſight for Mary! Her Mod ran cold; yet ſhe had ſuffi- * cient reſolution to mount to the top of the houſe. On the floor, in one COrner corner of a very ſmall room, lay an _ emaciated figure of a woman; a window byer her head ſcarcely admitted any light, for the broken panes were ſtuffed with dirty rags. Near her were five chil- dren, all young, and covered with dirt; their ſallow cheeks, and languid eyes, exhibited none of the charms of child- hood. Some were fighting, and others crying for food; their yells were mixed with their mother's groags, and the grind which ruſhed through the paſſage. Mary was petrified; but ſoon aſſuming more courage, approached the bed, and, regardleſs of the ſurrounding naſtineſs, knelt down by the poor wretch, and breathed the moſt poiſonous air; for the unfortunate creature was dying of a putrid fever, the conſequence of dirt and want.
Their ſtate did not require much explanation. Mary ſent the huſband for a poor _neighbour, whom ſhe hired to nurſe the woman, and take care of the children; and then went herſelf to buy them ſome neceffaries at a ſhop not far diſtant, Her knowledge of phyſic had enabled her to preſcribe for the woman; and the left the houſe, with 1 of horror and ſatisfaction.
Sbe viſmed them every day, mak pro- - curgd them evggy comfort; contrary to her expectation, the woman began to reco- ver; cleanlineſs and wholeſome food had a wonderful effect; and Mary ſaw her riſing as it were from the grave. Not aware of the danger ſhe ran into, ſhe did not think of it till ſhe perceived ſhe had caught the fever. It made fuch an alarming ' progreſs, that ſhe was prevailed on to ſend for a phyſician; but the diſorder - was a violent, that for ſome days it baffled r baffled his {kill; and Mary felt not her danger, as ſhe was delirious. After the criſis, the ſymptoms were more favour- able, and ſhe ſlowly recovered, without regaining much ſtrength or ſpirits, indeed they were intolerably low: ſhe wanted a tender nurſe.
For ſome time ſhe had obſerved, that ſhe was not treated with the ſame reſpe& as formerly; her favors were for- gotten when no more were expected. This ingratitude hurt her, as did a fimilar inſtance in the woman who came out of the ſhip. Mary had hitherto ſupported her; as her finances were growing low, ſhe hinted to her, that ſhe ought to try to earn her own ſubliftence: the woman in return loaded __ with abuſe. Two months were elapſed; ſhe had not "ſeen, os heard from Henry. He was was ſick—nay, perhaps had forgotten her; all the world 'was dreary, and all the people ungrateful.
She ſunk into apathy, and. endea- vouring to rouſe herſelf out of it, ſhe wrote in her book another fragment: ee Surely life is a dream, a frightful e one! and after thoſe rude, disjointed * 1mages are fled, will light ever break << in? Shall Il ever feel joy? Do all ſuffer like me; or am I framed ſo as to be < particularly ſuſceptible of miſery? It 4 is true, I have experienced the moſt , rapturous emotions—ſhort-lived de- < light l- ethereal beam, which only ' «< ſerves to ſhew my preſent miſery— yet cc he ſtill, my throbbing heart, or burſt; < and my brain—why doſt thou whirl « about at ſuch a terrifying rate? why _ 0 thoughts ſo rapidly ruſh into my < mind, and yet when they diſappear TO leave iin leave ſuch deep traces? I could « almoſt wiſh for the madman's hap- « pineſs, and in a ſtrong imagination « Joſe a ſenſe of woe.
«Oh! reaſon, thou boaſted guide, « why deſert me, like the world; when I « moſt need thy aſſiſtance! Canſt thou « not calm this internal tumult, and « drive away the death-like ſadneſs which « preſſes ſo ſorely on me, — a ſadneſs « ſurely very nearly allied to deſpair. I e am now the prey of apathy—I could « wiſh for the former ſtorms! a ray of « hope ſometimes illumined my path; “ had a purſuit; but now it viſits not « my hgunts forlorn. Too well have I « loved my fellow. creatures! I have « been wounded by ingratitude; from “ every one it has ſomething of the « ſerpent's tooth.
