s 
 
 George Washington Flowers 
 Memorial Collection 
 
 DUKE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 
 ESTABLISHED BY THE 
 
 FAMILY OF 
 
 COLONEL FLOWERS 
 
 PETKR COTTON 
 
 PETKKCOHV,,., ^ 
 
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 V* / THE 
 
 AMERICAN 
 LADYS PRECEPTOR: 
 
 A COMPILATION OP 
 OBSERVATIONS, ESSAYS AND POETICAL EFFUSIONS 
 
 DESIGNED 
 
 TO DIRECT THE FEMALE MIND 
 
 IN A COURSE OF 
 
 PLEASING AND INSTRUCTIVE READING, 
 
 SECOND EDITION, 
 
 REVISED, CORRECTED AND ENLARGED. 
 
 i 
 
 BALTIMORE, 
 
 'UBLISHED BY EDWARD J. COALE, NO. 176 MAR- 
 KET-STREET " AND BY JOHN F. WATSON, AT THE 
 
 , S. W. CORNER OF CHESNUT AND THIRD-STREETS 
 PHILADELPHIA. 
 
 JBe?ijamin Edcs, Printer. 
 1811. 
 
District of Maryland^ to wit* 
 
 Be it remembered, That on this twenty-seventh 
 day of August in the thirty-fifth year of the independ- 
 ence of the United States of America, Edward J. 
 Coale, of the said district hath deposited in this office, 
 the title of a book, the right whereof he claims as 
 proprietor, in the words following ; to wit. 
 
 " The American Lady's Preceptor, a com- 
 pilation of Observations, Essays, and Poetical 
 Effusions, designed to direct the Female Mind 
 in a course of pleasing and instructive Reading, 
 second edition, revised, corrected and enlar- 
 ged" 
 
 In conformity to the Act of the Congress of the 
 United States, entitled " An act for the encourage- 
 ment of Learning, by securing the copies of Maps, 
 Charts, and Books, to the authors and proprietors of 
 such copies during the times therein mentioned ;" And 
 also to the Act entitled " An act supplementary to 
 the act entitled, " An act for the encouragement of 
 Learning-, by securing the copies of Maps, Charts, 
 and Books, to the authors and proprietors of such 
 copies during the times therein mentioned," and ex- 
 tending the benefits thereof to the arts of designing, 
 engraving and etching Historical and other Prints. 
 & PHILIP MOORE, Clerk 
 
 of the District of Mart/land. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 THE compiler of the following pages had 
 observed, that no volume of selections has been 
 published in this country especially designed for 
 the reading of females ; and in conversation with 
 several respectable Teachers in Female Acade- 
 tiniesj he was informed that a book adapted to the. 
 first class in female schools, and to young ladies 
 who had finished their school-education was much 
 wanted, and would probably promote a general 
 taste for useful reading. These considerationa 
 induced him to present to the public " The 
 American Lady's Preceptor." He trusts he 
 shall not be accused of vanity, nor will improper 
 motives be ascribed to him, while yielding to the 
 advice of several respectable friends, he publishes 
 with the work the following honourable testimo- 
 nials in its favour. 
 
RECOMMENDATIONS. 
 
 From the Rev. Doctor Bend, to the Editor. 
 
 u I have examined with great pleasure the A- 
 merican Lad\'s Pre* eptor, and think it better 
 suited than any other book within my knowledge, 
 to be put into the hands oi young females ; as.it 
 has an obvious tendency to amuse the fancy, to 
 inform the mind, to improve the taste, and to 
 mend the heart." 
 
 From the Rev. Doctor Dubourg, President of St. 
 Mary's College. 
 
 U I return you with thanks your American La- 
 dy's Preceptor, which ycu were kind enough to 
 leave with me for perusal. A better chosen, 
 more instructive, more entertaining, more moral 
 and chaste compilation, has not yet fallen into my 
 hands. " 
 
 From the Reverend IV. Staughton, D. D. of Phila- 
 delphia. 
 
 u I thank you for the opportunity you have af- 
 forded me of perusing your American Lady's Pre- 
 ceptor. The selections and originals arj alike 
 chaste, elegant and very instructive. I anticipate, 
 with all the confidence that real merit can create, 
 
RECOMMENDATIONS. 
 
 the extensive diffusion of a volume which, to the 
 tutor and the pupil, must be equally grateful. 
 You have my best wishes for your success in 
 every attempt to widen the regions of literature 
 and piety." 
 
 From a number of respectable jircprictors of Ladl. si 
 Schools. 
 
 " We the subscribers, having been favoured 
 with the perusal of a book, entitled " The A 
 can Ladifs Preceptor" do hereby express cur cor- 
 dial approbation of the same; and would take 
 the liberty of recommending it to the notice of all 
 persons presiding in female seminaries, as a work 
 eminently calculated, to arrest the attention, in- 
 form the mind, and improve the heart of youth.' ' 
 
 C. W. BAZELEY, D. JAUDON, 
 
 P. TUCKETT, JOHN POOR, 
 
 -MARIA RIVARDI, L. MORTIMER. 
 
 DECOURT&? . c . ppnv 
 
 BACONAIS. \ * A BftQWN 
 
 From Miss M. and Miss S. Rooxer.- 
 * 
 " Having, perused the copy of your America:-^ 
 Lady's Preceptor, we hesitate not (though . with 
 diffidence) to express our high approbation of it, 
 we consider it, as a work particularly calculated 
 for the perusal of the senior classes of Literal v 
 Establishments, (for whom books of useful in- 
 formation, are much wanted,) and as the most 
 expressive proof that such are oar sentiments, shall 
 immediately introduce it into our seminary," 
 
 A c > 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 page 
 
 The value of Time, 13 
 
 Observations on Reading, 14 
 
 Description of different Readers,, 17 
 Reasons against reading the generality of Modern 
 
 Novels, 19 
 
 An Essay on Women, ib„ 
 
 Education, 23 
 
 Studies proper for Women, ib. 
 
 Religion, the best female acquirement, 28 
 
 .Advice to a Daughter, by Lord Halifax t 29 
 
 Pride, .--.,'. t 32 
 
 Diversions, . , . . . • . . 34 
 An extract from Dr. Gregory' 's legacy to his daugh- 
 ter ,, 40 
 
 The passions for gamintr in ladies, ridiculed, 45 
 
 Letter from Mustapha Rubadub Keli Kahn, 48 
 
 Ledyard's character of Women, . . .56 
 
 On Female Attractions, . . .59 
 
 Tenderness to jVIothers, . , 60 
 
 Character of Two Sisters, . . ib. 
 
 Family Love and Harmony, . . .61 
 
 Fenelon on Education, .... 62 
 
 Dr. Rush on Female Education, . . 66 
 
 Dress . 76 
 
 Benevolent Employments,. .... 77 
 
 Dr. Beattie's opinion of Romances, . . 78 
 
 Art of improving Beauty, . 79 
 
 HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 .Filial Affection, ...,,. 82 
 
 Maternal Affection, , ... 83- 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Conjugal Affection, .... S4. 
 
 The VVomen of Hensberg, . . . 85 
 
 Noble example of Virtue and Fortitude in the his- 
 tory of Felicitas, the Martyr, . . 86 
 Boadieea, . . ... 96 
 
 Bertha, . . . ... 06 
 
 Phiiippa of Hainault, . . . 97 
 
 Eleanor of Castile, ... . 101 
 
 Margaret of Anjou, ... . ib. 
 
 Lady Elizabeth Grey, • . . .108 
 
 Catharine of Arragon, . . .119 
 
 Anna Boleyn, . . . 126 
 
 Catharine Par, .... *3o 
 
 Maria Beatrice D'Este, . . . 136 
 
 Queen Mary, . . . 144 
 
 Marie Antoinette, . . . 1,57 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 Miss Elizabeth Smith, . . . .162 
 
 Anna Maria Schurman, . . 169 
 
 Mrs. Elizabeth Ferguson, .... 172 
 
 NARRATIVE. 
 
 The Black Velvet Pelisse, . . . 183 
 
 The Mother-in- Law, . . . .201, 
 *The West-Indians, 225 
 
 *An Abstract of Heathen Mythology, . 253 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 The Nautilus and the Oyster, . . .261 
 
 My Mother, . * " . . . . 264 
 
 The Power of Innocence, . 266 
 
 Crazy Kate, Cowper, . . . 268 
 
 The Sexes, Armstrong, .... 269 
 
 The Glow Wo.rn 5 Pindar, . . . 270 
 
 Tc a Lady with a Spinning Wheel, . 271' 
 
 Ode to Pity. . . . . . ' 272 
 
 Ode to Patience, G. H\ C . . . 273 
 
 *To a Mother on the Absence of her Daughter, 275 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 * Epitaph by Lord Paltrier stone, . . 27.6* 
 Epitaph on Mrs. Mason, . . . ib, 
 
 * Monody by Lord Lyttleton,^ . . . 277 
 *Lines on the death of a Lady, . 279 
 The Harp of Sorrow, Montgomery, . . 2§0 
 Character of Women, 
 
 The Falling Tower, .... 233 
 
 A Character, . * . . . . 284 
 
 *The Rose, 2S5 
 
 Pious Effusion, by a lady of Baltimore, . 286 
 
 Song, Akenside, ..... i'o. 
 
 The judmment of the Flowers, . . . 2S7 
 
 The Joy of Grief, . ... 289 
 
 *The Doves, 291 
 
 * Mutual Forbearance, . \.' . 293 
 ♦Verses by Selkirk, Cowper, . . . 295 
 
 * Complaints of the Poor, .... 297 
 
 * To a Lady with a Nosegay, ... 298 
 
 * Beauty, a Moral Refection, . . .299 
 
 Those marked thus (*) were not inserted in the 
 First Edition. 
 
 ERRATA. 
 
 Page 29, for " their" line 17 top read they. Page 
 52, for " so'" 1 line 13 read to. Page 55, for " rage"' 
 last but one read range. Page 65, for " ingeniou^- 
 ness" line 7 read ingenousness. Page 77, for u one'' 
 line 12 read but. Page 90, for " bed'' last line read 
 died. Page 104, for u *piart" line 25 read spirit. — 
 Page ill, for " wrapped" line 25 read warped. Page 
 1 13, for " of Dublin'* last line but two read at Dub- 
 1 n. Page 123, for u it" last word read in. Page 
 125, for " attained" line 22 lead attainted. 
 134, for " did despair" line 24 read did not despair. 
 Page'227, for " very weeks'' line 7 read very few 
 •weeks. Page 269, lor " clime"' Hne 17 read climb. 
 Page 276, for " wam'd" line 17 read warm'd. Page 
 276, for " first" line 21 read just. 
 
PREFATORY ADDRESS. 
 
 The education of women has, at all times, been 
 an object of the most sedulous attention among 
 the more enlightened nations of Europe. It is 
 pleasing to remark, as it exhibits the least dubious 
 proof of our progress in refinement, that this very 
 important subject has, of late, excited scarcely 
 an inferior degree of interest in our own country. 
 All our large cities can now claim a seminary for 
 the instruction of females, in which the system 
 of education is no longer narrowed by puritani- 
 cal illiberality, or vitiated by the interference of 
 any vulgar prejudices. It may, indeed, be truly 
 affirmed, that the women of the present age, in 
 the United States, are not excelled by those of 
 any country, whether we look to purity of morals, 
 delicacy of deportment, or those delightful em- 
 bellishments which give splendour to the face of 
 society. 
 
 The only cardinal defect in the education of 
 our females, which strikes us, is, perhaps, an un- 
 due appropriation of time to the acquisition of 
 those light accomplishments, which serve well to 
 enliven and decorate the early season of life, but 
 which are attended with no durable advantages . 
 
PREFATORY ADDRESS. 
 
 The arts of painting, of music, of dancing, are 
 expensively and most tediously taught in our 
 schools, but how seldom are they practised, af- 
 ter the lapse of a few years, even by those who 
 have reached the greatest proficiency. 
 
 We mean not, however, to detract from the 
 value of personal accomplishments — they are, on 
 the c :ntrary, in our estimation very essential fea- 
 D every scheme of liberal and polite edu- 
 cation. But there are other objects to which, we 
 think, they ought to be subordinate, and, espe- 
 cially, that they should never be allowed to en- 
 croach on the more important cultivation of the 
 intellectual powers. As we elevate the mind, we 
 enlarge the sphere both of female utility, and fe- 
 male happiness — with an intellect invigorated by 
 discipline, and properly imbued with the love 
 of letters, a woman has resources on which she 
 may perpetually draw in every emergency, or vi- 
 cissitude of fortune. 
 
 Thus accomplished, she, moreover, becomes 
 better fitted to discharge, with success, the vari- 
 ous, complicated, and interesting duties incident 
 to her condition, and the pilgrimage of her ex- 
 istence is rendered not only smooth and easy, but 
 dignified and useful. 
 
 Convinced, therefore, of the importance of en- 
 couraging a fondness for elegant literature, in the 
 period of childhood, and not less of the neces- 
 sity of guiding the immature judgment of girls 
 in the selection of a proper species of reading, 
 the editor has, with some labour, and no small 
 
PREFATORY ADDRESS. 
 
 care, prepared a work which he trusts will be 
 found subservient to these ends. 
 
 Of the value of compilations, like the one now 
 offered to the public, little necu be said. Elegant 
 extracts from the pik'er sources of literature pre- 
 sent us, (as has been happily expressed by one of 
 the first classical writers of our own country ,) 
 " with wisdom in a nut shell, and the quintess- 
 ence of sweets in the acorn bowl of the fairies. r> 
 They, at least, supply, at a moderate expence, the 
 place of many books, and insinuate a taste for 
 reading which often lays the foundation of very 
 extensive improvement in subsequent life. 
 
 The editor cannot close this address, without 
 a due acknowledgement for the abundant success 
 of his first edition, which has been sold in little 
 more than seven months — in grateful return of 
 such public patronage, he has redoubled his at- 
 tention in the revision of the second edition, and 
 by additional appropriate selections, he hopes at 
 least to retain the public opinion of this favoured 
 little work, 
 
w^ 
 
 THE 
 
 AMERICAN 
 LADY S PRECEPTOR. 
 
 THE VALUE OF TIME. 
 
 I met with a quotation from an old author,' 
 whose name was not mentioned, on this subject ; 
 the beauty and truth of the passage struck me so 
 much as to induce me to lay it before my rea- 
 ders. 
 
 ' Hours have wings, and fly up to the author of 
 time, and carry news of our usage. All our prayers 
 cannot entreat one of them either to return or 
 slacken its pace. The mispense of every minute 
 is a new record against us in heaven. Sure, if we 
 thought thus, we would dismiss them with better 
 report and not suffer them either to go away- 
 empty, or laden with dangerous intelligence.-— 
 How happy is it that every hour should convey up, 
 not only the message, but the fruits of good, and 
 stay with the Ancient of Days to speak for us be- 
 fore his glorious throne.' 
 
 This most solemn and serious exhortation must 
 awaken, within the breasts of the most unconcern- 
 
 B 
 
14 OBSERVATIONS ON READING. 
 
 ed, reflections of a serious nature : it shews us in 
 the beautiful simplicity of ancient language, the va- 
 lue of every hour, nay, minute ; that we are ac- 
 countable to the Almighty for the use or abuse of 
 every moment of our lives. Let us then endea- 
 vour to pass the time present in such a manner, 
 that we may look back on it with satisfaction, 
 when it becomes the past, and at the end of each 
 day be able to say, behold a day past, but not lost ; 
 then we may look forward with hope to that great 
 day, when at the dread Tribunal, we are to deli- 
 ver up an account of all things committed to our 
 care, when we may say, 4 O Lord, of the hours 
 thou hast granted unto me, have I lost none.' 
 
 To thee, O youth, is my exhortation chiefly ad- 
 dressed ; thine is the season when the plant of 
 truth most flourishes, which, if cultivated by a 
 parent's or guardian's fostering hand, produces 
 fruit an hundred fold. In the cheerful morn of 
 life, when innocence attends thy footsteps, when 
 the cheerful temper, the open countenance, the un- 
 embarrassed air, announce the sincerity of a heart 
 uncorrupted by the world, open to the voice of 
 counsel, and moulded into form like yielding wax : 
 then is the time when friendly counsel should be 
 poured in. 
 
 OBSERVATIONS ON READING. 
 
 IT is an old, but very true observation, that 
 the human mind must ever be employed. A re- 
 lish for reading, or any of the fine arts, should be 
 cultivated very early in life : and those who re- 
 flect can tell, of what importance it is for the mind 
 to have some resourse in itself, and not to be en- 
 tirely dependant on the senses for employment 
 
OBSERVATIONS ON READING. I£ 
 
 and amusement. If it unfortunately is so. it must 
 submit to meanness, and often to vice, in order to 
 gratify them. The wisest and best are too much 
 under their influence ; and the endeavouring to 
 conquer them, when reason and virtue will not 
 give their sanction, constitutes great part of the 
 warfare of life. What support, then, have they, 
 who are all senses, and who are full of schemes, 
 which terminate in temporal objects ? 
 
 Reading is the most rational employment, if 
 people seek food for the understanding, and do 
 not merely repeat words and sentiments which 
 they do not understand or feel. Judicious books, 
 and only such, enlarge the mind and improve the 
 heart. 
 
 Those productions which give a wrong account 
 of the human passions, and the various accidents 
 of life, ought never to be read. Such accounts 
 are one great cause of the affectation of young 
 women. Sensibility is described and praised, and 
 the effects of it represented in a way so different 
 from nature, that those who imitate it must make 
 themselves very ridiculous. A false taste is ac- 
 quired, and sensible books appear dull and insip- 
 id after those superficial performances, which ob- 
 tain their full end if they can keep the mind in a 
 continual ferment. Gallantry is made the only 
 interesting subject with the novelist; reading, 
 therefore, will often co-operate to make his fair 
 admirers insignificant. 
 
 I do not mean to recommend only such books 
 as are of an abstracted or grave cast. There are 
 in our language many, in which instruction and 
 innocent amusement are happily blended ; these 
 should be chosen, and may be easily selected. 
 
 I would have every one try to form an opinion 
 qC an author themselves, though modesty may re- 
 
16 OBSERVATIONS ON READING. 
 
 strain them from mentioning it* Many arc so 
 anxious to have the reputation of taste, that they 
 only praise the authors whose merit is indisputa- 
 ble. I am sick of hearing of the sublimity of 
 Milton, the elegance and harmony of Pope, and 
 the original untaught genius of Shakspeare. — 
 These cursory remarks are made by some who 
 know nothing of nature, and could not enter into 
 the spirit of those authors, or understand them. 
 
 A florid style mostly passes with the ignorant 
 for fine writing; many sentences are admired that 
 have no meaning in them, though they contain 
 4 words of thundering sound,' and others that 
 have nothing to recommend them but sweet and 
 musical terminations. 
 
 The bible should be read with particular re- 
 spect, and young persons should not be taught 
 reading entirely by so sacred a book ; lest they 
 iiiight consider that as a task, which ought to be 
 a source of the most exalted satisfaction. 
 
 It may be observed, that I recommend the 
 mind's being put into a proper train. Fixed rules 
 cannot be given, it must depend on the nature and 
 strength of the understanding; and those who 
 observe it can best tell what kind of cultivation 
 will impress It* The mind is not, cannot be ere - 
 ated by the teacher, though it may be cultivated, 
 and its real powers found out. 
 
 The active spirits of youth may make time 
 glide away without intellectual enjoyments ; but 
 when the novelty of the scene is worn off, the want 
 of them will be felt, and nothing else can fill up 
 the void. The mind is confined to the body, and 
 must sink into sensuality : for it has nothing to do 
 but to provide for it 4 how it shall eat and drink, 
 and wherewithal it shall be clothed.' 
 
DIFFERENT READERS. i T 
 
 All kinds of refinement have been found fault 
 with, for encreasing our cares and sorrows ; yet 
 surely the contrary effect also arises from them. 
 Taste and thought open many sources of plea- 
 sure which do not depend on fortune. 
 
 No employment of the mind is a sufficient ex- 
 cuse for neglecting domestic duties, but I cannot 
 conceive that they are incompatible. A woman 
 may fit herself to be the companion and friend of 
 a man of sense, and yet know how to take care 
 of his family. 
 
 A DESCRIPTION 
 
 OF DIFFERENT READERS. 
 
 WITHOUT attention in reading, it is impos* 
 sible to remember, and without remembering, it 
 is time and labour lost, to read, or learn. 
 
 Reading with reflection is the basis of true wis- 
 dom. 
 
 Idle or inattentive readers, read without under* 
 standing what they read. 
 
 Dull readers, set themselves and their hearers 
 to sleep. 
 
 Mumbling, inarticulate readers will never make 
 other people understand what they read, or be lis- 
 tened to with pleasure. 
 
 Sensibky judicious readers will read clearly, 
 distinctly and with proper pauses, emphasis and 
 cadence; in short, with a thorough understand- 
 ing and feeling of every word they utter. 
 
 Whoever reads a perfect or finished composi- 
 tion, either in poetry or prose, on any subject, 
 should read it «ven if alone, both audibly, distinct- 
 ly and deliberately ; with a due attention to eyery 
 22 
 
18 DIFFERENT READERS. 
 
 kind of stop or rest, with proper elevations and 
 depressions of the voice, and whatever else con- 
 stitutes just and accurate pronunciation. They 
 who despise, neglect, or know nothing of this, 
 will, in their reading such composition, not only 
 miss many beauties of the style, but (which is 
 worse) will probably miss a large portion of the 
 sense. 
 
 Read therefore, mark, learn and inwardly di- 
 gest. 
 
 Every new branch of taste that we # cultivate, 
 affords us a refuge from idleness : and the more 
 noble our employments, the more exalted will be 
 our minds. 
 
 The highest and most important branch of soli- 
 tary amusements is reading ; much depends on 
 the choice of books ; improper ones do an irre- 
 parable injury to the mind ,* but in making a ju- 
 dicious choice, we acquire a stock of knowledge, 
 a mine which we can occasionally recur to, inde- 
 pendent of outward circumstances. 
 
 A sure way to improve by reading is, to write 
 down your opinion of such persons and things 
 which occur to you in your reading, to enquire 
 wherein such and such authors excel, or are defec- 
 tive, to observe how they might have been carri- 
 ed on to a greater degree of perfection, and how 
 they excelled or fell short of others. By thus 
 digesting what you read, you will insensibly rise 
 at proper notions of what is truly amiable. 
 
ESSAY ON WOMEN. IS 
 
 REASONS AGAINST READING THE 
 
 GENERALITY OF MODERN NOVELS. 
 
 THE more extravagant, absurd and ridiculous 
 the novel is, the greater is the probability of its 
 pleasing youthful minds. 
 
 As love is the foundation, so it is the super- 
 structure of most novels. But what is that kind 
 of love which is there taught ? Not that tender 
 sympathy of two mutual hearts, whose love is 
 founded on reason, prudence and virtue ,* but a 
 blind, violent and impetuous passion which hur- 
 ries its unhappy victims into endless woes, teach- 
 es children disobedience to their parents, inspires 
 them with notions of self-sufficiency, and encou- 
 rages them to commence wanderers at an age in 
 which infant punishment ought to be applied, to 
 bring them to their senses. Hence it is, perhaps, 
 we may account for this misconduct of many per- 
 sons who, even in the last stage of their lives, act 
 in conformity to the ideas they imbibed in their 
 early days from novels and romances. Can it 
 then reasonably be expected, that young ladies 
 who have imbibed such principles, should make 
 good wives, prudent mothers, or even agreeable 
 companions ? 
 
 RICHARDSON. 
 
 AN ESSAY ON WOMEN. 
 
 THOSE who consider women only as pretty 
 figures, placed here for ornament, have but a ve- 
 ry imperfect idea of the sex. They perpetually 
 
20 ESSAY ON WOMEN. 
 
 say that women are lovely flowers, designed to 
 heighten the complexion of nature. This is very 
 true ; but at the same time women should not let 
 themselves be perverted by such trifling discourse, 
 but take care not to be content with these super- 
 ficial advantages. There are too many who, 
 satisfied with that partition, seem to have renoun- 
 ced any other accomplishment but that of charm- 
 ing the eye. Women have quite another destina- 
 tion, and were created for more noble ends, than 
 that of being a vain spectacle : their beauties are 
 only heralds of more touching qualities ; to re- 
 duce all to beauty, is to degrade them, and put 
 them almost on a level with their pictures. Those 
 who are only handsome, may make a pretty 
 figure in an arm-chair, or may decorate a draw- 
 ing-room : they are literally fit to be seen ; but to 
 find in their acquaintance all the advantages we 
 have a right to expect, women must have more 
 than beauty. 
 
 Among intelligent beings, society should not be 
 bounded by a cold exhibition of their persons, or 
 a dull conversation of lies and vanity. Whatever 
 doth not tend to make us better, corrupts us ; but 
 if women, who are the ornaments of society, 
 would strive to join justness of thought, and up- 
 rightness of heart, to the graces of the body, the 
 taste we have for them would unfold excellent 
 qualities in us : let them then raise their souls to 
 noble objects, and they will ripen the seeds of 
 every virtue in men. 
 
 The empire which women owe to beauty, was 
 only given them for the general good of all the 
 human species. Men, destined to great actions, 
 have a certain fierceness, which only women can 
 correct ; there is in their manners, more than 
 their features, a sweetness capable of bending that 
 
ESSAY ON WOMEN. 21 
 
 natural ferocity, which, unattempted, would soon 
 degenerate into brutality. 
 
 We may well say, that if we were destitute of 
 women, we should all be different from what we 
 are. Our endeavours to be agreeable to them, 
 polish and soften that rough strain so natural to 
 us ; their cheerfulness is a counter-balance to our 
 rough austere humours. In a word, if men did 
 not converse with women, they would be less per- 
 fect, and less happy than they are. 
 
 That man who is insensible to the sweetness of 
 female conversation, is rarely the friend to man- 
 kind : such cherish an insensibility, which ren- 
 ders even their virtues dangerous. 
 
 If men require the tender application of wo- 
 men to render them more tractable, those, on the 
 other hand, equally want the conversation of men 
 to awaken their vivacity, and draw them from a 
 negligence into which, if they were not stimulat- 
 ed by a desire of pleasing, they would certainly 
 fall. That desire produces the allurements of the 
 face, the grace of air, and the sweetness of voice : 
 for whether they speak, move, or smile, they think 
 of rendering themselves agreeable. Whence we 
 may conclude, that it is the men who, ir, soaafrc de- 
 gree, give charms to the women ; who, without 
 them, would fall into a sour, or indolent temper. 
 Besides, female minds, overwhelmed with trifles, 
 would languish in ignorance, if men, recalling 
 them to more elevated objects, did not communi- 
 cate dignity and vigour. 
 
 'Tis thus, that the two sexes ought to be per- 
 fected by one another. The manly courage of 
 the one is tempered by the softness of the other, 
 which,: in its turn, borrows from the same cou- 
 rage. The one acquires, in women's company, a 
 milder tincture, while the other lose their female 
 
22 ESSAY ON WOMEN. 
 
 levity. Their different qualities balance each 
 other ; and it is from that mixture, that happy- 
 accord arises, which renders them both more 
 accomplished. 
 
 The variety of minds, may be compared to that 
 of voices, which would rather form an agreeable 
 concert, than a grating discord. If men are of a 
 stronger frame, it is the more effectually to con- 
 tribute to the happiness of those who are more 
 delicate ; one sex was not designed to be the op- 
 pressor of the other ; the intimate connection be- 
 tween them is for general advantage, and those 
 ridiculous debates of superiority, are an insult to 
 nature, and an ingratitude for her benefits. 
 
 We are born womens' friends, not their rivals, 
 much less their tyrants; and that strength which 
 was given us for their defence, is abused, when 
 thereby we enslave them ; and to banish from so- 
 ciety its sweetest charm, that part of the human 
 species which is most proper to animate it, would 
 render it quite insipid. 
 
 The truth of this, hath been proved by the peo- 
 ple of the East, who, joining together a sense of 
 their own weakness and a brutal passion, have re- 
 garded women as dangerous companions, against 
 whom they must be on their guard: therefore 
 they have enslaved that sex to avoid being enslav- 
 ed by them, and have thought too much love 
 gave them a title to misuse them : but these ty- 
 rannic masters have been the first victims of their 
 tyrannic jealousy. Devoted to a lonely, melan- 
 choly life, they have sought for tender sensations 
 in vain, amidst their fair slaves. Sensibility, with 
 the delicacy, ever its companion, are only to be 
 found in the reign of freedom, since they both 
 necessarily shun a society, void of those springs 
 whence they might grow. 
 
 LITERARY MISCELLANY. 
 
ON 4 STUDIES FOR WOMEN. 
 
 EDUCATION. 
 
 ADDISON observes, that a human soul with- 
 out education, is like marble in a quarry, which 
 shews none of its inherent beauties until the skill 
 of the polisher makes the surface shine, and dis- 
 covers every ornamental spot and vein that runs 
 through the body of it. Education, when it works 
 upon a noble mind, in the same manner draws out 
 to view, every latent virtue and perfection, which, 
 without such help, arc never able to make their 
 appearance. 
 
 Whatever you undertake in the course of your 
 education, strive to excel in it. To learn things 
 bv halves, is learning to little purpose ; and those 
 who do not make a due progress in what they are 
 taught, affront their teachers, disappoint their pa- 
 rents, and, to their own shame, are suspected of 
 idleness, or want of capacity, an imputation they 
 should wish to avoid. 
 
 AN ESSAY ON THE 
 
 STUDIES PROPER FOR WOMEN. 
 
 TO prohibit women entirely from learning, is 
 treating them with the same indignity that Maho- 
 met did, who denied them souls; indeed the great- 
 est part of women act as if they had really adopt- 
 ed a tenet so injurious to the sex. 
 
 When we consider the happy talents which wo- 
 men in general possess, and how successfully some 
 have cultivated them, we cannot without indigna- 
 tion observe the little esteem they have for the 
 
24 ON STUDIES FOB. WOMEN. 
 
 endowments gf their minds, which it is so easy 
 for them to improve. They are, as Montaigne 
 says, " flowers of quick growth, and by the deli- 
 cacy of their conception, catch readily and without 
 trouble, the relation of things to each other." 
 
 The charms of their persons, how powerful 
 soever, may attract, but cannot fix us ; something 
 more than beauty is necessary to rivet the lover's 
 chain. By often beholding a beautiful face, the 
 impression it first made soon wears away. When 
 the woman whose person we admire, is incapable 
 of pleasing us by her conversation, langour and 
 satiety soon triumph over the relish we had for 
 her charms : hence arises the inconstancy with 
 which men are so often reproached; that barren- 
 ness of ideas which we find in women, renders 
 men unfaithful. 
 
 The ladies may judge of the difference there 
 is among them, by that which they themselves 
 make between a fool who teases them with his 
 impertinence, and a man of letters who entertains 
 them agreeably ; a very little labour would equal 
 them to the last, and perhaps give them the ad- 
 vantage. This is a kind of victory which we wish 
 to yield them. 
 
 The more they enlarge their notions, the more 
 subjects of conversation will be found between 
 them and us, and the more sprightly and affecting 
 will that conversation be. How many delicate 
 sentiments, how many nice sensibilities are lost by 
 not being communicable, and what an increase of 
 satisfaction should we feel could we meet with 
 women disposed to taste them. 
 
 But what are the studies to which women may 
 with propriety apply themselves ? This question 
 I take upon myself to answer. I would particu- 
 larly recommend to them to avoid all abstract 
 
ON STUDIES FOR WOMEN* 26 
 
 learning, all difficult researches, which may blunt 
 the finer edge of their wit, and change the delica- 
 C) r in which they excel into pedantic coarseness. 
 
 It is in such parts of learning only as afford the 
 highest improvement that we invite women to 
 share with us. All that may awaken curiosity, 
 and lend graces to the imagination, suits them 
 still better than us. This is a vast field, where 
 we may together exercise the mind ; and here 
 they may even excel us without mortifying our 
 pride. 
 
 History and natural philosophy are alone suffi- 
 cient to furnish women with an agreeable kind of 
 Study. The latter, in a series of useful observa- 
 tions and interesting experiments, offers a specta- 
 cle well worthy the consideration of a reasonable 
 being. But in vain does nature present her mi- 
 racles to the generality of women, who have no 
 attention but to trifles. 
 
 Yet surely it requires but a small degree of at- 
 tention to be struck with that wonderful harmony 
 which reigns throughout the universe, and to be- 
 come ambitious of investigating its secret springs. 
 This is a large volume open to all ; here a pair 
 of beautiful eyes may employ themselves with- 
 out being fatigued. This amiable study will 
 banish langour from the sober amusements of the 
 country, and repair that waste of intellect which 
 is caused by the dissipations of the town. Wo- 
 men cannot be too milch excited to raise theif 
 eyes to objects like these, which they but too often 
 cast down to such as are unworthy of them. 
 
 The sex is more capable of attention than we 
 imagine : what they chiefly want is a well-direct- 
 ed application. There is scarcely a young girl 
 who has not read with eagerness a great number 
 of idle romances, sufficient to corrupt her imagi- 
 c 
 
26 ON STUDIES FOR WOMEN. 
 
 nation and cloud her understanding. If she had 
 devoted the same time to the study of history, in 
 those varied scenes .she would have found facts 
 more interesting, and instruction which only truth 
 can give. 
 
 Those striking pictures that are displayed in 
 the annals of the human race, are highly proper 
 to direct the judgment, and form the heart. Wo- 
 men have at all times had so great a share in 
 events, that they may with reason consider our 
 archives as their own ; nay, there are many of 
 them who have written memoirs of the severaL 
 events of which they had been eye-witnesses. 
 Christina, of Pisan, daughter to the astronomer, 
 patronized by the emperor Charles the Fifth, has 
 given us the life of that prince ; and long before 
 her, the princess Anna Commenus wrote the his- 
 tory of her own times. We call upon the ladies 
 to assert their rights, and from the study of his- 
 torv, to extract useful lessons for the conduct of 
 life. 
 
 This study, alike pleasing and instructive, will 
 naturally lead to that of the fine arts. The 
 arts are in themselves too amiable to need any re- 
 commendation to the sex : all the objects they 
 offer to their view have some analogy with wo- 
 men, and are like them adorned with the brightest 
 colours. The mind is agreeably soothed by those 
 images which poetry, painting and music trace 
 out, especially if they are found to agree with 
 purity of manners. 
 
 To familiarize ourselves with the arts, is in 
 some degree to create a new sense. So agreeably 
 have they imitated nature ; nay, so often have 
 they embellished it, that whoever cultivates them, 
 wili in them always find a fruitful source of new 
 pleasures. We ought to provide against the en- 
 
ON STUDIES FOR WOMEN. 27 
 
 erdachments of langour and weariness by this 
 addition to our natural riches ; and surely when 
 we may so easily transfer to ourselves the posses- 
 sion of that multitude of pleasing ideas which 
 they have created, it would be the highest stupi- 
 dity to neglect such an advantage. 
 
 There is no reason to fear that the ladies, by 
 applying themselves to these studies, will throw 
 a shade over the natural graces of their wit. On 
 the contrary, those graces will be placed in a 
 more conspicuous point of view. What can equal 
 the pleasure we receive from the conversation ot 
 a woman who is more solicitous to adorn her mind 
 than her person ? in the company of such women 
 there can be no satiety; every thing becomes in- 
 teresting, and has a secret charm which only they 
 can give. The happy art of saying the most in- 
 genious things with a graceful simplicity is pecu- 
 liar to them ; they call forth the powers of wit in 
 men, and communicate to them that easy elegance 
 which is never to be acquired in the closet. 
 
 But what preservative is there against disgust 
 in the society of women of unimproved under- 
 standings ? in vain do they endeavour to fill up the 
 void of their conversation with insipid gaiety * 
 they soon exhaust the barren fund of fashionable 
 trifles, the news of the day, and hacknied compli- 
 ments ; they are at length obliged to have re- 
 course to scandal, and it is well if they stop there : 
 a commerce in which there is nothing solid, must 
 be either mean or criminal. 
 
 There is but one way to make it more varied 
 and more interesting. If ladies of rank would 
 condescend to form their taste and collect ideas 
 from our best authors, conversation would take 
 another cast : their acknowledged merit would 
 banish that swarm of noisy impertinents who flur- 
 
28 ON RELIGION. 
 
 ter about them, and endeavour to render them as 
 contemptible as themselves : men of sense and 
 learning would frequent their assemblies, and 
 form a circle more worthy of the name of good 
 company. 
 
 In this new circle, gaiety would not be banish- 
 ed, but refined by delicacy and wit. Merit is not 
 austere, a calm and uniform cheerfulness runs 
 through the conversation of persons of real un- 
 derstanding, which is far preferable to the noisy 
 mirth of ignorance and folly. The societies form- 
 ed by the Sevignes, the Fayettes, the Sablieres, 
 with the Vevonnes, the La Fares, and Rochefou- 
 caults, were surely more pleasing than the assem- 
 blies of our days. Among them learning was not 
 pedantic, nor wisdom severe ; and subjects of 
 the highest importance were treated with all the 
 sprightliness of wit. 
 
 The ladies must allow me once more to repeat 
 to them, that the only means of charming, and of 
 charming long, is to improve their minds : good 
 sense gives beauties which are not subject to fade 
 like the lillies and roses of their cheeks, but will 
 prolong the power of an agreeable woman to the 
 zutumn of her life. 
 