« When overwhelmed by ſorrow, J have * met © met unkindneſs; I looked for ſome one ce to have pity on me; but found none « —The healing balm of ſympathy « is denied; I weep, a ſolitary wretch, « and the hot tears ſcald my cheeks. I « have not the medicine of life, the te dear chimera I have fo often chaſed, « a friend. Shade of my loved Ann! de doſt thou ever viſit thy poor Mary? « Refined ſpirit, thou wouldſt weep, cc could angels weep, to ſee her ſtrug- «« gling with paſſions ſhe cannot ſubdue; « and feelings which corrode her ſmall * portion of comfort! | She could not write any more; ſhe wiſhed herſelf far diſtant from all human ſociety; a thick gloom ſpread itſelf over her mind: but did not make her forget the very beings ſhe wiſhed to fly from. She ſent for the poor woman ſhe found in the garret; gave her money to clothe herſelf herſelf and children, and buy ſome fur- niture for a little hut, in a large garden, the maſter of which agreed to mploy her huſband, who had been bred a ar- dener. Mary promiſed to, viſit the fa- mily, and ſee their new abode when ſhe was able to go out.
CHAP.
WC HAP. XXIV. * Maur ſtill continued weak and tow, though it was ſpring, and all nature began to look. gay; with more than uſual brightneſs the ſun ſhone, and a little robin which ſhe had cheriſhed during the winter ſung one of his beſt ſongs. The family were particularly civil this fine morning, and tried to prevail on her to walk out. ny thing like kindneſs mel- ted her; ſhe conſented. * Soſfer emotions baniſhed her melan- choly, and ſhe directed her ſteps to the habita tion ſhe had rendered comfortable.
Emerging out of à dreary chamber, all nature looked cheerful; when ſhe had laſt — out, ſnow covered the ground, ground, and bleak winds pierced her through and through: now the hedges were -green, the bloſſoms adorned the trees, and the birds ſung. She reached the dwelling, without being much ex- hanſted; and while ſhe reſted there, ob- ſerved the children ſporting on the graſs, with improved complexions. The mother with tears thanked her deliverer, and pointed out her comforts. Mary's tears flowed not only from ſympathy, but a complication of feelings and recol- lections; the affections which bound her to her fellow creatures began again to play, and reanimated nature. She ob- ſerved the change in herſelf, tried to account for it, and wrote with her pencil a rhapſody on ſenſibility.
« Senſibility is the moſt exquiſite « feeling of which the human ſoul is ſuſ- « ceptible: when it pervades us, we feel L « happy 3 * happy; and could it laſt unmixed, we e might form ſome conjecture of the <« blifs of thoſe paradiſiacal days, when the obedient paſſions were under the « dominion of reaſon, and the impulſes ce of the heart did not need. correction. _< Ir is this quickneſs, this delicacy of ce feeling, which enables us to reliſh the « ſublime touches of the poet, and the « painter; it is this, which expands the « ſoul, gives an enthuſiaſtic greatneſs, « mixed with tenderneſs, when we view te the magnificent objects of nature; or © hear of a good action. The ſame « effect we experience in the ſpring, « when we hail the returning ſun, and * the conſequent renovation of nature; « when the flowers unfold themſelves, c and exhale their ſweets, and the voice * -of muſic is heard in the land. Sof- 8 tened by tenderneſs; the ſoul is diſ- = « poſed < poſed to be virtuous. Is any ſenſual « gratification to be compared to that of « feeling the eyes mojſtzned after having « comforted the unfortunate?