 RELIGION, 
 
 THE BEST FEM.UK AC QUI lit: M EST . 
 
 WITHOUT religion no lady's education 
 can be compleat. True religion (as an elegant 
 author observes) is the joint refulgence of all the 
 virtues. It resembles the sun, at whose sight all 
 the stars hide their diminished heads. It breathes 
 
adVice to a daughter. 29 
 
 benevolence and love to man. The truly pious 
 serve God, their creator and benefactor, with 
 their whole soul. They honour and love him, 
 not so much for the sake of their promised re- 
 ward, as for the benefits they have received, and 
 are more actuated by gratitude than hope. They 
 are severe to themselves, and compassionate to 
 others. They endeavour to reclaim the errone- 
 ous, not by severity, but meekness. They are 
 always similar to themselves, and serve God uni- 
 formly, not by fits and starts. They are at peace 
 with all men. They comfort the afflicted, support 
 the distressed, and clothe the naked. They nei- 
 ther exult in prosperity, nor sink in adversity, but 
 remain contented with the will of God, and pa- 
 tiently bear those afflictions he is pleased to lay 
 upon them. Their shew their piety not in theory 
 but in practice; not in words, but works. They 
 are not led by fear, ambition, or worldly interest, 
 but by love to the author of their being. They 
 strive to promote the good of all men, and labour 
 to secure eternal bliss. 
 
 ADVICE TO A DAUGHTER. 
 
 BY LORD HALIFAX, 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 fThe Editor introduces Lord Halifax to the reader 
 rather on account of the good sense by which his 
 Advice is distingu'shed, than on account of hia 
 style ; which abounds with the quaintness ©f former 
 times. }j 
 
 I M UST, in particular, recommend to you a* 
 strict care in the choice of your friendships- Per— 
 
 C 2 
 
30 ADVICE TO A DAUGHTER. 
 
 haps the best are not without their objections, but 
 however, be sure that yours may not stray from 
 the rules which the wiser part of the world hath 
 set to them. The leagues, offensive and defen- 
 sive, seldom hold in politics, and much less in 
 friendships. Besides, these great attachments, by 
 degrees, grow injurious to the rest of your ac- 
 quaintance, and throw them off from you. There 
 is such an offensive distinction when the dear 
 friend comes into the room, that it is flinging stones 
 at the company, who are not apt to forgive it. 
 
 Do not lay out your friendship too lavishly at 
 first, since it will, like other things, be so much 
 the sooner spent ; neither let it be of too sudden 
 a growth ; for as the plants which shoot up too 
 fast, are not of that continuance as those which 
 take more time for it ; so too swift a progress in 
 pouring out your kindness, is a certain sign that 
 by the course of nature it will not be long lived. 
 You will be responsible to the world, if you pitch 
 upon such friends as at that time are under the 
 weight of any criminal objection. In that case, 
 you will bring yourself under the disadvantages 
 of their character, and must bear your part of it. 
 Choosing implies approving; and if you fix upon 
 a lady for your friend against whom the world 
 hath given judgment, 'tis not so well natured as to 
 believe you are altogether averse to her way of 
 Jiving, since it doth not discourage you from ad- 
 mitting her into your kindness. And resemblance 
 of inclinations being thought none of the least 
 inducements to friendship, you will be looked up- 
 on as a well wisher, if not a partner with her in her 
 faults. If you can forgive them in another, it may 
 £>e presumed you will not be less gentle to yourself; 
 and therefore you must not take it ill, if you are 
 reckoned a copier, and condemned to pay aj? 
 
ADVICE TO A tiAUGHTfR. 31 
 
 equal share with a friend of the reputation she 
 hath lost. 
 
 If it happens that your friend should fall from 
 the state of innocence, after your kindness was 
 engaged to her, you may be slow in your belief 
 in the beginning of the discovery : but as soon as 
 you are convinced by a rational evidence, you 
 must, without breaking too roughly, make a fair 
 and quick retreat from such a mistaken acquain- 
 tance : else by moving too slowly from one that is 
 so tainted, the contagion may reach you so far as to 
 give you part of the scandal, though not of the 
 guilt. This matter is so nice, that as you must 
 not be too hasty to join in the censure upon your 
 friend when she is accused, so you are not, on the 
 other side, to defend her with too much warmth : 
 for if she should happen to deserve the report of 
 common fame, besides the vexation that belongs 
 to such a mistake, you will draw an ill appearance 
 upon yourself, and it will be thought you pleaded 
 for her, not without some consideration for your- 
 self. The anger which must be put on to vindi- 
 cate the reputation of an injured friend, may in- 
 cline the company to suspect you would not be so 
 zealous, if there was not a possibility that the case 
 might be your own. For this reason, you are not to 
 carry your attachments so far as absolutely to lose 
 your sight where your friend is concerned. Be- 
 cause malice is too quick sighted, it doth not fol- 
 low, that friendsip must be blind ; there is to be 
 a mean between these two extremes, else your ex- 
 cess of good nature may betray you into a 
 Very ridiculous figure, and by degrees you may 
 be preferred to such offices as you will not be 
 proud of. 
 
 Let the good sense of your friends be a chief 
 ingredient in your choice of them ; else let your 
 
52 PRIDE. 
 
 reputation be ever so clear, it may be clouded by 
 their impertinence. It is like our houses being 
 in the power of a drunken or a careless neighbour: 
 only so much worse, as that there will be no insur- 
 ance here to make you amends, as there is in the 
 case of fire. 
 
 To conclude this paragraph ; if formality is to 
 he allowed in any instance, it is to be put on to 
 i-esist the invasion of such forward women as 
 shall press themselves into your friendship, where, 
 if admitted, they will either be a snare or an in- 
 cumbrance. 
 
 PRIDE, 
 
 THIS is an ambiguous word; one kind of it 
 is as much a virtue, as the other is a vice : but 
 we are naturally so apt to choose the worst, that 
 it is become dangerous to commend the best 
 side of it. 
 
 A woman is not to be proud of her fine gown j 
 nor when she hath less wit than her neighbours, to 
 comfort herself* that she hath more lace. Some 
 ladies put so much weight upon ornaments, that 
 if one could see into their hearts, it would, be 
 found, that even the thoughts of death is made 
 less heavy to them by the contemplation of their 
 being laid out in state, and honourably attended 
 to the grave. One may come a good deal short 
 of such an extreme, and yet still be sufficiently 
 impertinent, by setting a wrong value upon things,, 
 which ought to be used with more indifference. 
 A lady must not appear solicitous to engross re- 
 spect to herself, but be content with a reasonable 
 distribution, and allow it to others, that she ma^c 
 
PRIDE. 3S 
 
 have it returned to her. She is not to be trouble- 
 s-omely nice, nor distinguish herself by being too 
 delicate, as if ordinary things were too coarse for 
 her ; this is an unmannerly and an offensive pride, 
 and where it is practised, deserves to be mortifi- 
 ed, of which it seldom fails. She is not to lean too 
 much upon her quality, much less to despise those 
 who are below it. Some make quality an idol, 
 and then their reason must fall down and worship 
 it. They would have the world think, that no 
 amends can ever be made for the want of a great 
 title, or an ancient coat of arms : they imagine, 
 that with these advantages they stand upon the 
 higher ground, which makes them look down up- 
 on merit and virtue, as things inferior to them. — 
 This mistake is not only senseless, but criminal 
 too, in putting a greater price upon that which is a 
 piece of good luck, than upon things which are 
 valuable in themselves. Laughing is not enough 
 for such a folly ; it must be severely whipped, as 
 it justly deserves. It will be confessed, there are, 
 frequent temptations given by pert upstarts to be 
 angry, and thereby to have our judgments corrupt- 
 ed in these cases ; but they are to be resisted ; 
 and the utmost that is to be allowed, is, when 
 those of a new edition will forget themselves, so 
 as either to brag of their weak side, or endeavour 
 to hide their meanness by their insolence, to cure 
 them, by a little seasonable raillery, a little sharp- 
 ness well placed, without dwelling too long upon it. 
 
 These and many other kinds of pride are to be 
 avoided. 
 
 That which is to be recommended to you, is an 
 emulation to raise yourself to a character, by 
 which you may be « distinguished: an eagerness 
 for precedence in virtue, and all such other things 
 is may gain you a greater share of the good opi~ 
 
34 DIVERSIONS. 
 
 nion of the world. Esteem to virtue is like a che- 
 rishing air to plants and flowers, which makes 
 them blow and prosper; and for that reason it 
 may be allowed to be, in some degree, the cause 
 as well as the reward of it. That pride which 
 leadeth to a good end, cannot be a vice, since it is 
 the beginning of a virtue ; and to be pleased with 
 just applause, is so far from a fault, that it would 
 be an ill symptom in a woman, who should not 
 place the greatest part of her satisfaction in it. — 
 Humility is no doubt a great virtue ; but it ceas- 
 eth to be so, when it is afraid to scorn an ill thing. 
 Against vice and folly it is becoming your sex to 
 be haughty ; but you must not carry the contempt 
 of things to arrogance towards persons, and it 
 must be done with fitting distinctions, else it may 
 be inconvenient by being unseasonable. A pride 
 that raises a little anger to be outdone in any thing 
 that is good, will have so good an effect, that it is 
 very hard to allow it to be a fault. 
 
 It is no easy matter to carry even between these 
 different kinds so described; but remember that 
 it is safer for a woman to be thought too proud, 
 than too familiar. 
 
 DIVERSIONS. 
 
 THE next thing I shall recommend to you, 
 is a wise and a safe method of using diversions. 
 To be too eager in the pursuit of pleasure whilst 
 you are young, is dangerous ; to catch at it in ri- 
 per years, is grasping a shadow; it will not be 
 held. Besides that by being less natural, it grows 
 to be indecent. Diversions are the most proper- 
 ly applied, to ease and relieve those who are 
 
DIVERSIONS. 3a 
 
 oppressed, by being too much employed. Those 
 that are idle- have no need of them, and yet they 
 above all others, give themselves up to them.-— 
 To unbend our thoughts, when they are too much 
 stretched by our cares, is not more natural than 
 it is necessary, but to turn our whole life into a 
 holiday, is not only ridiculous, but destroys plea- 
 sure, instead of promoting it. The mind, like 
 the body, is tired by being always in one postur^ 
 too serious breaks, and too diverting loosens it : 
 it is variety that gives the relish ; so that diver- 
 sions too frequently repeated, grow first to be in- 
 different, and at last tedious. Whilst they are 
 well chosen and well timed, they are never to be 
 blamed ; but when they are used to an excess, 
 though very innocent at first, they often grow to 
 be criminal, and never fail to be impertinent. 
 
 Some ladies are bespoken for merry meetings, 
 as Bessus was for duels. They are engaged in a 
 circle of idleness, where they turn round for the 
 whole year, without the interruption of a serious 
 hour. They know all the players' names and are 
 intimately acquainted with all the booths in Bar- 
 tholomew fair. No soldier is more obedient to 
 the sound of his captain's trumpet, than they are 
 to that which summons them to a puppet, play, or 
 monster. The spring that brings out flies and 
 fools, makes them inhabitants of Hyde Park : in 
 the winter they are incumbrances to the play house 
 and the ballast of the drawing-room. The streets 
 all this while are so weary of these daily faces, 
 that men's eyes are overlaid with them. The 
 Sight is glutted with fine things, as the stomach 
 with sweet ones ; when a fair lady will give 
 too much of herself to the world, she oppresses, 
 instead of pleasing. These ladies 50 continually 
 
35 DIVERSIONS. 
 
 seek diversion, that in little time they grow into 
 a jest, yet are unwilling to remember, that if they 
 are seldomer seen, they would not be so often 
 laughed at. Besides, they make themselves 
 cheap, than which there cannot be an unkinder 
 ■word bestowed upon your sex. 
 
 To play so as to be called a gamester, is to be 
 avoided, next to the things that are most crimi- 
 nal. It hath consequences of several kinds not 
 to be endured : it will engage you into a habit of 
 idleness and ill hours, draw you into ill mixed 
 company, make you neglect your civilities abroad 
 and your business at home, and impose into your 
 acquaintance such as will do you no credit. 
 
 To deep play there will be yet greater objec- 
 tions. It will give occasion to the world to ask 
 spiteful questions. How you dare venture to loose, 
 and what means you have to pay such large sums ? 
 If you pay exactly, it will be enquired from 
 v/hence the money comes ? If you owe, and espe- 
 xially to a man, you must be so very civil to him 
 for his forbearance, that it lays a ground of hav- 
 ing it farther improved, if the gentleman is so dis- 
 posed ; He will be thought no unfair creditor, if 
 where the estate fails, he seizes upon the person. 
 Besides, if a lady could see her own face upon 
 an ill game, at a deep stake, she would certainly 
 forswear any thing that could put her looks under 
 such a disadvantage. 
 
 To dance sometimes, will not be imputed to 
 you as a fault ; but remember, that the end of 
 your learning it, was, that you might the better 
 know how to move gracefully. It is only an ad- 
 vantage so far. When it goes beyond it, one 
 may call it excelling in a mistake which is no 
 very great commendation. It is better for a wo- 
 
TO YOUNG WOMEN. 3/ 
 
 man never to dance, because she hath no skill 
 in it, than to do it too often, because she doth it 
 well. The easiest, as well as the safest method 
 of doingthis, is in private companies, amongst par- 
 ticular friends and then carelesly, like a diversion, 
 rather than with solemnity, as if it was a busi- 
 ness, or had any thing in it to deserve a month's 
 preparation by serious conference with a dancing 
 master. 
 
 Much more might be said on all these heads, 
 and many more might be added to them. But I 
 must restrain my thoughts, which are full for my 
 dear child, and would overflow into a volume 
 which would not be fit for a new-year's gift. I 
 will conclude with my warmest wishes for all that 
 is good to you. That you may live so as to be 
 an ornament to your family, and a pattern to 
 vour sex. 
 
 AN EXTRACT FROM DR. TORDYCE S SERMONS. 
 
 TO YOUNG WOMEN. 
 
 THAT admired maxim of heathen antiquity, 
 ct reverence thyself," seems to me peculiarly pro- 
 per for a woman. She that does not reverence 
 herself must not hope to be respected by others. 
 I would therefore remind you of your own value. 
 By encouraging you to entertain a just esteem for 
 yourselves, I would on one hand guard you against 
 every thing degrading, and on the other awaken 
 your ambition to act upon the best standard of 
 your sex ; to aspire at every amiable, every no- 
 ble quality that is adapted to your state, or that 
 can insure the affection and preserve the impor- 
 tance to which you were born. Now this impor- 
 c 
 
38 TO YOUNG WOMEN. 
 
 tancc is very great, whether we consider you in 
 your present single condition, or as afterwards 
 connected in wedlock. 
 
 Considering you in your present single condi- 
 tion, I would begin where your duty in society be- 
 gins, by putting you in mind how deeply your pa- 
 rents are interested in your behaviour. For the 
 sake of the argument, I suppose your parents to 
 be alive. Those that have had the misfortune to 
 be early deprived of theirs, are commonly left to 
 the care of some friend or guardian, who is un- 
 derstood to supply their place ; and to such my. 
 remarks on this head will not be altogether inap- 
 plicable. 
 
 Are you who now hear me blest with parents, 
 that even in these times, and in this metropolis, 
 where all the corruption and futility of the times 
 are concentred, discover a zeal for your improve- 
 ment and salvation ? How thankful should you be 
 for the mighty blessing ! Would you show that you 
 are thankful ? Do nothing to make them unhap- 
 py do all in your power to give them delight.-— 
 Ah, did you but know how much it is in your 
 power to give them ! — But who can describe the 
 transports of a breast truly parental, on behold- 
 ing a daughter shoot up like some fair but 
 modest flower, and acquire day after day, fresh, 
 beautiful and growing sweetness, so as to fill every 
 eye with pleasure, and every heart with admira- 
 tion ; while, like that same flower, she appears 
 unconscious of her opening charms, and only re- 
 joices in the sun that chears, and the hand that 
 shelters her ? In this manner shall you, my lovely 
 friend, repay most acceptably a part (you never 
 can repay the whole) of that immense debt you 
 owe for all the pains and fears formerly suffered. 
 
TO YOUNG WOMEN. 59 
 
 aid for all the unutterable anxieties daily experi- 
 enced, on your acccount. 
 
 Perhaps you are the only daughter, perhaps the. 
 only child of your mother, and she a widow. All 
 her cares, all her sensations point to you. Of the 
 tenderness of a much loved and much lamented 
 husband you are the sole remaining pledge. Oi\ 
 you she often fixes her earnest melting eye ; with 
 watchful attention she marks the progress of your 
 rising virtues ; in every softened feature she 
 fondly traces your father's sense, your father's 
 probity. Something within her whispers, you 
 shall live to be the prop and comfort of her age, 
 as you are now her companion and her friend. — 
 blessed Lord, what big emotions swell her labour- 
 ing soul i but Jest, by venting them in your com- 
 pany she should affect you too much, she silently 
 withdraws to pour them forth in tears of rapture; 
 a rapture only augmented by the swettl\ sad re- 
 membrance that mingles with it, while at the same 
 time it is exalted and consecrated, doubly by ar- 
 dent vows to heaven for your preservation and 
 prcspenty. Is there a young woman that can 
 think of this with indifference i is there a young 
 woman that can reverse the description, suppose 
 herself the impious creature that could break a 
 widowed mother's heart, and support the thought? 
 When a daughter, it may be a favourite daugh- 
 ter, turns out unruly, foolish, wanton ; when she 
 disobeys her parents, disgraces her education, dis- 
 honors her sex, disappoints the hopes she had 
 raised ; when she throws herself away on a man 
 unworthy of her, or unqualified to make her hap- 
 py ,* what her parents in any of these cases must 
 necessarily suffer, we may conjecture, they alone 
 can feel. 
 
< 40 ) 
 A FATHER'S LEGACY 
 
 TO HIS 
 
 DAUGHTERS. 
 
 r 
 
 By Dr. Gregory. 
 
 ONE of the chief beauties in a female charac- 
 ter is that modest reserve, that retiring delicacy 
 which avoids the public eye, and is disconcerted 
 even at the gaze of admiration. I do not wish 
 you to be insensible to applause ; if you were, 
 you must become, if not worse, at least, less amia- 
 ble women. Bat you may be dazzled by that ad- 
 miration, which yet rejoices your hearts. 
 
 When a girl ceases to blush, she has lost the 
 most powerful charm of beauty. That extreme 
 sensibility which it indicates, may be a weakness 
 and incumbrance to our sex, as I have too often 
 felt ; but in yours it is peculiarly engaging. Pe- 
 dants, who think themselves philosophers, ask 
 why a woman should blush when she is conscious 
 of no crime ? it is a sufficient answer, that nature 
 has made you to blush when you are guilty of no 
 fault, and has forced us to love you because you 
 do so. Blushing is so far from being a necessary 
 attendant on guilt, that it is the usual companion 
 of innocence. 
 