« Senſibility is indeed the founda- © tion of all our happineſs; but theſe « raptures are unknown to the depraved « ſenſualiſt, who is only moved by what « {trikes his groſs ſenſes; the delicate em- ce belliſhments of nature eſcape his no- « tice; as do the gentle and intereſting af- ce fections.— But it is only to be felt; it « eſcapes diſcuſſion,” She then returned home, * partook of the family meal, which was rendered more cheerful by the preſence of a man, paſt the meridian of life, - of poliſhed manners, and dazzling wit, He endea- voured to draw Mary out, and ſucceeded; ſhe entered into converſation, and ſome of her artleſs flights of genius ſtruck L 2 him =, him with: ſurpriſe; he found ſhe had a capacious mind, and that her reaſon was as profound as her imagination was lively. She glanced from earth to heaven, and caught the light of truth. Her expreſſive countenance ſhewed what paſſed in her mind, and her tongue was ever the faithful interpreter of her heart; duplicity never threw a ſhade over her words or actions, Mary found him a man of learning; and the exerciſe of her underſtanding would frequently make her forget her griefs, when nothing elſe .could, except benevolence. This man had known the miſtreſs of the houſe in her youth; good nature induced him to viſit her; but when he faw Mary he had another inducement. Her appearance, and above all, her genius, and cultivation of mind, rouſed his curioſity; but her dignified manners had had ſuch an effect on him, he was obliged to ſuppreſs it. He knew men,. as well as books; his converſation was enter- taining and improving. In Mary's company he doubted whether heaven was peopled with ſpirits: maſculine; and almoſt forgot that he had called the ſex « the pretty play things that render life « tolerable.”
He had been the ſlave of beauty, the captive of ſenſe; love he ne'er had felt; the mind never rivetted the chain, nor had the purity of it made the body ap- pear lovely in his eyes. He was humane, deſpiſed meanneſs; but was vain of his abilities, and by no means a uſeful member of ſociety. He talked often of the beauty of virtue; but not having any ſolid foundation to build the practice on, he was only a ſhining, or rather a ſparkling character: and though his 4 fortune fortune enabled him to hunt down plea- ſure, he was diſcontented.
Mary obſerved his. character, and wrote down a train of reflections, which theſe obſervations led her to make; theſe reflections received a tinge from her mind; the preſent ſtate of it, was that kind of painful quietneſs which ariſes from reaſon clouded by diſguſt;. ſhe had not yet learned to. be reſigned; vague hopes agitated her.
«©. There are ſome ſubjects that are fo 00 enveloped in clouds, as you diſſipate e one, another overſpreads it. Of this « kind are our reaſonings concerning « happineſs, till we are obliged to cry te out with the Apoſtle, That it hath not entered into the beart of man to con- « ceive in what it could conſiſt, or how « ſatiety could be prevented. Man « ſeems formed for action, though the | | «. paſſions « paſſions are ſeldom properly managed; cc cc cc cc cc cc cc cc cc cc cc cc «cc cc cc cc cc they are either ſo languid as not to ſerve as a ſpur, or elſe ſo violent, as to overleap all bounds.
« Every individual has its own pecu- liar trials; and anguiſh, in one ſhape or other, viſits every heart. Senſibility produces flights of virtue; and not curbed by reaſon, is on the brink of vice talking, and even thinking of virtue.
«© Chriſtianity can [only afford juſt prin- ciples to govern the wayward feelings and impulles of the heart: every good diſpoſition runs wild, if not tranſ- planted into this foil; but how hard is it to keep the heart diligently, though convinced that the iſſues of life depend on it, « It is very difficult to diſcipline the mind of a thinker, or reconcile him * to the weakneſs, the inconſiſtency of his underſtanding; and a ſtill more * laborious raſk for him to conquer « his paſſions, and learn to ſeck content, « inſtead of happineſs. Good diſpoſitions, « and virtuous propenſities, without the « light of the Goſpel, produce eccentric characters: comet-like, they are always c jn extremes; while revelation reſembles « the laws of attraftion, and produces «* uniformity; but too often is the « attraction feeble; and the light fo. es obſcured by paſſion, as to force the « bewildered ſoul to fly into void ſpace, and wander in confuſion.”
CHAP.
CHAP. XXV.
CHAP.
CHAP. XXV.
A FEW mornings after, as Mary war ſitting ruminating, haraſſed by per- plexing thoughts, and fears, a letter was delivered to- her: the ſervant waited for an anſwer. Her heart palpitated; it: was from Henry;. ſhe held it ſome time in her hand, then tore it open; it was not a long one; and only contained an account of a relapſe, which prevented: his ſailing in the firſt packet, as he had intended. Some tender enquiries were: added, concerning her health, and ſtate of mind; but they were expreſſed in.
rather a formal ſtyle:. it vexed her, and.
the more ſo, as it ſtopped the current of affection, which the account of his arrival and illneſs had made flow to her heart heart—it ceaſed to beat for a moment — ſhe read the paſſage over again; but could not tell what ſhe was hurt by—only that it did not anſwer the expectations of her affection. She wrote a laconic, incohe- rent note in return, allowing him to cal] on her the next day—he had requeſted permiſſion at the concluſion of his letter. Her mind was then painfully active; ſhe could not read or walk; ſhe tried to fly from herſelf, to forget the long hours that were yet to run before to-morrow could arrive: ſhe knew not what time he would come; certainly in the morning, ſhe concluded; the morning then was anxiouſly wiſhed for; and every with pro- duced a ſigh, that aroſe from expectation on the ſtretch, damped by fear and vain regret. 3 To beguile the tedious time, Henry's favorite tunes were ſung; the books they they read together turned over; and the ſhort epiſtle read at leaſt a hundred times. Any one who who had ſeen her, would have ſuppoſed that ſhe was trying to decypher Chineſe characters.
After a ſleepleſs night, ſhe hailed the tardy day, watched the riſing fun, and then liſtened for every footſtep, and ſtarted if ſhe heard the ' ſtreet door opened. At laſt he came, and ſhe who had been counting the hours, and doubting whether the earth moved,, would gladly have eſcaped. the approach- Ing Interview.
With an unequal, irrefolyte pace, ſhe went to meet him; but when ſhe beheld. his emaciated countenance, all the ten- derneſs, which the formality of his letter had damped, returned, and a mournfult preſentiment ſtilled the internal conflict.
She caught his hand, and looking wiſtfully fully at him, exclaimed, © Indeed, you are not well!“ | J am very far from well; but it ee matters not,” added he with a ſmile of reſignation; © my native air may work « wonders, and beſides, my mother is a « tender nurſe, and I ſhall ſometimes ſee * thee.” Mary felt for the firſt time in her life, envy; ſhe wiſhed involuntarily, that all the comfort he received ſhould be from her. She enquired about the ſymptoms of his diſorder; and heard that he had been very ill; ſhe haſtily drove away the fears, that former dear bought experience ſuggeſted: and again and again did ſhe repeat, that ſhe was ſure he would ſoon recover. She would then look in his face, to ſee if he aſſented, and aſk more queſtions to the ſame pur- port. She tried to avoid ſpeaking of herſelf, in herſelf, and Henry left her, with a pro- miſe of viſiting her the next day.
Her mind was now engroſſed by one fear —yet ſhe would not allow herſelf to think that ſhe feared an event ſhe could not name. She ſtill ſaw his pale face; the found of his voice ſtill vibrated on her ears; ſhe tried to retain it; ſhe liſ- tened, looked round, wept, and prayed.
Henry had enlightened the deſo- late ſcene: was this charm of life to fade away, and, like the baſeleſs fabric of a vi- ſion, leave not a wreck behind? Theſe thoughts diſturbed her reaſon, ſhe ſhook her head, as if to drive them out of it; a weight, a heavy one, was on her heart; all was not well there.