 This modestywhich I think so essential in your 
 sex, will dispose you to be rather silent in compa- 
 ny, especially in a large one. People of sense and 
 discernment will never mistake such silence for 
 dulness. One may take a share in conversation 
 without uttering a syllable. The expression in 
 
a father's legacy. 41 
 
 the countenance shews it, and this never escapes 
 an observing eye. 
 
 I should be glad that you had an easy dignity 
 in your behaviour at public places, but not that 
 confident ease, that unabashed countenance, which 
 seems to set the company at defiance. If, while 
 a gentleman is speaking to you, one of superior 
 rank addresses you, do not let your eager atten- 
 tion and visible preference, betray the flutter of 
 your heart. Let pride on this occasion preserve 
 you from that meanness into which your vanity 
 would sink you. Consider that you expose your- 
 self to the ridicule of the company, and affront 
 one gentleman only to swell the triumph of ano- 
 ther, who perhaps thinks he does you honour in 
 speaking to you. 
 
 Converse with men even of the first rank, with 
 that dignified modesty, which may prevent the 
 approach of the most distant familiarity, and con- 
 sequently prevent them from feeling themselves 
 your superiors. 
 
 Wit is the most dangerous talent you can pos- 
 sess. It must be guarded with discretion and 
 good nature, otherwise it will create you ma- 
 ny enemies. Wit is perfectly consistent with soft- 
 ness and delicacy, yet they are seldom found 
 united. Wit is so flattering to vanity, that they 
 who possess it become intoxicated and lose all 
 self command. 
 
 Humour is a different quality. It will make 
 your company much solicited ; but be cautious 
 how you indulge it. It is often a great enemy to 
 delicacy, and a still greater one to dignity of cha- 
 racter. Sometimes it may gain you applause but 
 will never procure you respect. 
 
 Be ever cautious in displaying your good sense. 
 It will be thought you assume a superiority over 
 
42 a FATHER'S LEGACY' 
 
 the rest of the company. But if you happen to 
 have any learning, keep it a profound secret, es- 
 pecially from the men, who generall) look with a 
 jealous and a malignant eye on a woman of great 
 parts and cultivated understanding. 
 
 A man of real genius and candour is far supe- 
 rior to this meanness ; but such a one will seldom 
 fall in your way ; and if by accident he should, 
 do not be anxious to show the full extent of your 
 knowledge. If he has any opportunity of seeing 
 you, he will soon discover it himself ; and if you 
 pave any advantages of person or manner, and 
 keep your own secret, he will probably give you 
 credit for more than you possess. The great art 
 in conversation, consists in making the company 
 pleased with themselves* You will more readily 
 hear than talk yourselves into their good graces. 
 
 Beware of detraction, especially where your 
 own sex is concerned. You are generally accu- 
 sed of being particularly addicted to this vice. — 
 I think unjustly. Men are full as guilty of it, 
 when their interests interfere. As your interests 
 more frequently clash, and as your feelings are 
 quicker than ours, your temptations to it are more 
 frequent. For this reason be particularly tender 
 of the reputation of your own sex, especially 
 when they happen to rival you in our regards. — 
 We look on this as the strongest proof of dignity 
 and true greatness of mind. 
 
 Shew a compassionate sympathy to unfortunate 
 women, especially to those who are rendered so 
 by the villainy of men. Indulge a secret plea- 
 sure, I may say pride, in being the friends and 
 refuge of the unhappy, but without the vanity of 
 shewing it. 
 
 Consider every species of indelicacy in conver- 
 sation as shameful in itself, and as highly disgust- 
 
43 
 
 :ng ts us. As double entendre is of this sort.— - 
 The dissoluteness of men's education allows them 
 to be diverted with a kind of wit, which yet they 
 have delicacy enough to be shocked at when it 
 comes from your mouths ; or even when you hear 
 it without pain and contempt. Virgin purity is 
 of that delicate nature that it cannot hear certain 
 things without contamination. It is always in 
 your power to avoid these. No man, but a brute 
 or a fool, will insult a woman with conversation 
 which he sees gives her pain; nor will he dare to 
 doit, if she resent the injury with a becoming 
 spirit. There is a dignity in conscious virtue, 
 which is able to awe the most shamelesss and 
 abandoned of men. 
 
 You will be reproached perhaps with prudery. 
 Bv prudery is usually meant an affectation of de- 
 licacy. Now I do not wish you to affect delica- 
 cv : I wish you to possess it. At any rate, it'is 
 better to run the risk of being thought ridiculous 
 than disgusting. 
 
 * # * # ■ # * # 4 
 
 * # # * * * # # 
 
 * # * # # % # * 
 
 * # # # * # # * 
 Every man who remembers a few years back, is 
 
 sensible of a very striking change in the attention 
 and respect formerly paid by the gentlemen to the 
 ladies. Their drawing rooms are now deserted, 
 and after dinner and supper, the gentlemen are 
 impatient till they retire. How they came to lose 
 this respect, which nature and politeness so well 
 entitled them to, I shall not here particularly en- 
 quire. The revolutions of nature in any coun- 
 try, depend on causes very various and compli- 
 cated. I shall only observe, that the behaviour 
 of the ladies in the last age was very reserved and 
 
4& A father's legacy 1 . 
 
 stately. It would now be reckoned ridiculously 
 stiff and formal. Whatever it was, it had certain- 
 ly the effect of making them more respected. 
 
 A fine woman, like other fine things in nature, 
 has her proper points of view, from which she 
 may be seen to most advantage. 
 
 To fix thfe point requires great judgement, and 
 an intimate knowledge of the human heart. By 
 the present mode of female manners, the ladies 
 seem to expect that they shall regain their ascen- 
 dancy over us by the fullest display of their per- 
 sonal charms, by being always in our eye at pub- 
 lic places, by conversing with us with the same 
 unreserved freedom we do with one another ; In 
 short, by resembling us as nearly as they possibly 
 can. But a little time and experience will shew 
 the folly of their expectation and conduct. 
 
 The power of a fine woman over the hearts of 
 men of the finest parts, is even beyond what she 
 conceives. They are sensible of the pleasing il- 
 lusion, but they cannot, nor do they wish to dis- 
 solve it. But if she is determined to dispel the 
 charm, it certainly is in her power. She may 
 soon reduce the angel to a very ordinary girl. 
 
 There is a native dignity and ingenuous modesty 
 to be expected in your sex, which is your natural 
 protection from the familiarities of men and which 
 you should feel previous to the reflection, that it 
 is your interest to keep yourselves sacred from all 
 personal freedom. The many nameless charms 
 and endearments of beauty should be reserved to 
 bless the happy man to whom you give your hearts. 
 The sentiment, that a woman may allow all inno- 
 cent freedoms, provided her virtue is secure, is 
 both grossly indelicate and dangerous, and has 
 proved fatal to many of your sex. 
 
PASSION FOR GAMING IN LADIES. 45 
 
 Let me now recommend to your attention, that 
 elegance, which is not so much a quality of itself, 
 as the high polish of every other. It is what dif- 
 fuses an ineffable grace over every look, every 
 motion, every sentence you utter. It gives that 
 charm to beauty, without which it generally fails 
 to please. It is partly a personal quality, in which 
 respect it is the gift of nature : but I speak of it 
 principally as a quality of the mind. In a word, 
 it is the perfection of taste in life and manners ; 
 every virtue, and every excellence, in their most 
 graceful and proper forms. 
 
 You may perhaps think I want to throw every 
 spark of nature out of your composition, and to 
 make you entirely artificial. Far from it, I wish 
 you to possess the most perfect simplicity of heart 
 and manners. I think you may possess dignity 
 without pride, affability without meanness, and 
 simple elegance without affectation. Milton had 
 my idea, when he says of Eve, 
 
 Grace was in all her eteps, heav'n in her eye : 
 In every gesture dignity and love. 
 
 THE PASSION FOR GAMING IN LADIES, 
 
 Ridiculed in a Letter from a Chinese Philosopher 
 to his friend in the East. 
 
 BY GOLDSMITH. 
 
 THE ladies here are by no means such ardent 
 gamesters as the women of Asia. In this respect 
 I must do the English justice ; for I love to praise 
 where applause is justly merited. Nothing is 
 more common in China, than to sec two women 
 
46 PASSION FOR GAMING IN LADIES. 
 
 of fashion continue gaming till one has won .alt* 
 the ether's clothes, and stript her quite naked ; 
 the winner thus marching off in a double suit of 
 finery,"' and the loser shrinking behind in the pri- 
 mitive simplicity of nature. 
 
 No doubt you remember when Slicing, our 
 maiden aunt, played with a sharper. First her 
 money went; then her trinkets were produced ; 
 her clothes followed, piece by piece, soon after ; 
 when she had thus played herself quite naked, 
 being a woman of spirit, and willing to pursue 
 her ozvn, she staked her teeth ; fortune was 
 against her even here, and her teeth followed her 
 clothes; at last she played for her left eye, and, 
 oh ! hard fate, this too she lost ; however, she had 
 the consolation of biting the sharper, for he never 
 perceived that it was made of glass till it became 
 his own. 
 
 How happy, my friend, are the English ladies, 
 who never rise to such an inordinan.ee of passion ! 
 Though the sex here are naturally fond of games 
 of chance, and are taught to manage games of 
 skill from their infancy, yet they never pursue ill 
 fortune with such amazing intrepidity. Indeed I 
 may entirely acquit them of ever playing — I mean 
 of playing for their eyes or their teeth. 
 
 It is true they often stake their fortune, their 
 beauty, health and reputations at a gaming-table. 
 It even sometimes happens, that they play their 
 husbands into a jail; yet still they preserve a de- 
 corum unknown to our wives and daughters of 
 China. I have been present at a rout in this 
 country, where a woman of fashion, after losing 
 her money, has sat writhing in all the agonies oi 
 bad luck ; and yet, after all, never once attempted 
 to strip a single petticoat, or cover the board, as 
 her last stake, with her head-clothes. 
 
PASSION FOR GAMING IN LADIES. 47 
 
 However, though I praise their moderation at 
 play, I must not conceal their assiduity. In Chi- 
 na, our women, except upon some great days, are 
 never permitted to finger a dice-box ; but here, 
 every day seems to be a festival ; and night itself, 
 which gives others rest, only serves to increase 
 the female gamester's industry. I have been told 
 of an old lady in the country, who being given 
 over by the physicians, played with the curate of 
 her parish to pass the time away : having won all 
 his money, she next proposed playing for her fu- 
 neral charges; the proposal was accepted; but 
 unfortunately, the lady expired just as she had 
 taken in her game. 
 
 There are some passions, which, though differ- 
 ently pursued, are attended with equal conse- 
 quences in every country: here they game with 
 more perseverance, there with greater fury; here 
 they strip their families, there they strip themselves 
 naked. A lady in China, who indulges a passion 
 for gaming, often becomes a drunkard ; and by 
 flourishing a dice-box in one hand, she generally 
 comes to brandish a dram cup in the other. Far 
 be it from me to say there are any who drink 
 drams in England ; but it is natural to suppose, 
 that when a lady has lost every thing but her ho- 
 n©ur, she will be apt to toss that into the bargain ; 
 and, grown insensible to nicer feelings, behave 
 like the Spaniard, who, when all his money was 
 gone, endeavoured to borrow more, by offering 
 to pawn his whiskers. 
 
LETTER 
 
 FROM MUSTAPHA RUB-A-DUB KELI KHAK, 
 
 To Asem Hacchem, principal slave-driver to his 
 highness the bashaw of Tripoli* 
 
 [The works of education in common use, are made 
 up of selections from trans-atlantic writers. Young 
 persons being accustomed to regard English litera- 
 ture as exclusively deserving their applause and imi- 
 tation, acquire a disrelish and disrespect for the pro- 
 ductions of our own country. This disrespect re- 
 sults so much from early prejudice, that elementary 
 compilers should exert themselves to vindicate their 
 national character. We are conscious that flowers of 
 genius have been born (but " born to blush unseen") 
 in the American republic, which needed only the fos- 
 tering Meesenas', to display their beauties, and force 
 them into public view. Jt is not enough that men 
 write ; excellence, in any shape, must be thrust into 
 immortality, or that excellence is forgotten. We 
 acknowledge that the distinguished authors from 
 whom we select the following, cannot complain of 
 popular neglect. The satires of the Cockloft 
 Family have circulated every where, and atone 
 time the little volumes of Salmagundi were thought 
 an indispensable part of the tea-table furniture of 
 every fashionable house in America. But this kind 
 of celebrity is most perishable. The works of 
 Launcelot LangstafT, and his noble brothers, have 
 been too much regarded as mere amusing trifles, 
 while they are adorned by all the graces of style 
 and sentiment. The editor of the Lady's Precep- 
 tor wishes to convince youth, that American pro- 
 ductions exist, which they may admire and imitate. 
 He wishes also to adduce the works of Langstafp 
 
mustapha's letter. 49 
 
 and Co. as choice specimens of national literature. 
 He is satisfied, that females will not be displeased 
 with the selection, and confess that Salmagundi 
 shines not only on the toilet and the tea-table, 
 but that its lustre is bright amidst the surrounding 
 glare of British erudition.] 
 
 THOUGH I am often disgusted, my good 
 Asem, with the vices and absurdities of the men 
 of this country : yet the women afford me a world 
 of amusement. Their lively prattle is as divert- 
 ing as the chattering of the red-tailed parrot : nor 
 can the green-headed monkey of Timandi, equal 
 them in whim and playfulness. But, notwith- 
 standing these valuable qualifications, I am sorry 
 to observe they are not treated with half the atten- 
 tion bestowed on the before mentioned animals. 
 These infidels put their parrots in cages, and chain 
 their monkies ; but their women, instead of be- 
 ing carefully shut up in harams and seraglios, are 
 abandoned to the direction of their own reason, 
 and suffered to run about in perfect freedom, like 
 other domestic animals : this comes, Asem, of 
 treating their women as rational beings, and al- 
 lewingthem souls. The consequence of this pi- 
 teous neglect may easily be imagined — they have 
 degenerated into all their native wildness, are sel- 
 dom to be caught at home, and at an early age take 
 to the streets and highways, where they rove about 
 in droves, giving almost as much annoyance to 
 the peaceable people, as the troops of wild dogs 
 that infest our great cities, or the flights of locusts, 
 that sometimes spread famine and desolation over 
 whole regions of fertility. 
 
 This propensity to relapse into pristine wildness, 
 convinces me of the untameable disposition of the 
 sex, who may indeed be partially domesticated bv 
 
 E 
 
a long course of refinement and restraint, but the 
 moment they are restored to personal freedom, be- 
 come wild as the young partridge of this country, 
 which, though scarcely half hatched, will take to 
 the fields and run about with the shell upon its 
 back. 
 
 Notwithstanding their wildness, however, they 
 are remarkably easy of access, and suffer them- 
 selves to be approached, at certain hours of the 
 day, without any symptoms of apprehension ; and 
 I have even happily succeeded in detecting them 
 at their domestic occupations. One of the most 
 important of these consists in thumping vehe- 
 mently on a kind of musical instrument, and pro- 
 ducing a confused, hideous, and indefinable up- 
 roar, which they call the description of a battle — 
 a jest, no doubt, for they are wonderfully facetious 
 at times, and make great practice of passing jokes 
 upon strangers. Sometimes they employ them- 
 selves in painting little caricatures and landscapes, 
 wherein they will display their singular drollery 
 in bantering nature fairly out of countenance — re- 
 presenting her tricked out in all the tawdry finery 
 of copper skies, purple rivers, calico rocks, red 
 grass, clouds that look like old clothes set adrift 
 b} r the tempest, and foxy trees, whose melancholy 
 foliage, drooping and curling most fantastically, 
 reminds me of an undressed periwig that I have 
 now and then seen hang on a stick in a barber's 
 window. At other times they employ themselves 
 in acquiring a smattering of languages spoken by 
 nations on the other side of the globe, as they find 
 their own language not sufficiently copious to sup- 
 ply their constant demands, and express their 
 multifarious ideas. But their most important do- 
 mestic avocation is to embroider on satin or mus- 
 lin, flowers of a non-descript kind, in which the 
 
51 
 
 great art is to make them as unlike nature as pos- 
 sible — or to fasten little bits of silver, gold, tinsel 
 and glass, on long strips of muslin, which they 
 drag after them with much dignity whenever they 
 go abroad — a line lady, like a bird of paradise, 
 being estimated by the length of her tail. 
 
 But do not, my friend, fall into the enormous 
 error of supposing, that the exercise of these arU 
 is attended with any useful or profitable result — 
 believe me, thou couldst not indulge an idea more 
 unjust and injurious; for it appears to be an esta- 
 blished maxim among the women of this coun- 
 try that a lady loses her dignity when she conde- 
 scends to be useful ; and forfeits ail rank in society 
 the moment she can be convicted of earning a 
 farthing. Their labour*, therefore, are directed 
 not towards supplying their household, but in 
 decking their persons, and — generous souls ! — 
 they deck their persons, not so much to please 
 themselves, as to gratify others, particularly stran- 
 gers. I am confident thou wilt stare at this, my 
 good Asem, accustomed as thou art to our eastern 
 females, who shrink in blushing timidity even 
 from the glances of a lover, and are so chary of 
 their favours that they even seem fearful of lavish- 
 ing their smiles too profusedly on their husbands. 
 Here, on the contrary, the stranger has the first 
 place in female regard, and so far do they carry 
 their hospitality, that I have seen a fine lady slight 
 a dozen tried friends and real admirers, who lived 
 in her smiles and made her happiness their study, 
 merely to allure the vague and wandering glances 
 of a stranger who viewed her person with indiffer- 
 ence and treated her advances with contempt. By 
 the whiskers of our sablime bashaw, but this is 
 highly flattering to a foreigner! and thou rnayest 
 judge how particularly pleasing to one who is, like 
 
myself, so ardent an admirer of the sex. Far be 
 it from me to condemn this extraordinary mani- 
 festation of good will — let their own countrymen 
 look to that. 
 
 Be,not alarmed, I conjure thee, my dear Asem, 
 lest I should he tempted by the beautiful barba- 
 rians to break the faith I owe to the three-and- 
 twentv wives from whom my unhappy destiny has 
 perhaps severed me for ever — no Asem ; neither, 
 rime nor the bitter succession of misfortunes that 
 pursues me, can shake from my heart the memory 
 of former attachments. I listen with tranquil 
 heart so the strumming and prattling of these 
 fair syrens — their whimsical paintings touch not 
 the tender chord of my affections ; and I would 
 still defy their fascinations, though they trailed 
 after them trains as long as the gorgeous trap- 
 pings which are dragged at the heels of the holy 
 camel of Mecca; or as the tail of the great beast 
 in our prophet's vision, which measured three 
 hundred and forty-nine leagues, two miles, three 
 furlongs, and a hand's breadth in longitude. 
 