Out of this reverie ſhe was ſoon woke to keener anguiſh, by the arrival of a letter from her huſband; it came to Liſbon after her departure: Henry had forwarded it to her, but did not chooſe to deliver it himſelf, for a very obvious reaſon; it might have produced a con- verſation he wiſhed for ſome time to avoid; and his precaution took irs riſe almoſt equally from benevolence and love. She could not muſter vp ſufficient reſolution to break the ſeal: her fears were not prophetic, for the contents gave her comfort. He informed her that he intended prolonging his tour, as he was now his own maſter, and wiſhed to remain ſome time on the continent, and in par- ticular to viſit Italy without any reſtraint: but his reaſons for it appeared childiſh; it was not to cultivate his taſte, or tread on claſſic ground, where poets and Philoſophers caught their lore; but to join in the maſquerades, and fuch burleſque amuſements. | BF. The Theſe inſtances of folly relieved Mary, in ſome degree reconciled her to herſelf added fuel to the devouring flame — and filenced ſomething like a pang, which reaſon and conſcience made her feel, when ſhe reflected, that it is the office of Religion to reconcile us to the ſeemingly hard diſpenſations of providence; and that no inclination, however ſtrong, ſhould oblige us to deſert the poſt ai- ſigned us, or force us to forget that virtue ſhould be an active principle; and that the moſt deſirable ſtation, is the one that exerciſes our faculties, refines our affections, and enables us to be uſeful.
One reflection continually wounded her repoſe; ſhe feared not poverty; her wants were few; but in giving up à fortune, ſhe gave up the power of comforting the miſerable, and making the ſad heart fing for joy.
Heaven Heaven had endowed her with nn- common humanity, to render her one of His benevolent agents, a meſſenger of peace; and ſhould ſhe attend to her own inclinations?
Theſe ſuggeſtions, though they could not ſubdue a violent paſſion, increaſed her miſery. One moment ſhe was a he- xoine, half determined to hear whatever fate ſhould inflict; the next, her mind would recotl—and tenderneſs poſſeſſed her whole ſoul, Some inſtances of Henry's affection, his worth and genius, were remembered: and the earth was only a vale of tears, becauſe he was not t ſojourn with her.
CHAP.
CHAP. XXVI.
HENRY came the next day, and once or twice in the courſe of the fol- lowing week; but ſtill Mary kept up ſome little formality, a certain conſci- ouſneſs reftrained her; and Henry did not enter on the ſubje& which he found ſhe wiſhed to avoid. In the courſe of converſation, however, ſhe mentioned to him, that ſhe earneſtly defired to obtain a place in one of the public offices- for Ann's brother, as the family were _ in a declining way. | Henry attended, ae enquiries, and dropped the ſubject; but the follow- ing week, ſhe heard him enter with un- uſual haſte; it was to inform her, that ITT M he he had made intereſt with a perſon of ſome conſequence, whom he had once obliged in a very diſagreeable exigency, in a foreign country; and that he had procured a place for her friend, which would infallibly lead to ſomething better, if he behaved with propriety. Mary could not ſpeak to thank him; emotions of gratitude and love ſuffuſed her face; her blood eloquently ſpoke. She de- lighted to receive benefits through the medium of her fellow creatures; but to geceive them from Henry was ex- ; quiſite pleaſure.
As the ſummer advanced, Henry grew worſe; the cloſeneſs of the air, in the metropolis, affected his breath; and his mother inſiſted on his fixing on ſome place in the country, where ſhe would accompany. him. He could not think -of going far off, but choſe a little village mY |oÞo faks w _ roared; and the. oars plying quickly, lage on the banks of the Thames, near Mary's dwelling: he then introduced her to his mother.
They frequently went down the river in a boat; Henry would take his violin, and Mary would ſometimes ſing, or read, to them. She pleaſed his mother; ſhe in- chanted him. It was an advantage to Ma- ry that friendſhip firſt poſſeſſed her heart; it. opened it. to all. the ſofter ſentiments of humanity:—and when this firſt af- fection was torn away, a ſimilar one ſprung up, with a ſtill tenderer ſentiment | added to it..