 The dress of these women is, if possible, more 
 eccentric and whimsical than their deportment, 
 and they take an inordinate pride in certain orna- 
 ments, which are probably derived from their sa- 
 vage progenitors. A woman of this country, 
 dressed out for an exhibition, is loaded with as ma- 
 ny ornaments as a Circassian slave when brought 
 out for sale. Their heads are tricked out with 
 little bits of horn or shell, cut into fantastic shapes, 
 and they seem to emulate each other in the num- 
 ber of these singular baubles — like the women we 
 have seen in our journeys to Aleppo, who cover 
 their heads with the entire shell of a tortoise, and 
 thus equipped, are the envycf all their less for- 
 tunate acquaintenance. They also decorate their 
 
necks and ears with coral, gold chains, and glass 
 beads, and load their fingers with a variety of 
 rings; though, I must confess, I have never per- 
 ceived that they wear any in their noses — as has 
 been affirmed by many travellers. We have heard 
 much of their painting themselves most hideously, 
 and making use of bear's grease in great profu- 
 sion ; but this, I solemnly assure thee, is a misre- 
 presentation ; civilization, no doubt, having gra- 
 dually extirpated these nauseous practices. It is 
 true, I have seen too or three of these females, 
 who had disguised their features with paint; but 
 then it was merely to give a tinge of red to their 
 cheeks, and did not look very frightful — and as to 
 ointment, they rarely use any now, except occa- 
 sionally a little Grecian oil for their hair, which 
 gives it a glossy, greasy, and (as they think) very 
 comely appearance. The last mentioned class oi 
 females, I take for granted, have been but late- 
 ly caught, and still retain strong traits of their 
 original savage propensities* 
 
 The most flagrant and inexcusable fault, how 
 ever, which I find in these lovely savages, is the 
 shameless and abandoned exposure of their per- 
 sons. Wilt thou not suspect me of exaggeration 
 when I affirm — wilt thou not blush for them, most 
 discreet musselman, when I declare to thee, that 
 they are so lost to all sense of modesty as to ex- 
 pose the whole of their faces from the forehead 
 to the chin, and that they even go abroad with 
 their hands uncovered ! — Monstrous indelicacy ! 
 
 But what I am going to disclose, will doubtless 
 appear to thee still more incredib 1 e. Though I 
 cannot forbear paying a tribute of admiration ia 
 the beautiful faces of these fair infidels, yet I mus. 
 give it as my firm opinion that their persons arc 
 preposterously unseemly. In vain did I looi" 
 
o4 
 
 around me on my first landing, for those divine 
 forms of redundant proportions which answer to 
 the true standard of eastern beauty — not a single 
 fat fair one could I behold among the multitudes 
 that thronged the streets ; the females that passed 
 in review before me, tripping sportively along, re- 
 sembled a procession of shadows, returning to 
 their graves at the crowing of the cock. 
 
 This meagerness I 'at first ascribed to their ex- 
 cessive volubility ; for I have somewhere seen it 
 advanced by a learned doctor, that the sex were 
 endowed with a peculiar activity of tongue, in 
 order that they might practise talking as a health- 
 ful exercise, necessary to their confined and seden- 
 tary mode cf life. This exercise, it was natural 
 to suppose, would be carried to great excess in a 
 logocracy. " Too true," thought I, u they have 
 converted 'what was undoubtedly meant as a be- 
 neficent gift, into a noxious habit that steals the 
 flesh from their bones and the roses from their 
 cheeks ; they absolutely talk themselves thin !" 
 Judge then of my surprise when I was as- 
 sured not long since, that this meagerness was 
 considered the perfection of personal beauty, 
 and that many a lady starved herself with all the 
 obstinate perseverance of a pious dervise — into 
 a fine figure! "nay more," said my informer, 
 " they will often sacrifice their healths in this 
 eager pursuit of skeleton beauty, and drink vine- 
 gar, eat pickles, and smoke tobacco to keep them- 
 selves within the scanty outlines of the fashion." 
 Faugh ! Allah preserve me from such beauties, 
 who contaminate their pure blood with noxious re- 
 cipes : who impiously sacrifice the best gift of 
 heaven, to a preposterous and mistaken vanity. 
 Ere long I shall not be surprised to see them scar- 
 ring their faces like the negroes of Congo, flatten- 
 ing their noses in imitation of the Hottentots, or 
 
siustapha's letter. 55 
 
 like the barbarians of Ab-al Timar, distorting 
 their lips and ears out of all natural dimensions. 
 Since I received this information, I cannot con- 
 template a fine figure, without thinking of a vine- 
 gar cruet : nor look at a dashing belle without fan- 
 cying her a pot of pickled cucumbers! What a 
 difference, my friend, between these shades, and 
 the plump beauties of Tripoli ; what a contrast 
 between an infidel fair one and my favourite wife, 
 Fatima, whom I bought by the hundred weight 
 and had trundled home in a wheel-barrow ! 
 
 But enough for the present ; I am promised a 
 faithful account of the arcana of a lady's toilet — 
 a complete initiation into the arts, mysteries, spells 
 and potions : in short, the whole chemical process 
 by which she reduces herself down to the most 
 fashionable standard of insignificance ; together 
 with specimens of the strait waistcoats, the lacings, 
 the bandages, and the various ingenious instru- 
 ments with which she puts nature to the rack, and 
 tortures herself into a proper figure to be admi- 
 red. 
 
 Farewel, thou sweetest of slave-drivers ! the 
 echoes that repeat to a lover's ear the song of his 
 mistress, are not more sooth'ngthan tidings from 
 those we love. Let thy answers to my letters be 
 speedy ; and never., I pray thee, for a moment 
 cease to watch over the prosperity of my house, 
 and the welfare of my beloved wives. Let them 
 want for nothing, my friend; but feed them plen- 
 tifully on honey, boiled rice and water gruel, so 
 that when I return to the blessed land of my fa- 
 thers (if that can ever be !) I may find them im- 
 proved in size and loveliness, and sleek as the 
 graceful elephants that rage the green valley of 
 Abimar. 
 
 Ever thine, 
 
 MUSTAPHA. 
 
(56) 
 
 x.edy'a-rd's character of women. 
 
 aLkdyard, the celebrated traveller, who is quoted in 
 the ensuing extract from one of the essays of Sedley, 
 an occasional correspondent with the Port Folio, 
 was a native of Connecticut. At the early age of 
 eighteen, 'with no other advantages than those 
 which a grammar school had afforded, his ardent 
 curiosity and enterprizing genius were displayed. 
 Alone in a canoe, the work-of his own hands, and 
 with provisions for which he was indebted to the 
 kindness of his village friends, he performed his first 
 voyage, by descending the Connecticut river from 
 Dartmouth to Hartford, without anyprevious know- 
 ledge of its navigation. In 1771, he sailed to Lon- 
 don as a common sailor, and accompanied captain 
 Cook, with whom he was a favorite, in his third 
 voyage of discovery. A narrative of his various 
 adventures, a description of the fatigues, the peril* 
 and the disappointments which this indefatigable tra- 
 veller encountered, though highly interesting, would 
 not be within the scope of this work. We shall 
 merely add, that he died at Cairo, in the year 1789., 
 while on a journey to explore the interior parts of 
 Africa. 
 
 In the year 1781, he published an account of Cook's 
 voyage ; and his pilgrimage through various regions 
 of the globe, may be traced in his communications 
 to the African Association at London. Jn one of 
 these, he has borne a testimony in behalf of the 
 sex, which is at once elegant, grateful and just. 
 We hope the manner in which it is introduced to 
 our readers will not be disapproved ] 
 
 I CONFESS lam not one of those who endea- 
 vour to establish a fancied superiority by reviling 
 the female character, and I think these midnight 
 
CHARACTER OF WOMEN. 57 
 
 lucubrations have borne testimony to my sincere 
 fondness and undissembled respect for its loveli- 
 ness and dignity. Milton has acknowledged that 
 u love is one of the lowest ends of human life;" and 
 I readily believe that this world, without the sweet 
 intercourse of looks and smiles, would be but a wide 
 waste indeed. Why is it that, in the hour of dis- 
 tress, we forget all our vaunted heroism, and fly 
 to the arms of female kindness for that consola- 
 tion, which we in vain seek in our own reflections? 
 And why is it that the tears of a woman have 
 more effect in arousing our feelings, than the loud- 
 est call of the clarion ? It is that all-pervading 
 influence, which moves every passion of the hu- 
 man breast : it is that which melts the most fierce 
 into docility, and inspires even cowardice with 
 bravery. 
 
 Spencer, a favorite poet with me, has a passage 
 on the influence of women in distress, which I 
 wish every one to read and admire : 
 
 Nought is there under Heaven's hoHownesse 
 That moves more dear compassien of the mind , 
 Than beauty brought t' unworthie wretchednesse, 
 Through envie's snares, or fortune's freaks unkind. 
 /, lately, whether through her brightness blynd, 
 Or, thro* allegiance and part fealty, 
 IVhich I do one z/nto all woman hind, 
 Feel my heart prest with so great agony, 
 When such I see, that all for pity 1 could dy. 
 
 But whilst I admire, and praise, and defend, let 
 me not be supposed to be so blind as to see all 
 their virtues and their vices, their beauties and 
 deformities in the same partial light. No ; 
 the canvas so alluring to the eye is yet tarnished 
 by many a stain. The sickly mem of affectation, 
 the folly of a weak mind, and the ungenial chill 
 of prudery, the vice of an impure mind, with 
 
58 CHARACTER OF WOMEN. 
 
 many other frailties that female jtesh is heir ic, 
 must be corrected before woman can be called 
 perfect. Yet with all these imperfections, how 
 infinitely do they surpass us in virtue, friendship, 
 constancy, fortitude, genuine good sense, and un- 
 affected good nature ! 
 
 Let me add a grateful testimony of older expe- 
 rience, of which I have been reminded by these 
 reflections. In the travels of Ledyard, this cele- 
 brated traveller says, he has " always remarked 
 that women in all countries, are civil, obliging, 
 tender and humane ; that they are ever inclined 
 to be gay and cheerful, timorous and modest ; 
 and that they do not hesitate, like men, to perform 
 a kind or generous action. 
 
 " Not haughty not arrogant, not supercilious, 
 they are full of courtesy, and fond of society, 
 More liable in general to err than man, but in 
 general also more virtuous, and performing more 
 good actions than he. To a woman, whether ci~ 
 viized or savage, I never addressed myself in 
 the language of friendship and decency, without 
 receiving a friendly and decent answer ; with man 
 it has oiten been otherwise. 
 
 " In wandering over the barren plains of inhos- 
 pitable Denmark, through honest Sweden and fro- 
 zen Lapland, rude and churlish Finland, unprinci- 
 pled Russia, and the wide-spread regions of the 
 wandering Tartars j if hungry, dry, cold, wet, or 
 sick, the women have ever been friendly to me, 
 and uniformly so ; and to add to this virtue, so 
 worthy the appellation o£ benevolence, these actions 
 have been performed in so free and kind a man- 
 ner, that if I was thirsty, I drank the sweetest 
 draught, and if hungry, I ate the coarsest meal 
 with a double relish." 
 
( 59 ) 
 
 ON FEMALE ATTRACTIONS. 
 
 FLAVELLA has a multitude of charms. She 
 is sensible, affable, modest and good-humoured. 
 She is tail without being aukward, and as straight 
 as an arrov. r . She has a clear complexion, lively 
 eyes, pretty mouth, and white even teeth ; and 
 will answer the description which any rhyming 
 lover can give of the mistress of his affections, 
 after having ransacked heaven and earth for simi- 
 lics ; and yet I cannot admire her. She wants, in 
 my opinion, tlvAtnarieltJs something* or^/ene scat 
 qnoi, which is far more attractive than beauty. — • 
 It is, in short, a peculiar manner of saying the 
 most insignificant thing:., and doing the most tri- 
 fling actions which captivates us, and takes our 
 hearts by surprize. Though I am a strenuous ad- 
 vocate for a modest, decent and unaffected de- 
 portment in the fair sex, I would not, however, 
 have a fine woman altogether insensible of her 
 personal charms, for she would then be as insipid 
 as Flavilla. I would only have her conscious 
 enough, of them to behave with modest freedom, 
 and to converse with fluency and spirit. When a 
 woman stalks majestically into a room, with the 
 haughty airs of a first rate beauty, and expects 
 every one who sees her to admire her, my indig- 
 nation rises, and I get away as fast as I can, in or- 
 der to enjoy the conversation of an easy, good hu- 
 moured creature, who is neither beautiful, nor 
 conceited enough to be troublesome, and who is 
 as willing to give pleasure, as desirous to receive 
 
60 CHARACTER OF TWO SISTERS, 
 
 TENDERNESS TO MOTHERS. 
 
 MARK ! that parent hen, said a father to his 
 beloved daughter. With what anxious care docs 
 she call together her little offspring, and cover 
 them with her expanded wings. The kite is ho- 
 vering in the air, and, disappointed of his prey, 
 by the care the hen takes of her brood, may per- 
 haps, dart upon the hen herself, and bear her off 
 in his talons. 
 
 Does not this sight suggest to you the tender- 
 ness and affection of your mother ? her watchful 
 care protected you in the helpless period of your 
 infancy, when she nourished you with her milk, 
 taught your limbs to move, and your tongue to 
 lisp its unformed accents. In childhood, she ha^s 
 mourned over your little griefs, has rejoiced in 
 your innocent delights, has administered to you 
 the healing balm in sickness, and has instilled into 
 your mind the love of truth, of virtue, and of 
 wisdom. Oh ! cherish every sentiment of re- 
 spect to such a mother : she merits your warmest 
 gratitude, esteem and veneration. 
 
 PERCIVAL. 
 
 CHARACTER OF TWO SISTERS. 
 
 FLIRTILLA is a gay, lively, giddy girl ; she 
 is what the world calls handsome; she dances and 
 sings admirably, has something to say upon every 
 fashion, person, play, opera, masquerade, orpub- 
 licexhibition, and has an easy flow of words, that 
 pass upon the multitude for wit. In short, the 
 
. ILY LOVE AND IlAllMONY. 61 
 
 whole end of her existence seems to be centered 
 in a love of company and the fashion. No won- 
 der she is noticed only by the less worthy 
 part of the world. Amelia, the lovely Amelia, 
 makes home her greatest happiness. Nature ha-s 
 not been so lavish of her charms, as to her sister, 
 but she has a soft pleasing countenance, that plain- 
 ly indicates the goodness of her heart within. 
 Her person is not striking at first, but as it be- 
 comes familiar to the beholder, is more so than 
 that of her sister. For her modest deportment, 
 and her sweet disposition, will daily gain ground 
 on any person who has the happiness of convers- 
 ing with her. She reads much, and digests what 
 she reads. Her serenity of mind is not to be 
 disturbed by the disappointment of a party of 
 pleasure, nor her spirit agitated by the shape of a 
 car, or the colour of a ribbon. She speaks but 
 little when in company, but when she does, every 
 one is silent, and attends to her as an oracle, and 
 she has one true friend with whom she passes her 
 days in tranquility. The reader may easily judge 
 which of these two sisters is the most amiable. 
 
 FAMILY LOVE AND HAR3IONY. 
 
 I WILL amuse you with a little experiment, 
 said Charles one evening to Lucy, Emilia, and Ja- 
 cobus, and, rising from the table, he took the candles 
 and held them about half an inch asunder, opposite 
 to a medallion of Dr. Franklin, about two yards 
 distant from it. The motto round the figure — 
 " Unhurt amidst the war of elements" was but 
 just distinctly visible : when the degree of light. 
 had been sufficiently observed, he united the 
 r 
 
$S *ENELON ON EDUCATION. 
 
 flames of the two candles, by putting them close 
 together, and the whole figure with the inscription 
 became instantly illuminated in a much stronger 
 manner than before. They were all pleased, and 
 struck with the effect, and they desired Euphroni- 
 us, who now entered the parlour, to explain to 
 them the cause of it. He commended their en- 
 tertainment, and informed them that a greater de- 
 gree of heat is produced by the junction of the 
 two flames, and consequently a farther attention, 
 and more copious emission of the particles of 
 which light consists. But, my dear young friends, 
 continued he, attend to the lesson of virtue, as 
 well as of science, which the experiment you have 
 seen affords. Nature has implanted in your 
 hearts, benevolence, friendship, gratitude, human- 
 ity and generosity ; and these social affections are 
 separately shining lights in the world : but, they 
 burn with peculiar warmth and lustre, when more 
 concentered in the kindred charities of brother, 
 sister, child, and parent; and harmony, peace, 
 sympathy in joy and grief, mutual good offices, 
 forgiveness and forbearance are the bright ema- 
 nations of domestic love. May the radiance of 
 such virtues long illuminate this happy household, 
 
 FERCIVAL. 
 
 FENELON ON EDUCATION. 
 
 IF girls do not apply early to things of 
 acme solidity, they will have neither taste for 
 them, nor pleasure in them, afterwards. A mo- 
 ther should by degrees represent to her daughter 
 the advantage of rational application; but she 
 should rather make the acquisition of knowledge 
 
FENELON ON EDUCATION. 63 
 
 a recreation, than a toil, otherwise she will cause 
 the child to be disgusted with all imprpvemeni. 
 
 Begin to teach children history, by relating lit- 
 tle tales of interesting and noble actions, which 
 will engage their attention, enlarge their ideas, 
 and give them a taste for virtue : this method 
 will lead them, as they grow older, to wish to ac- 
 quire general knowledge, and will render them 
 pleasing companions. 
 
 But endeavour to guard against presumption, 
 and self-conceit ; always praise them more when 
 they doubt or ask for information, than when 
 they seem certain of their knowledge : this is the 
 best means of infusing into them gently a proper 
 modesty of opinion, and of discouraging an argu- 
 mentative maimer, which is extremely disgusting 
 in young females. 
 
 Let not girls mistake vivacity of imagination 
 and facility of speaking for wit ; they will other- 
 wise interfere upon all occasions, and talk and de- 
 cide upon subjects the least suited to their capa- 
 city. Tell them, that quickness of repartee, and 
 a readiness of expressing themselves with ease 
 and grace, are not essential talents, because they 
 are frequently possessed by women who are de- 
 ficient in solidity of understanding; but imprint 
 strongly on their minds, that a discreet and regu- 
 lar conduct, and a knowledge when to be silent 
 and when to deliver their sentiments with pro- 
 priety, are essential qualifications which command 
 respect and conciliate esteem. 
 
 Parents frequently encourage girls in softness 
 and timidity, bordering on weakness, which ren- 
 der them incapable of being, firm and uniform 
 characters. Th-y are perhaps naturally fearful, 
 and they affect to be so still more, and thus cus- 
 tom confirms this failing : if you shew contempt 
 
64 FfeNFXON ON EDUCATION. 
 
 for these fears and affectations, it will be the most 
 effectual way to correct them. 
 
 As an extreme love of refinement is too apt to 
 influence the sex, represent to a young lady, the 
 utility of an accommodating disposition. Since 
 we must frequently associate with persons who 
 are not very refined, and enter into occupations 
 not suitable to our tastes : reason, which is true 
 good sense, points out fastidiousness as a weak- 
 ness of character. A mind that understands true 
 politeness, and knows how to descend to ordinary 
 occupations, is infinitely superior to those exces- 
 sively delicate minds, that are overcome with dis- 
 gust upon every occasion. 
 
 Endeavour to persuade young ladies not to im- 
 agine that great beauty is the most desirable gift. 
 A beauty idolizes her own person more than the 
 most passionate lover. Inform them, that beauty 
 deceives the person who possesses it much more 
 than those who are its admirers; and lead them 
 to reflect, that a very few years will rob them of 
 all their charms. 
 
 Beauty without merit is very little serviceable 
 to a girl ; she can only expect to draw in a young 
 coxcomb to marry her, with whom she must be 
 wretched. But when modesty and virtue are 
 joined with beauty, the possessor of these qualifi- 
 cations may aspire to an union with a man of real 
 merit. 
 
 As there are no regulations for dress, equip- 
 ages, or way of living, there are in effect none for 
 the general situations in life. Most women are 
 disposed to love an ostentatious display, and are 
 fond of leading the fashions : this vain ambition 
 frequently ruins families and the ruin of families 
 must draw on the corruption. of morals. On one 
 side, this parade excites in persons of a low con- 
 
FENELON ON EDUCATION. 6p 
 
 dition the desire of appearing above their situa- 
 tion, which leads them to commit dishonest ac- 
 tions ; on the other hand, it induces persons of 
 quality, who find themselves without resources, 
 to be guilty of mean and scandalous actions to 
 support their expenses ; by these means are ex- 
 tinguished good faith, probity and ingeniousness, 
 even among the nearest relations. Endeavour, 
 therefore, to convince young ladies how much 
 more estimable that honour is, which is derived 
 from a right conduct, and cultivated understand- 
 ing, than from any ostentatious display. 
 
 Endeavour to give a young woman a proper 
 sense of the part she is to act if she marries. — 
 She is to have the care of educating her children ; 
 of the boys to a certain age, of the girls till they 
 marry. She ought to have a quick discernment 
 to find out the natural genius and disposition of 
 each child, to conduct herself properly towards 
 them, to discover their inclinations, talents and 
 tempers ; to persuade them by good advice, and 
 to correct their errors. She should carefully ac- 
 quire and preserve her authority, without losing 
 their love and confidence- 
 
 A mother of a family should have a proper 
 sense of religion, to be able to instil good princi- 
 ples into her children. St. Paul assures women, 
 th.it their salvation depends upon well educating 
 their children. 
 
 Many women too much neglect economy, par- 
 ticularly those in higher stations of life ; accus- 
 tomed to- affluence and indolence, they disclaim 
 this virtue, as involving them in unworthy occu- 
 pations, leach young ladies, that a mistress of a 
 family should accustom herself to keep an ac- 
 count of her expenses, to know the value oi^ the 
 
66 HUSH ON EDUCATION* 
 
 necessaries of life as well as the articles of dress, 
 that she may prevent waste and imposition. But 
 though she should avoid prodigality, let her not 
 run into the opposite extreme. Avarice gains 
 little, and greatly dishonours those who are under 
 its influence. A reasonable woman only practises 
 frugality to avoid the shame and injustice attend- 
 ing an expensive and ruinous conduct ; she re- 
 trenches superfluous expenses, that she may have 
 it in her power the more liberally to perform acts 
 "*f friendship, benevolence, and charity ." 
 
 "EXTRACT FROM 
 
 THOUGHTS UPON FEMALE EDUCATION, 
 
 Accommodated to the present state of society, man- 
 ners, and government, in the United States of 
 America, Addressed to the Visitors of the 
 Toung- Ladies' Academy in Philadelpiiia, 28th 
 July, 1787, by Benjamin Rush, m. d. 
 
 THE branches of literature most essential for 
 a young lady in this country, appear to be, 
 
 1st. A knowledge of the English language* — 
 She should not only read, but speak and spell it 
 correctly* And to enable her to do this, she 
 should be taught the English grammar, and be 
 frequently examined in applying its rules in com- 
 ?non conversation* 
 
RUSH ON EDUCATION. 67 
 
 2d. Pleasure and interest conspire to make 
 the writing of a fair and legible hand, a necessary 
 branch of a lady's education. For this purpose 
 she should be taught not only to shape twtry let- 
 ter properly, but to pay the strictest regard to 
 points and capitals. 
 
 I once heard of a man who professed to dis- 
 cover the tempers and dispositions of persons by 
 looking at their hand writing. Without enquir- 
 ing into the probability of this story ; I shall only 
 remark, that there is one thing in which all man- 
 kind agree upon this subject, and that is, in con- 
 siuering writing that is blotted, crooked, or illegi- 
 ble, as a mark of vulgar education. I know of 
 few things more rude or illiberal, than to intrude 
 a letter upon a person of rank or business, which 
 cannot be easily read. Peculiar care should be 
 taken to avoid every kind of ambiguity and affec- 
 tation in writing names. I have now a letter in 
 my possession upon business, from a gentleman 
 of a liberal profession in a neighbouring state, 
 which I am unable to answer, because I cannot 
 discover the name which is subscribed to it. For 
 obvious reasons I would recommend the writing 
 of the first, or christian name, at full length, 
 where it does not consist of more than two syl- 
 lables. — Abbreviations of all kind in letter writ- 
 ing, which always denote either haste or earless- 
 ness, should likewise be avoided. I have only to 
 add under this head, that the Italian and inverted 
 hands which are read with difficulty, are by no 
 means accommodated to the active state of busi- 
 ness in America, or to the simplicity of the citi- 
 zens of a republic. 
 
 3d. Some knowledge of figures and book- 
 keeping is absolutely necessary to qualify a young 
 lady for the duties, which await her in this coun- 
 
63 R&S1I ON EDUCATION. 
 
 try. There are certain occupations in which she- 
 may assist her husband with this knowledge ; and 
 should she survive him, and agreeably to the cus- 
 tom of our country be the executrix of his will, 
 3ae cannot fail of deriving immense advantages 
 from it. 
 
 4th. An acquaintance with geography and 
 some instruction with chronology will enable a 
 young lady to read history, biography, and travels 
 with advantage ; and thereby qualify her not only 
 for a general intercourse with the world, but to be 
 an agreeable companion for a sensible man. To 
 these branches of knowledge may be added, in 
 some instances, a general acquaintance with the 
 first principles of astronomy, natural philosophy 
 and chemistry, particularly, with such parts of 
 them as are calculated to prevent superstition, by 
 explaining the causes, or obviating the effects of 
 natural evil, and such, as are capable of being ap- 
 plied to domestic, and culinary purposes. 
 
 5th. Vocal music should never be neglected in 
 the education of a young lady in this country.— - 
 Besides preparing her to join in that part of pub- 
 lic worship which consists in psalmody, it will en- 
 able her to soothe the cares of domestic life. The 
 distress and vexation of a husband' — the noise of 
 a nursery, and even the sorrows that will some- 
 times intrude into her own bosom, may all be re- 
 lieved by a song, where sound and sentiment unite 
 to act upon the mind. I hope it will not be 
 thought foreign to this part of our subject to in- 
 troduce a fact htre which has been suggested to 
 me by my profession, and that is, that the exer- 
 cise of the organs of the breast, by singing, con- 
 tributes very much to defend them from those dis- 
 eases to which our climate and other causes, 
 liave of late exposed them. Our German fellow- 
 
RUSH ON EDUCATION. 69 
 
 citizens arc seldom afflicted with consumptions') 
 nor have I ever known but one instance of spitting 
 of blood among them. This, 1 believe, is in part 
 occasioned by the strength which their lungs ac- 
 quire, by exercising them frequently in vocal 
 music, for this constitutes an essential branch of 
 their education. The musk -master of our acade- 
 my has furnished me with an observation still 
 more in favour of this opinion. He informed me 
 that he had known several instances of persons 
 who were strongly disposed to the consumption, 
 who were restored to health, by the moderate ex- 
 ercise of their lungs in singing. 
 
 G. Dancing is by no means an improper 
 branch of education for an American lady. It 
 promotes health, and renders the figure and mo- 
 tions of the body easy and agreeable. I antici- 
 pate the time when the resources of conversation 
 shall be so far multiplied, that the amusement of 
 dancing shall be wholly confined to children. But 
 in our present state of society and knowledge, I 
 conceive it to be an agreeable substitute for the 
 ignoble pleasures of drinking and gaming, in our 
 assemblies of grown people. 
 
 7th. The attention of our youngdadies should 
 be directed, as soon as they are prepared lor it, 
 to the reading of history — travels — poetry — and 
 moral essays. These studies are accommodated, 
 in a peculiar manner, to the present state of soci- 
 ety in America, and when a reiish is excited for 
 them in early life, they subdue that passion for 
 reading novels, which so generally prevails among 
 the fair six. I cannot dismiss this species of writ- 
 ing and reading without observing, that the sub- 
 jects of novels are by no means accommodated to 
 our present manners. They hold up life, it is true, 
 but it is not as yet life'm America. Our passions 
 
70 RUSH ON EDUCATION. 
 
 have not as yet " overstepped the modesty of na- 
 ture," nor are they " torn to tattera," to use the 
 expressions of the poet, by extravagant love, jea- 
 lousy, ambition, or revenge. As yet the intrigues 
 of a British novel, are as foreign to our manners* 
 as the refinements of Asiatic vice. Let it not be 
 said, that the tales of distress, which fill modern 
 novels, have a tendency to soften the female heart 
 into acts of humanity. The fact is the reverse of 
 this. The abortive sympathy which is excited 
 by the recital of imaginary distress, blunts the 
 heart to that which is real ; and, hence, we some- 
 times see instances of young ladies, who weep 
 away a whole forenoon over the criminal sorrows 
 of a fictitious Charlotte or Werter, turning with 
 disdain at three o'clock from the sight of a beg- 
 gar, who solicits in feeble accents or signs, a 
 small portion only of the crumbs which fall from 
 their father's tables. 
 
 8th. It will be necessary to connect all these 
 branches of education with regular instruction in 
 the christian religion. For this purpose the prin- 
 ciples of the different sects of christians should be 
 taught and explained, and our pupils should ear- 
 ly be furnished with some of the most simple ar- 
 guments in favour of the truth of Christianity.* 
 A portion of the bible (of late improperly banish- 
 ed from our schools) should be read by them eve- 
 ry day, and such questions should be asked, after 
 reading it as are calculated to imprint upon their 
 minds the interesting stories contained in it. 
 
 Rosseau has asserted that the great secret of 
 education consists in " wasting the time of children 
 
 * Baron Mailer's letters to his daughter on the truths 
 of the christian religion, and Dr. Beatie's " evidence 
 of the christian religion briefly and plainly stated," are 
 excellent little tracts,and well adapted i'oi' this purpose, 
 
RUSH ON EDUCATION. 71 
 
 profitably." There is some truth in this observa- 
 tion. I believe that we often impair their health, 
 and weaken their capacities by imposing studies 
 upon them, which are not proportioned to their 
 years. But this objection does not apply to reli- 
 gious instruction. There are certain simple pre- 
 positions in the christian religion, which are suit- 
 ed in a peculiar manner, to the infant state of rea- 
 son and moral sensibility. A clergyman of long 
 experience in the instruction of youth informed 
 me, that he always found children acquired reli- 
 gious knowledge more easily than knowledge up- 
 on other subjects ; and that young girls acquired 
 this kind of knowledge more readily than boys. 
 The female breast is the natural soil of Christiani- 
 ty : and while our women are taught to believe 
 its doctrines, and obey its precepts, the wit of Vol- 
 taire, and the style of Bolingbroke, will never be 
 able to destroy its influence upon our citizens. 
 
 I cannot help remarking in this place, that Chris- 
 tianity exerts the most friendly influence upon 
 science, as well as upon the morals and manners 
 of mankind. Whether this be occasioned by the 
 unity of truth, and the mutual assistance which 
 truths upon different subjects afford each other, 
 or whether the faculties of the mind be sharpened 
 and corrected by embracing the truths of revela- 
 tion, and thereby prepared to investigate and per- 
 ceive the truths upon the subjects, I will not de- 
 termine, but I believe that the greatest discove- 
 ries in science have been made by christian philo- 
 sophers, and that there is the most knowledge in 
 those countries where there is the most Christiani- 
 ty. If this remark be well founded, then those 
 philosophers who rejected Christianity, and those 
 christians, whether parents or school-masters, who 
 «eglect the religious instruction of their children 
 
72 RUSH ON EDUCATION'. 
 
 and pupils, reject and neglect the most effectual 
 means of promoting knowledge in our country. 
 
 9th. If the measures that have been recom- 
 mended for inspiring our pupils with a sense of 
 religious and moral obligation be adopted, the 
 government of them will be easy and agreeable. 
 I shall only remark under this head, that strictness 
 of discipline will always render severity unneces- 
 sarv, and that there will be the most instruction 
 in that school, where there is the most order. 
 
 I have said nothing in favour of instrumental 
 music as a branch of female education, because 
 I conceive it is by no means accommodated to 
 the present state of society and manners in Ame- 
 rica. The price of musical instruments, and the 
 extravagant fees demanded by the teachers of 
 instrumental music, form but a small part of my 
 objections to it. 
 
 To perform well, upon a musical instrument, re- 
 quires much time and long practice. From two 
 to four hours in a day, for three or four years ap- 
 propriated to music, are an immense deduction 
 from that short period of time which is aMowed 
 by the peculiar circumstances of our country for 
 the acquisition of the useful branches of literature 
 that have been mentioned. How many useful 
 ideas might be picked up in these hours from his- 
 tory, philosophy, poetry, and the numerous moral 
 essays with which our language abounds, and how 
 much more would the knowledge acquired up- 
 on these subjects add to the consequence of a la- 
 dy, with her husband and with society, than the 
 best performed pieces of music upon a harpsicord 
 or a guitar! Of the many ladies whom we have 
 known, who have spent the most important years 
 of their lives, in learning to play upon instruments 
 of music, how few of them, do we see amuse 
 
RUSH ON EDUCATION, fS 
 
 themselves or their friends with them, after they 
 become mistresses of families ! their harpsicords 
 serve only as side-boards for their parlours, and 
 prove by their silence, that necessity and circum- 
 stances, will always prevail over fashion, and 
 false maxims of education. 
 
 Let it not be supposed from these observations 
 that I am insensible of the charms of instrumen- 
 tal music, or that I wish to exclude it from the 
 education of a lady where a musical ear irresist- 
 ably disposes to it, and affluence at the same time 
 affords a prospect of such an exemption from the 
 usual cares and duties of the mistress of a fami- 
 ly, as will enable her to practice it. These cir- 
 cumstances form an exception to the general con- 
 duct that should arise upon this subject, from the 
 present state of society and manners in America. 
 
 It is agreeable to observe how differently mo- 
 dern writers and the inspired author of the Pro- 
 verbs describe a fine woman. The former con- 
 fine their praises chiefly to personal charms and 
 ornamental accomplishments, while the latter cel- 
 ebrates only the virtues of a valuable mistress of 
 a family and a useful member of society. The 
 one is perfectly acquainted with all the fashiona- 
 ble languages of Europe ; the other, " opens her 
 mouth with wisdom" and is perfectly acquainted 
 with all the uses of the needle, the distaff and the 
 loom. The business of the one, is pleasure ; the 
 pleasure of the other, is business. The one is 
 admired abroad ; the other is honoured and be- 
 loved at home. " Her children rise up and call 
 her blessed, her husband also, and fte praiseth 
 her." There is no fame in the world equal to 
 this ; nor is there a note in music half so delight- 
 ful, as the respectful language with which a grate - 
 
74 RUSH ON EDUCATION. 
 
 nil son or daughter perpetuates the memory of a 
 sensible and affectionate mother. 
 
 It should not surprise us that British customs, 
 with respect to female education, have been trans*- 
 planted into our American schools and families. 
 We see marks of the same incongruity, of time 
 and place, in many other things. We behold our 
 houses accommodated to the climate of Great- 
 Britain, by eastern and western directions. We 
 behold our ladies panting in a heat of ninety de- 
 grees, under a hat and cushion, which were cal- 
 culated for the temperature of a British summer. 
 We behold our citizens condemned and punished 
 by a criminallaw, which was copied from a coun- 
 try, where maturity in corruption renders public 
 executions a part of the amusements of the nation. 
 It is high time to awake from this servility — to 
 study our own character — to examine the age .of 
 our country — and to adopt manners in every thing, 
 that shall be accommodated to our state of socie- 
 ty, and to the forms of our government. In par- 
 ticular it is incumbent upon us to make ornamen- 
 tal accomplishments yield to principles and know- 
 ledge, in the education of our women. 
 
 A philosopher once said " let me make all the 
 ballads of a country and I care not who makes 
 its laws." He might with more propriety have 
 said, let the ladies of a country be educated pro- 
 perly, and they will not only make and adminis- 
 ter its laws, but form its manners and character. 
 It would require a lively imagination to describe, 
 or even to comprehend, the happiness of a coun- 
 try, where knowledge and virtue, were generally 
 diffused among the female sex. Our young men 
 would then be restrained from vice by the terror 
 of being banished from their company. The loud 
 laugh, and the malignant smile, at the expense of 
 
RUSH ON EDUCATION. 75 
 
 innocence, or of personal infirmities — the feats of 
 successful mimickry — and the low priced wit, 
 which is borrowed from a misapplication of scrip- 
 ture phrases, would no more be considered as re- 
 commendations to the society of the ladies. A 
 double entendre in their presence, would then ex- 
 clude a gentleman forever from the company of 
 both sexes, and probably oblige him to seek an 
 asylum from Contempt, in a foreign country. — 
 The influence of female education would be still 
 more extensive and useful in domestic life. The 
 obligations of gentlemen to qualify themselves 
 by knowledge and industry to discharge the du- 
 ties of benevolence, would be increased by mar- 
 riage ; and the patriot — the hero — and the legis- 
 lator, would find the sweetest reward of their 
 toils, in the approbation and applause of their 
 wives* Children would discover the marks of 
 maternal prudence and wisdom in every station 
 of life : for it has been remarked that there have 
 been few great or good men who have not been 
 blessed with wise and prudent mothers. Cyrus 
 was taught to revere the gods, by his mother 
 Mandane — Samuel was devoted to his prophetic 
 office before he was born, by his mother Hannah 
 — Constantine was rescued from paganism by his 
 mother Constantia— and Edward the sixth inhe- 
 rited those great and excellent qualities which 
 made him the delight of the age in which he lived, 
 from his mother, lady Jane Seymour. Many 
 other instances might be mentioned, if necessary, 
 from ancient and modern history, to establish the 
 truth of this proposition. 
 