The laſt evening they were on the water, the clouds grew ſuddenly black, and broke in violent ſhowers, which interrupted the ſolemn ſtillneſs that had prevailed previous to it. The thunder in order to reach the ſhore, occaſioned a M 2 not not unpleafing found. Mary drew fill nearer Henry; ſhe wiſhed to have ſought with him a watry grave; to have eſcaped the horror of ſurviving him. She ſpoke not, but Henry ſaw the workings of her mind—he felt them; threw his arm round ker vaiſt - and they enjoyed the luxury ore, Mary perceived that Henry was wet z with eager anxicty ſhe cried, What ſhall I do 1 this day will kill thee, and I ſhall not die with thee l P This accident put a ſtop to their pleaſurable excurſions; it had injured him, and brought on the. ſpitting of blood he was ſubject to perhaps it was not the cold that he caught, -that occa- fiched it. In vain did Mary try to ſhut her eyes; her fate purſued her! Henry every day grew worſe and worſe. - CHAP.
CH AP. XXVII.
O PPRESSED by her forehoding fears, her ſore mind was hurt by new inſtances of ingratitude: diſguſted with the family, whoſe misfortunes had often diſturbed her repoſe, and loſt in antici- pated forrow, ſhe rambled ſhe knew not where; when turning down a ſhady walk, ſhe diſcovered her feet had taken the path they delighted to tread. + She ſaw Henry ſitting in his garden alone; he quickly opened the garden- gate, _ ſhe ſat down by him a « I did not,” ſaid he, expect to ſee te thee this evening, my deareſt Mary; but I was thinking of thee. Heaven has endowed thee with an uncommon M3 60 portion 8 ce portion of fortitude, to ſupport one ce of the moſt affectionate hearts in the « world. This is not a time for diſ- guiſe; I know I am dear to thee — and « my affection for thee is twiſted with «every fibre of my heart. —I loved * thee ever ſince I have been acquainted « with - thine: thou art the being my « fancy has delighted to form; but « which I imagined exiſted only there « Ina little while the ſhades of death « vill encompaſs me—ill-fated love * perhaps added ſtrength to my diſeaſe, * and ſmoothed the rugged path. Try, % my love, to fulfil thy deſtined courſe « —try to add to thy other virtues pa- * tience. I could have wiſhed, for thy tc fake, that we could have died to- *« gether—or that I could live to ſhield « thee from the aſſaults of an unfeeling © world! Could I but offer thee an « aſylum « aſylum in theſe arms -a faithful. «. boſom, in -which thou couldſt repoſe « all thy griefs—He preſſed her to it,. and ſhe returned the preſſure—he felt her throbbing heart. A mournful ſi- lence enſued! when he reſumed the con- verſation. ] wiſhed to prepare thee for « the blow—too ſurely do I feel that c jt will not be long delayed! The e paſſion I have nurſed is ſo pure, that « death cannot extinguiſh it—or tear « away the impreſſion thy virtues have « made on my foul. I would fain com- « fort thee— e Talk not of comfort,” ao Mary, © it will be in heaven with thee « and Ann—while I ſhall remain on « earth the verieſt wretch!''—She graſp- ed his hand. There we ſhall meet, my love, « my Mary, in our Father's — His voice M 4 faltered; faultered; he could not finiſh the ſen- tence; he was almoſt ſuffocated — they both wept, their tears relieved them; they walked flowly to the garden-gate (Mary would not go into the houſe); they could not ſay farewel when they reached it—and Mary hurried down the lane, to ſpare Henry the pain of witneſſing her emotions. When ſhe loſt fight of the houſe ſhe ſat down on the ground, till it grew Jare, thinking of all that had paſſed. Full of theſe thoughts, ſhe crept along, regardleſs of the deſcending rain; when lifting up her eyes to heaven, and then turning them wildly on the proſpects around, without marking them; ſhe enly felt that the ſcene accorded with her preſent ſtate of mind. It was the laft glimmering of twilight, with a full __, over which clouds continually flitted.
flitted. Where am I wandering,. God of Mercy! ſhe thought; ſhe alluded to the wanderings of her mind. In what a labyrinth am I loſt! What mi- ſeries have I already encountered—and what a number lie ſtill before me.