 I am not enthusiastical upon the subject of 
 education. In the ordinary course of human af- 
 fairs, we shall probably too soon follow the foot- 
 steps of the nations of Europe in manners and 
 
7'3 DRESS. 
 
 vices. The first marks we shall perceive of our 
 declension, will appear among our women. Their 
 idleness, ignorance and profligacy will be the har- 
 bingers of our ruin. Then will the character and 
 peformance of a buffoon on the theatre, be the 
 subject of more conversation and praise, than the 
 patriot or the minister of the gospel : — then will 
 our language and pronunciation be enfeebled and 
 corrupted by a flood of French and Italian words ; 
 then will the history of romantic amours, be pre- 
 ferred to the pure and immortal writings of Ad- 
 dison, Hawkesworth and Johnson ; — then will 
 our churches be neglected, and the name of the 
 Supreme Being never be called upon, but in pro- 
 fane exclamations: then will our Sundays be ap- 
 propriated only to feasts and concerts ; — and 
 then will begin all that train of domestic and po- 
 litical calamities — But, I forbear. The pros- 
 pect is so painful, that I cannot help, silently, im- 
 ploring the great arbiter of human affairs, to in- 
 terpose his almighty goodness, and to deliver us 
 from these evils, that, at least one spot of the 
 earth may be reserved as a monument of the ef* 
 fects of good education, in order to show in some 
 degree, what our species was, before the fall, and 
 what it shall be, after its restoration. 
 
 DRESS. 
 
 BY far too much of a girl's time is taken up in 
 dress. This is an external accomplishment ; but 
 I chose to consider it by itself. The body hides 
 the mind, and it is in its turn obscured by the dra- 
 pery. I hate to see the frame of a picture so 
 glaring as to catch the eye and divide the atten- 
 
BENEVOLENT EMPLOYMENTS, 77 
 
 tion : dress ought to adorn the person, and not 
 rival it. It may be simple, elegant and becom- 
 ing, without being expensive : and ridiculous 
 fashions disregarded, while singularity is avoided. 
 The beauty of dress (I shall raise astonishment 
 by saying so) is its not being conspicuous one way 
 or the other; when it neither distorts or hides the 
 human form by unnatural protuberances. If or- 
 naments are much studied, a consciousness of be- 
 ing well dressed will appear in the face ; and sure- 
 ly this mean pride does not give much sublimity 
 to it. ' One of the abundance of the heart the 
 mouth speaketh.' And how much conversation 
 floes dress furnish which surely .cannot be very 
 improving or entertaining. 
 
 BENEVOLENT EMPLOYMENTS. 
 
 I BEG leave to recommend a branch of chari- 
 ty which is too much neglected amongst us ; I 
 mean that of \ isiting poor persons in sicknexs 
 and affliction at their own houses. 
 
 The pleasure which accompanies benevolent 
 actions, almost every woman, when in health, can 
 in some measure purchase for herself ; and the . 
 calls on our humanity are more frequent than on 
 that of the other sex, as there are a variety of dis- 
 tresses which we only can personally relieve. 
 
 Let us begin with childing-women. We will 
 suppose that the poor enured to hardships from 
 their infancy, have in general more strengih than 
 persons in superior stations to support the evils 
 •which are, in some degree, the allotted portions of 
 all mothers : but they certainly are not exempted 
 
78 OPINION O?- ROMANCE^. 
 
 from the curse denounced on their sex — they feel 
 it in its full force, c In sorrow, (in accumulated 
 -sorrow) they bring forth children.' It is there- 
 fore an act of compassion, becoming all women 
 who have ability to do it, to mitigate the dreadful 
 bufferings which fall to the lot of many of their 
 fellow creatures. It must be acknowledged that 
 ladies in general are ready to afford pecuniary as- 
 sistance whenever a poor woman can find a friend 
 to represent her horrid situation ; but instead of 
 sending money, which may be misapplied by a 
 drunken or sordid nurse, or even by a sottish hus- 
 band, it would answer a better purpose, if some, 
 who can judge by sympathy of the feelings of 
 these poor wretches, would enter their miserable 
 dwellings, and view them in their uncomfortable 
 -beds* 
 
 OPINION OF ROMANCES. 
 
 ROMANCES are dangerous recreations. A 
 :ew, no doubt, of the best may be friendly to good 
 taste and good morals ; but far the greater part 
 are unskilfully written, and tend to corrupt the 
 "heart and stimulate the passions. A habit of 
 reading them breeds a dislike to history, and all 
 the. substantial parts of knowledge, withdraws 
 the attention from nature and truth ; and fills the 
 mind with extravagant thoughts, and too often 
 with criminal propensities. I would therefore 
 -caution my young readeT against them : or, if he 
 must for the sake of amusement, and that he may 
 
AUT OF IMPROVING- TIME. 7$ 
 
 have" something to say on the subject, indulge 
 himself in this way now and then, let it be spar- 
 ingly and seldom. 
 
 THE ART OF IMPROVING BEAUTY. 
 
 MONSIEUR ST. EVREMONT has con- 
 eluded one of his essays by affirming that the 
 last sighs of a handsome woman are not so much 
 for the loss of her life as of her beauty. Perhaps 
 this raillery is pursued too far : yet it is turned 
 upon a very obvious remark, that a woman's 
 strongest passion is for her own beauty, and that 
 she values it as her favourite distinction. From 
 hence it is that all arts which tend to improve or 
 preserve it meet with so general a reception 
 amongst the sex. To say nothing of many false 
 helps, and contraband wares of beauty, which 
 are daily vended in this great mart, there is not a 
 maiden gentlewoman of a good family in anv 
 county in South Britain, who has not heard of 
 the virtues of May- dew, or is not furnished with 
 some receipt or other in favour of her complex- 
 ion ; and I have known a physician of learning 
 and sense, after eight years study at the univer- 
 sity, and a course ot~ travels into most countries 
 of Europe, owe the first raising of his fortunes 
 to a -cosmetic wash. 
 
 This has given me occasion to consider how 
 so universal a disposition in woman-lnhd, which 
 spruigsfrom a laudable motive, the desire of plea- 
 sing, an J proceeds upon an opinion, not altogeth- 
 er groundless, that nature may be helped by art, 
 may be turned to their advantage : and methinks 
 at would be-an acceptable service to take them out 
 
SO ART OF IMPROVING BEAUTY. 
 
 of the hands of quacks and pretenders, and to 
 prevent their imposing upon themselves, by dis- 
 covering to them the true secret and art of im- 
 proving beauty* 
 
 In order to this, before I touch upon it direct- 
 ly, it will be necessary to lay down a few prelimi- 
 nary maxims, viz. 
 
 That no woman can be handsome by the force 
 of features alone, any more than she can be 
 witty only by the help of speech. 
 
 That pride destroys all symmetry and grace, 
 and affectation is a more terrible enemy to 
 faces than the small pox. 
 
 That no woman is capable of being beautiful 
 who is not incapable of being false. 
 
 And, that what would be odious in a friend is 
 deformity in a mistress. 
 
 From these few principles, thus laid down, it 
 will be easy to prove that the true art of assisting 
 beauty consists in embellishing the whole person 
 by the proper ornaments of virtuous and com- 
 mendable qualities. By this help alone it is that 
 those who are the favourite works of nature, or, 
 as Mr. Dryden expresses it, the porcelain clay of 
 human kind, become animated, and are in a capa- 
 city of exerting their charms : and those who 
 seem to have been neglected by her, like models 
 wrought in haste, are capable, in a great measure, 
 of finishing what she has left imperfecta 
 
 It is, methinks, a low and degraded idea of that 
 sex, which war, created to refine the joys and sof- 
 ten the cares of hu-maiiity by the most agreeable 
 participation, to consider them merely as objects 
 of sight. This is abridging them of their natu- 
 ral extent of power, to put them on a level with 
 etheir pictures at Kneller's. How much nobler is 
 the contemplation of beauty heightened -by vir- 
 
ART OF IMPROVING BEAUTY. Si 
 
 tue, and commanding our esteem and love, while 
 a draws our observation ! How faint and spirit- 
 less are the charms of a coquet, when compared 
 with the real loveliness of Sophronia's innocence, 
 piety, good-humour, and truth ; virtues which add 
 a new softness to her sex, and even beautify her 
 beauty ! Colours beautifully spread upon canvas 
 may entertain the eye but not affect the heart; and 
 she who takes no care to add to the natural graces 
 of her person, any excelling qualities may be al- 
 lowed still to amuse as a picture, but not to tri- 
 umph as a beauty. 
 
 When Adam is introduced by Milton describing 
 Eve in Paradise, and relating to the angel the 
 impressions he felt upon seeing her at her first 
 creation, he does not represent her like a Grecian 
 Venus, by her shape or features, but by the lustre 
 of her mind, which shone in them, and gave them 
 their power of charming. 
 
 Grace was in all her steps, heav'n in her eye, 
 
 In all her gestures dignity and love ! 
 
 Without this irradiating power the proudest fair 
 one ought to know, whatever her dress may tell 
 her to the contrary, that her most perfect features 
 are uninformed and dead 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 FILIAL AFFECTION. 
 
 VALERIUS MAXIMUS relates a very 
 singular fact upon this subject. A woman of illus- 
 trious birth had been condemned to be strangled. 
 The Roman praetor delivered her up to the tri- 
 umvir, who caused her to be carried to prison, in 
 order to her being put to death. The goaler, who 
 was ordered to execute her, was struck with com- 
 passion, and could not resolve to kill her. He 
 chose therefore to let her die of hunger. Besides 
 which, he suffered her daughter to see her in pri- 
 son; takingcare, however, that she brought her no- 
 thing to eat. As this continued many days, he 
 was surprised that the prisoner lived so long with- 
 out eating, and suspected the daughter, upon 
 Watching her, he discovered that she nourished 
 her mother with her own milk. Amazed at so 
 pious, and, at the same time, so ingenious an in- 
 vention, he told the fact to the triumvir, and the 
 triumvir to the praetor, who believed the thing 
 merited relating in the assembly of the people. 
 The criminal was pardoned ; a decree was passed 
 that the mother and daughter should be subsisted 
 for the rest of their lives at the expense of the 
 public, and that a temple sacred to piety should 
 be erected near the prison. pltn. hist. 
 
 The same author gives a similar instance of 
 filial piety in a young woman named Xantippe, 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES* 83 
 
 to her aged father Gimonus, who was likewise 
 confined in prison, and which is universally known 
 by the name of the Roman Charity. Both these 
 instances appeared so very extraordinary and un- 
 common to that people, that they could only ac- 
 count for them, by supposing that the love of chil- 
 dren to their parents was the first law of nature. 
 
 MATERNAL AFFECTION. 
 
 THERE are no ties in nature to compare with 
 those which unite an affectionate mother to her 
 children,, when they repay her tenderness with 
 obedience and love. 
 
 Cornelia, the illustrious mother of the Gracchi, 
 after the death of her husband, who left her twelve 
 children, applied herself to the care of her fami- 
 ly, with a wisdom and prudence that acquired her 
 universal esteem. Only three out of the twelve 
 lived to years of maturity, one daughter and two 
 sons, whom she brought up' with so much care, 
 that, though they were born with the most happy 
 geniuses and dispositions, it was thought they 
 were more indebted to education than nature. — 
 The answer she gave to a lady of her acquaintance 
 concerning them, is worthy of remark, and in- 
 cludes in it instructions which deserve the atten- 
 tion of every affectionate mother and daughter. 
 The lady, who was very rich, and still fonder 
 of pomp and shew, after having displayed in a 
 visit she made her, her diamonds, pearls and rich- 
 est jewels, earnestly desired Cornelia, to let her 
 see her jewels also." Cornelia dexterously turned 
 the conversation to another subject, till her chil- 
 dren were returned from school. When they en- 
 
S4 HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 tered her mother's apartment, she said to the lady, 
 her companion, pointing to them with her hand, 
 " These are my jewels, and the only ornaments I 
 admire. And such ornaments, which are the 
 strength and support of society, add a brighter 
 lustre to the fair, than all the jewels of the east* 
 
 BEAUTIES OF HITORY. 
 
 CONJUGAL AFFECTION. 
 
 EXEMPLIFIED IN THE STORY OF CYRUS, KINO OF 
 PERSIA. 
 
 OF all the pleasures which endear human life, 
 there are none more worthy the attention of a ra- 
 tional creatore, than those that flow from the mu- 
 tual return of conjugal love. 
 
 When two minds are thus engaged by the ties 
 of reciprocal affe-ctio'n, each alternately receives 
 and communicates a transport, inconceivable to 
 all but those who are in this situation : whence 
 arises, that heart-ennobling solicitude for one 
 another's welfare ; that tender sympathy, which 
 alleviates affliction ; and that participated plea- 
 sure, which heightens prosperity and joy itself. 
 
 The following is a beautiful instance of this ex- 
 alted passion : 
 
 Cyrus, king of Persia, had taken captive the 
 young prince of Armenia, together with his beau- 
 tiful and blooming princess, whom he had lately 
 married, and of whom he was passionately fond. 
 When they, along with other prisoners, were 
 brought before the tribunal, ' Cyrus asked the 
 prince " What he would give to be reinstated in 
 his kingdom:" He answered, with an air of in* 
 
THE WOMEN" OF HENS3ERG. &5 
 
 difference, ' That, as for his crown, and his own 
 liberty, he valued them at a very low rate : but, 
 if Cyrus would restore his beloved princess to 
 her native dignity, and hereditary possessions, he 
 should infinitely rejoice ; and would pay, (this 
 he uttered with tenderness and ardour) * would 
 willingly pay his life for the purchase.' 
 
 When all the prisoners were dismissed with 
 freedom, it is impossible to express how much 
 they were charmed with their royal benefactor. 
 Some celebrated his martial abilities, some ap- 
 plauded his social virtues ; all were prodigal of 
 their praises, and lavish in grateful acknowledge- 
 ments. 4 And you,' said the prince, addressing 
 himself to his bride ; * What think you of Cy- 
 rus V * I did not observe him,' said the princess. 
 4 Not observe him ! Upon what then was your at- 
 tention fixed ?' — c Upon that dear and generous 
 man, who declared, that he would purchase my 
 liberty at the expense of his own life !' 
 
 TME WOMEN OF HENSBERG. 
 
 WHEN the emperor Conrad III. had be- 
 seiged Gullphus, duke of Bavaria, in the city ot 
 Henaberg, the women finding that the town could 
 not possibly hold out, petitioned the emperor, that 
 they might depart out of it with as much as each 
 of them could carry. The emperor knowing they 
 could iiQt take away any great quantity of their 
 effects, granted their petition ; when the women, 
 to his great surprise, came out of the place, each 
 of them with their husband upon her back* The 
 emperor was so moved at the sight, that he burst 
 into tears ; and after having m.uth exl >% ; the 
 
 H 
 
86 HISTORICAL SKETCHES, 
 
 women for their conjugal affection, gave the men 
 to their wives, and received the duke into his fa- 
 vour. 
 
 A NOBLE EXAMPLE OF 
 
 VIRTUE AND FORTITUDE, 
 
 IN THE HISTORY OF FEL1CITAS, THE MARTYR, 
 AND HER SEVEN CHILDREN. 
 
 AMONG all the female sex, who are candi- 
 dates for the admiration of posterity, the lady 
 whose history I now offer, is among the foremost. 
 
 In those early periods, when our religion was 
 as yet but thinly disseminated through the world; 
 when the tyrants frowned, the gibbet threatened, 
 and all the laws of every country seemed armed 
 with vengeance to oppose it, then, bravely to as- 
 sert the cause of Christianity might dignify the 
 greatest hero ; but how much greater is the 
 praise, when a feeble woman boldly asserts her 
 master's cause, and for his sake, gives up to the 
 executioner, not only her own person, but the per- 
 sons of her seven sons, all remarkable for their 
 courage, fidelity, beauty and unerring virtue. 
 