Her thoughts flew rapidly to ſome- thing. I could be happy liſtening to him, ſoothing his cares. — Would he not ſmile upon me—call me his own Mary? I am not his- ſaid ſhe with fierceneſs—I am a wretch! and ſhe heaved a ſigh that almoſt broke her heart, while the big tears rolled down her burning cheeks; but till her exerciſed mind, accuſtomed to think, began to obſerve its operation, though the barrier of reaſon was almoſt carried. away, and all the faculties not reſtrained by her, were running into confuſion. Where- ſore am | made thus? Vain are. my efforts — efforts — I cannot live without loving — and love leads to madneſs. —Yet I will not weep; and her eyes were now fixed by deſpair, dry and motionleſs; and then quickly whirled about with a look of diſtraction.
She looked for hope; but found none all was troubled waters. No where could ſhe find reſt. I have already paced to and fro in the earth; it is not my abiding place—may I not too go home! Ah! no, Is this complying with my Henry's requeſt, could a ſpirit thus diſengaged expect to aſſociate with his? Tears of tenderneſs ſtrayed down her relaxed count#nance, and her ſof- tened heart heaved more regularly. She felt the rain, and turned to her ſolitary home.
Fatigued by the tumultuous emotions ſhe had endured, when ſhe entered the houſe iin houſe ſhe ran to her own room, ſunk on the bed, and exhauſted nature ſoon cloſed her eyes; but active fancy was ftill awake, and a thouſand fearfu] dreams interrupted her ſlumbers.
Feveriſh and languid, ſhe opened her eyes, and ſaw the unwelcome ſun dart his rays through a window, the curtains of which ſhe had forgotten to draw. The dew hung on the adjacent trees, and added to the luſtre; the little robin began his ſong, and diſtant birds joined. She looked; her countenance was ſtill vacant—her ſenſibility was abſorbed by one object.
Did I ever admire the riſing ſun, ſhe ſlightly thought, turning from the win- dow,- and ſhutting her eyes: ſhe re- called to view the laſt night's ſcene. His faltering voice, lingering ſtep, and the look of tender woe, were all graven 7 on on her heart; as were the words e * Could theſe arms ſhield thee from © ſorrow - afford thee an aſylum from « an unfeeling world.” The preſſure to his boſom was net forgot. For a moment ſhe was happy; but in a longdrawn ſigh every delightful ſenſation evaporated. Soon yes, very ſoon, will the grave again receive all I love! and the remnant of my days—ſhe could not proceed—Were there then days to come after that?
CHAP.
CHAP. XXVIII.
Jusx as ſhe was going to quit ber room, to viſit Henry, his mocher called on her. « My ſon is worſe to-day,” faid ſhe. *I come to requeſt you to ſpend not only this day, but a week or two with * me. Why ſhould I conceal. any thing « from you? Laſt night my child made * his mother his confident, and, in the e anguiſh of his heart, requeſted me to be thy friend—when I ſhall be child- c leſs. I will not attempt to deſcribe what I felt when he talked thus to me. H I am to loſe the ſupport of my age, and be again a widow —may I call her « Child r = « Child whom my Henry wiſhes me to te adopt?”
This new inſtance of Henry's diſin- tereſted affection, Mary felt moſt forci- bly; and ſtriving to reſtrain the compli- cated emotions, and ſooth the wretched mother, ſhe- almoſt fainted: when the unhappy parent. forced. tears. from her, by ſaying, I deſerve this blow; my < partial fondneſs ma e me neglect him, hen moſt he wanted a mother's care; * this.negle&, perhaps, firſt injured his « conſtitution: righteous Heaven has t made my crime its own. puniſhment; « and now I am indeed a mother, I ſha} *« loſe my child —my only child!“ When they were a little more com- poſed they haſtened to the invalide; but during the ſhort ride, the mother re- lated ſeveral inſtances of Henry's good- neſs of heart. Mary's tears were not 54 thoſe thoſe of unmixed anguiſh; the diſplay of his virtues gave her extreme delight —yet human nature prevailed; ſhe trem- bled to think they would ſoon unfold themſelves in a more genial clime.
CHAP.
CHAP. XXIX.
SHE found Henry very ill. The phyſician had ſome weeks before de- clared he never knew a perſon with a ſimilar pulſe recover. Henry was cer- tain he could not live long; all the reſt he could obtain, was procured by opi- ates. Mary now enjoyed the melancholy pleaſure of nurſing him, and ſoftened by her tenderneſs the pains ſhe could not remove. Every ſigh did ſhe ſtifle, every tear reſtrain, when he could ſee or hear them. She would boaſt of her relignation—yet catch eagerly at the leaſt ray of hope. While he ſlept ſhe would ſupport his pillow, and reſt her head _ = could feel his breath. She 1 uy | Bs loved loved him better than herſelf - ſhe could not pray for his recovery; ſhe could only ſay, The will of Heaven be done.
While ſhe was in this ſtate, ſhe la- bored to acquire fortitude; but one tender look deſtroyed it. al —ſhe rather labored, indeed, to make him believe ſhe was reſigned, than really to be ſo.
She: wiſhed to receive the ſacrament with him; as a bond of union which was to extend beyond the grave. She did ſo, and received comfort from it; Ahe roſe above her miſery.
His end was now apomanching. Mary ſat on the fide of the bed. His eyes appeared fixed - no longer agitated by paſſion, he only felt that it was a fearful thing to die. The ſoul retired to the citadel; but it was not now ſolely filled by the image of her who in filent N deſpair (ns) deſpair watched for his laſt breath. Collected, a frightful calmneſs ſtilled every turbulent emotion. The mother's grief was more audible. Henry had for ſome time only attended to Mary—Mary pitted the parent, whoſe ſtings of conſcience increaſed her ſor- row; ſhe whiſpered him, „“ Thy mother weeps, diſregarded by thee; oh! com- fort her!—My mother, thy fon bleſſes ther. The oppreſſed parent left the room. And __ waited to "_ him die.
She prefſed with n aki his parched Jips—he opehed his eyes again; the fpreading film retired, and 2 jove returned them he gave a look — it was never forgotten. _ Mary, will you be comforted? Yes, yes, ſhe exclaimed in a firm voice; you go to be happy am not a complete 4 complete wretch! The words almoſt choked her. | He was a long time ſilent; the opiate produced a kind of ſtupor. At laſt, in an agony, he cried, It is dark; 1 cannot ſee thee; raiſe me up. Where is Mary? did ſhe not ſay ſhe delighted to ſupport me? let me die in her arms, Her arms were opened to receive him; they trembled not. Again he was o- bliged to lie down, reſting on her: as the agonies increaſed he leaned towards her: the ſoul ſeemed flying to her, as it eſcaped out of its priſon, The breathing was interrupted; ſhe heard diſtinctly the laſt ſigh and lifting up to Heaven her eyes, Father, receive his ſpirit, ſhe calmly cried, The attendants gathered round; ſhe moved not, nor heard the clamor; the hand ſeemed yet to preſs hers; it ſtill N 2 was DNS was warm. A ray of light from an opened window diſcovered the pale face. She left the room, and retired to one very near it; and fitting down on the floor, fixed her eyes on the door of the apartment which contained the body, Every. event of her life ruſhed acroſs her mind with wonderful rapidity— yet all was ftill—fate had given the finiſhing ſtroke, She fat till midnight, ——— Then roſe in a phrenſy, went into the apartment, and deſired thoſe who watched the body to retire. | She knelt by the bed fide;— an enthuſiaſtic devotion overcame the dic- tates of deſpair. —She prayed moſt ar- dently to be ſupported, and dedicated herſelf to the ſervice of that Being into whoſe hands, ſhe had committed e ſpirit ſhe almoſt adored—again— 3 2 and o - ” and again, — ſhe prayed wildly—and fervently but attempting to touch the lifeleſs hand her head ſwum — ſhe funk W's 38.
(my "CHAP. xxx.