 Feiicitas was born at Rome, in the reign of 
 Trajan the emperor, at the time when the general 
 persecution against the christians was beginning 
 to subside. This interval of rest to Christianity 
 : erved to spread its doctrines, and invigorate its 
 professors for any future contingent calamity. — 
 Feiicitas was the daughter of a Roman senator, 
 who had been formerly converted himself, and 
 gave all his family a christian education : but 
 chjs daughter in particular engaged his greatest 
 
BT'ORtjCAL sketches. 87 
 
 attention. She was the child of his age, and the 
 object, next to heaven, of his peculiar care. She 
 was equally remarkable for sense and beauty, and 
 she added virtue to both, which finishes the pic- 
 ture. She was sought for in marriage by per- 
 sons of the greatest eminence then in the Roman 
 empire, and at last made choice of one, who was 
 equally zealous in the cause of Christianity with 
 herself. This couple lived together with the ut- 
 most harmony for several years, and had seven 
 children, all sons, who were early instruct, 
 principles of their parents. The lather, howe- 
 ver, dying, and Adrian ascending the tl 
 the sons, in order to support the honour of the 
 inily, and with the consent of the mother, wen 
 the Roman army, which was employed in s 
 ping the incursions of the Parthians and 
 sians, who now began to invade the empire. Up 
 on their arrival at the army, and being dressed ir 
 uniform, Adrian, in reviewing his troops, was 
 particularly struck with the exquisite form of the 
 oldest as he passed along, but his pleasure increas- 
 ed^ when he saw six more, all Ci whom, he knew 
 by their faces, were brothers. He therefore de- 
 manded who they were, and being- informed, made 
 Januarius, the eldest, the tribune of his own co- 
 hort, and gave each of the rest, some subordinate 
 posts in his army. The confidence he reposed in 
 them was by no means misplaced, not even the 
 oldest officers, shewed more complacencv in c?r 
 or more bravery in the day of battle. In their 
 own example they revived true militarv glory, and 
 taught Rome to behold the spirit of ancient in- 
 trepidity not entirely extinguished. The very 
 name of Januarius, grew terrible to the enemy, 
 and yet the merciful manner, in which he treated 
 .them when subdued, and his giving them their 
 
33 HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 ilberty, on condition of turning christians, at- 
 tracted their love, respect, and esteem. In this 
 manner they continued to fight the battles of their 
 country for several years, whilst every messenger 
 brought to Rome, some new. accounts of their ge- 
 nerosity, their courage; and the wounds they had 
 received or given. Their country was pleased, 
 :md praised their merit; but chilly their mother, 
 though now grown old, thought herself happy. — 
 She received the news of their victories wiih 
 pleasure, :u:d thanked heaven that gave her an op- 
 portunity of bringing into the world, so many he- 
 roes for the defence of their declining country. 
 Upon Adrian's return, after conquering the ene- 
 my, a triumph was decreed him by the senate, 
 anci he entered Rome in the usual solemnities, 
 with his whole army, and the captives and spoils 
 taken from the enemy ; but in the whole army > 
 none were more remarkable than the seven bro- 
 thers, all exactly cloathed alike in .similar armour, 
 ||d all covered over with the wounds they had 
 received in several years hard campaigns. The 
 acclamations of the people were loudest whenever 
 they p^sed by, whilst they moved forward with 
 modest downcast looks, and at last went to pay 
 those duties which they longed to pay to their 
 moiher. They continued in Rome for some years, 
 and though they had been long bred soldiers, yet 
 a military life only served to increase their love for 
 Christianity, being, if possible, rather more re- 
 markable for their piety than their valour. It 
 was in the reign of Marcus Aurelius, that a new 
 persecution commenced against christians of eve- 
 ry denomination -.neither sex, age, dignity, nor 
 former services were remembered, but all were 
 indiscriminately dragged to execution, and suf- 
 fered ail the nunishments that barbarous super- 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 89 
 
 •stition, or mistaken zeal could inflict. Among 
 the number, who were accused of being chris- 
 tians, were Felicitas the matron, and her seven 
 ^ons. The idolatrous priests, had long been in- 
 censed at the numbers which were converted to 
 Christianity by their influence, arguments, and 
 example. They complained to the emperor, then 
 at Rome, representing her and her sons as so ma- 
 ny-implacable enemies to the gods, of Rome, and 
 assuring him that the security of his empire de- 
 pended on appeasing the offended deities by their 
 blood. They were therefore seized in their own 
 palace, and orders were given from the emperor 
 himself, that they shoujd recant their opinions, or 
 suffer the punishment which the magistrates, in 
 such cases, were empowered to decree. It was 
 in vain that the unhappy family remonstrated, that, 
 they had long faithfully served their emperor and 
 country, when the}- were most wanted, and that it 
 was hard now to condemn them for opinions they 
 had before professed with openness and impuni- 
 ty ,* they enlarged on the favours they received 
 from Nerva, and entreated at last to be rescued 
 from the resentment tff the priesthood, and that 
 if they must fall, that it might be by the judg- 
 ment of a secular tribunal. Upon this the em- 
 peror's orders were dispatched to Publius, whe 
 was then governor of Rome, to see the judgment 
 executed without severity : but Publius himself 
 was one of the number of those, who still adher- 
 ed to the barbarous worship established by law 
 -and who was one of the most zealous persecutory 
 of the christians that had ever been known before, 
 He therefore called the christian family into his 
 presence, and began with fhe mother, now aged 
 seventy-three, imagining that if he could gain 
 her, the example would influence he* ; Mb' 
 
30 HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 same time hoping that maternal tenderness would 
 induce her to change her opinions, merely to se- 
 cure her children. He therefore addressed her in 
 the language of an able orator ; laid before her 
 the numberless advantages that would result to 
 her upon her abjuring of Christianity ; talked 
 largely of the religion of her ancestors, by which 
 they had grown into power and fame, and display- 
 ed the ill consequences that would be the result 
 if Christianity should prevail : but to those re- 
 monstrances Felickas answered, " That she had 
 learned the truth of her religion from her very f 
 infancy, of which she was thoroughly convinced, 
 and that to recant them now, would only be giv- 
 ing the lie to her professions. She knew, she 
 said, all that could be urged against her, and was 
 prepared to receive it. Her ancestors, she told 
 him, had many of them died for iheir country, 
 but- she was determined to be greater still, and 
 .lie for her God.^ 
 
 The. magistrate now began to change his lan- 
 guage, and let her understand the tortures 
 that were prepared in case she should refuse : 
 but Felicitas with a look of the utmost intrepidi- 
 ty, regarding her children that stood round her, 
 replied, u that she had seven sons who were not 
 terrified when surrounded with dangers, and that 
 she would shew herself worthy to be their mo- 
 ther." Publius surprised, at the resolution of 
 her reply, endeavoured to bring her to compliance, 
 <: v observing, that though she had no considera- 
 tion for her own life, yet he hoped she would 
 have some tenderness for the lives of her children. 
 To which she answered, " that life and death 
 were things but of small consequence in her esti- 
 mation, and that whether her children lived or 
 *iied, she hoped they would behave like p:\ 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 91 
 
 sots of Christianity, like soldiers, and like men." 
 This was the first conference, and was held pri- 
 vately, at the governor's own house ; but the 
 next day he took his seat, in the place appointed 
 for the public examination of criminals, and or- 
 dered the prisoners to be conducted from their 
 dungeons into his presence. Upon their appear- 
 ance, he again accosted the heroic mother, observ- 
 ing, u that her life might be indifferent to her, 
 as she had not long to live, yet it was her duty to 
 regard her children, whose flourishing youth, 
 promised long service to society." u No, repli- 
 ed the undaunted matron, they have long fought 
 for their ungrateful country, their God, now calls 
 for an exertion of their courage, and as they for- 
 merly toiled for transitory reward, let them now 
 fight for rewards that shall be eternal." The 
 warmth of this reply raised the judge's utmost 
 indignation, he considered it as an insult upon 
 his authority, and ordered her to be struck on 
 the face for her presumption, and to be instantly 
 removed from the tribunal. 
 
 The judge now signified his desire to examine 
 the sons, which he undertook to do separately, 
 and Januarius, the tribune, was first brought to 
 his trial. The governor attempted to shake his 
 constancy, by shewing him what preferments, au- 
 thorized by the emperor himself, would attend 
 his conforming to the religion by law established, 
 at the same time, laying before him what cruel 
 tortures must attend his refusal. But Januaiius 
 •sliil remained inflexible, and shewed his bosom all 
 covered with wounds- " Think you," cries he, 
 tl ttt.at I, who have borne all these in fighting for 
 * ; you while you remained inactive here, will fear 
 u to receive a thousand for the master who died 
 "for me? No] prepare your whips and tor- 
 
92 HISTORICAL SKETCHES* 
 
 " ments ; nt least you shall find, that as I have 
 * c given my fellow soldiers an example how to live, 
 ** they shall see in me, an example how to die." 
 
 This reply only exasperated the governor still 
 the more, he therefore ordered him to be immedi- 
 ately whipped in his presence, at the same time 
 loading him with invectives. While the orders 
 were performing, Felix, the second son of this 
 illustrious family, was called forth to the tribunal, 
 who followed his brother's example, and met with 
 the same treatment. Philip, the third brother 
 was then brought forward, and told the emperor's 
 orders, were, that he should sacrifice to Mars ; 
 to which he replied, " that the God which had 
 given him courage in battle, he had sacrificed to 
 every day : and whilst he had life he would never 
 quit his standard, nor by a base desertion gain 
 his safety here, by the loss of immortality. 1; 
 In this manner, they all persisted in their adher- 
 ence to Christianity. But the governor had some 
 hopes of prevailing with the youngest, as he was 
 as yet but a mere youth, and consequently una- 
 abie to refute the objections which could be brought 
 against it, There was, therefore, every method 
 tried to influence him : he was told that the em- 
 peror had a right to challenge his obedience pre- 
 ferable to his mother, and had it in his power 
 to exact it under severe penalties. But the 
 young christian replied, that, " It was true he 
 owed the emperor his duty, but that his God 
 challenged it first ; that gratitude, justice, and 
 every other motive conspired to make him the 
 servant, first of an heavenly master ; and when 
 his duties to him were fulfilled, that then he 
 should discharge all that was due to his temporal 
 .-sjovereigno'" 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 93 
 
 in this manner they were brought to and from 
 the tribunal for several days and allowed in their 
 prison nothing but bread and water ; yet still they 
 continued fixed in their resolutions of dying, and 
 encouraged each other in setting an example of he- 
 roic, or rather Christian fortitude. At length, 
 however, the emperor's orders for their execution 
 arrived, and they were all taken from prison; the 
 mother to be beheaded, and the sons whipped to 
 death, with cords loaded with plummits of lead. 
 
 The terrible procession began from the prison 
 gates; the mother, with a firm and resolute coun- 
 tenance, marched first, and the sens followed, la- 
 den with chains, and attended by the execution- 
 ers, with the instruments of death in their hands. 
 This was a very different procession, from that in 
 which they had some years before traversed 
 the streets of Rome, when they were crowned 
 •with garlands, and saluted with acclamations in 
 every street. Yet those very looks which, after 
 their return from victory, were so modest, now 
 i assumed a noble majestic severity ; and they 
 walked forward through pitying multitudes — 
 their eyes directed to that heaven to which these 
 honorable martyrs were hastening. 
 
 When arrived at the place of execution, they 
 were unbound in order to take leave of each other; 
 and the mother, fondly hanging on the face of her 
 eldest son, who was first to undergo the torture, is 
 said to have spoken in the following manner : " I 
 L - thought myself once happy in having so many 
 u children to present to my country, I am now 
 " much happier in having so many to offer to my 
 " God. lilest, blest be the day in which you 
 " were born, and the pangs which I felt in bring- 
 " ing you into the world. Oh my son, my sol- 
 u dier, my hero, my Christian ! this, this is your 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 " day of triumph; I shall soon have more reason to 
 c * rejoice at your groans and sufferings, than when, 
 * crowned with conquest you triumphantly ehter- 
 t4 ed the streets of Rome. As for my own life, 
 1,1 it is worn to the very last dregs, and cannot be 
 • l an offering so acceptable to heaven as thine : 
 " persevere to the last, and we shall in a few mi- 
 " nutos meet together, where we shall fear no fu- 
 u ture disturbance from men, and no ingratitude 
 " from our country." 
 
 The executioner now began to inflict the dread- 
 ful punishment, and the mother without fainting 
 or betraying the least weakness of her sex con- 
 tinued to look on. Januarius kept his eyes still 
 directed to heaven, nor could the severity of his 
 torture, nor the insults from his executioners 
 draw from him a single groan. In the same man- 
 ner the rest of her children took leave, and even 
 the spectators, averse as they were to the Chris- 
 tians, could not refrain from shedding tears on 
 this horrid occasion. 
 
 Felicitas still looked on with a steady and no- 
 ble countenance, till it came to the turn of her 
 youngest child, who, with looks still blooming 
 with youth and beauty came to take his last fare- 
 well of her. Upon his coming up to embrace her, 
 her spirits could no longer contain, but she burst 
 into a flood of tears, and hung upon his neck for 
 some time in a transport of unspeakable sorrow. 
 At last resuming her former fortitude : " O 
 " thou," said she, " my all that is now left me, 
 u my youngest lad, dear child, resist but a few 
 " minutes and we shall soon be together. I have 
 " now but one short pang, and all will be over. All 
 " mankind are set against us, and what have we 
 " to do amongst them ? No my child, let us go to 
 ■** a place oi' endless rest, where the good shall 
 *' meet with friends like themselves, and the wick- 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES, 95 
 
 " ed cannot intrude to molest us. Look upon the 
 " poor mangled bodies of your already happy 
 " brethren ! What is there terrible in death, when 
 " attended with those rewards which shall crown 
 u the righteous ? They are nov looking on, with 
 " happiness, upon us two miserable creatures, as 
 " we are, thus struggling under, thus loaded with 
 " earthly calamity. '* 
 
 When all the sons were tortured to death, at 
 last it came to the matron's turn to suffer; but 
 their fortitude seemed nothing when compared to 
 hers : she received the stroke with greater looks 
 of joy than she had ever before tescified, and 
 set the surviving world a pattern of constancy, 
 piety, and maternal tenderness. 
 
 St. Gregory observes, that she seemed as much 
 afraid of leaving her children in the world, as 
 other parents are of surviving them, 
 
 BOADICEA. 
 
 THE first female character in English history 
 which draws our attention, is Boadicea, queen 
 of the Iceni, who, when the emperor Nero sent 
 Suetonius to conquer England, then in a state of 
 barbarism, having been treated ignominiously by 
 the Romans, headed the Britons with undaunted 
 spirit, and attacked with success several settle- 
 ments of her insulting conquerors. London, 
 which was then a flourishing Roman colony, was 
 reduced to ashes, and seventy thousand of the 
 enemy were destroyed. But this carnage was 
 revenged by Suetonius in a great and decisive 
 battle, where thirty thousand Britons are said to 
 have Derished; and Boadicea herself, rather than 
 
9G HISTORICAL SKETCHES* 
 
 fall into the hands of the enraged victor, put an 
 end to her own life by poison.. ..It is necessary to 
 observe, thai as this period was previous to the 
 introduction of Christianity into our island, the 
 Saxon religion did not teach its followers to 
 suffer and submit. 
 
 BERTHA. 
 
 DURING the heptarchy, Ethelbert king of 
 Kent married Bertha, the only daughter of Cari- 
 bert king of Paris, one of the descendants of Clo- 
 vis, conqueror of Gaul ; but before he was ad- 
 mitted to this alliance, he was obliged to stipulate 
 that the princess should enjoy the free exercise 
 of her religion, which was that of Christianity.... 
 Bertha brought over a French bishop to the court 
 of Canterbury, and being zealous for the propa- 
 gation of her religion, she had been very assidu- 
 ous in her devotional exercises, had supported 
 the credit of her faith by an irreproachable con- 
 duct, and had employed every art of insinuation 
 and address, to reconcile her husband to her reli- 
 gious principles. Her popularity and influence 
 over Ethelbert paved the way for the reception 
 of the christian doctrine ; in a short time it was 
 embraced by the king and his court, and the whole 
 nation by degrees followed his example. Every 
 woman, therefore, who enjoys with gratitude the 
 inestimable comforts of the gospel, must feel a 
 noble pride on reflecting that Bertha, by her good 
 sense, mildness and propriety of conduct, was the 
 leading instrument of converting our ancesto. 
 Christianity, 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHESc 97 
 
 PHILIPPA OF HAINAULT, 
 
 fi\ueen~co?isort of Edward the Third.) 
 
 IN 1343, Edward the Third undertook thr 
 siege of Calais, which was defended by a valiant 
 knight, John de Vienne. While Edward was em- 
 ployed in this siege, which lasted near twelve 
 months, David, king of Scotland, taking advan- 
 tage of the king's absence, entered Northumber- 
 land at the head of fifty thousand men, and carri- 
 ed his ravages and devastations to the gates of 
 Durham. Bat the queen assembled a body of a 
 little more than twelve thousand men, which she 
 entrusted to the command of lord Percy, ven- 
 tured to approach him at Neville's Cross, near 
 that city : and riding through the ranks of the 
 .army, exhorted every man to do his duty, and to 
 take revenge on those barbarous savages ; nor 
 could si? be persuaded to leave the field, till the 
 armies were on the point of engaging. The troops 
 animated by her spirit, broke the ranks of the 
 enemy, drove them off the field, killed between 
 fifteen and twenty thousand, and took the king 
 prisoner. Philippa having secured her royal 
 captive in the tower, crossed the sea at Dover, 
 and was received in the English camp, before 
 Calais, with all the triumph which was due to 
 her rank, merit, and success. John de Vienne, 
 governor of Calais, finding he could no longer 
 resist the attack of the enemy, was obliged to ac- 
 cept the hard terms exacted by the conqueror : 
 that six of the most considerable citizens should 
 repair to Edward : s camp bare-headed and bare- 
 footed with ropes about their necks, carrying the 
 keys of the city in their hands ; and on these con- 
 siderations, the king promised to spare the lives 
 I 
 
98 HISTORICAL SKETCHED. 
 
 of the remaining inhabitants. Incompliance with 
 these commands, six principal burghers, whom 
 history has immortalized, voluntarily offered 
 themselves, habited like malefactors ; they laid 
 the keys of the city at Edward's feet, and were 
 ordered to immediate execution. 
 
 At this instant a sound of triumph was heard 
 throughout the camp. The queen had just ar- 
 rived with a powerful reinforcement of her gal- 
 lant soldiers. 
 
 Sir Walter Mauny hew to receive her majes- 
 ty, and briefly informed her of the particulars re- 
 specting the six victims. 
 
 As soon as she had been welcomed by Edward 
 and his court, she desired a private audience. 
 My lord, said she, the question I am to enter up- 
 on is not touching the lives of a few mechanics f 
 it respects a matter, more estimable than the lives 
 of all the natives of France,- it respects the ho- 
 nour of the English nation, it respects the glory 
 of my Edward, my husband, my king. 
 
 You think you have sentenced six of your ene- 
 mies to death. No, my lord, they have sen- 
 tenced themselves, and their execution would be 
 the execution of their own orders, not the orders, 
 of Edward. 
 
 They have behaved themselves worthily ; they 
 have behaved themselves greatly ; I cannot but 
 respect, while I envy them, for leaving us no 
 share in the honor of this action, save that of 
 granting a poor, an indispensable pardon. 
 
 I admit they have deserved every thing that is 
 evil at your hands.' They have proved the most 
 inveterate of your enemies. They alone with- 
 stood the rapid course of your conquests, and 
 have withheld from you the crown to which you 
 w r ere bom. Is it therefore that vou would in 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 dulge their ambition, and enwreath them with 
 everlasting glory ? 
 
 But, if such a death would exalt mechanics 
 over the fame of the most illustrious heroes, how 
 would the name of my Edward, with all his tri- 
 umphs, be tarnished ! Would it not be said that 
 magnanimity and virtue are grown odious in the 
 eyes of the monarch of England, and that the 
 objects, whom he destines to the punishment of 
 felons, are the very men who deserve the esteem 
 of mankind ? The stage on which they should 
 suffer, would be to them the stage of honor, but 
 a stage of shame to England, and indelible dis- 
 grace to his name. 
 
 No, my lord. Lit us rather disappoint these 
 burghers, who wish to invest themselves with glo- 
 ry at our expense. We cannot, indeed, wholly 
 deprive them of the merit of a sacrifice so nobly 
 hitended, but we may cut them short of their de- 
 fies ; in :he place of that death by which their 
 glory would be consummate, let us bury them un- 
 der gifts : we shall thereby defeat them of that 
 popular opinion which never fails to attend those 
 who suffer in the cause of virtue. 
 
 I am convinced.: you have prevailed ; be it so, 
 cried Edward, prevent the executions; have 
 them instantly before us ! 
 
 They came ; when the qunen, with an aspect 
 und accent diffusing sweetness, thus bespoke 
 them. Natives of France, and inhabitants of Ca- 
 lais, ye have put us to vast expense of blood and 
 treasure in the recovery of our just and natural 
 inheritance ; but you acted up to the best of an 
 erroneous judgment, and we admire in you that, 
 valour by which we are so long kept out of out- 
 rightful possessions. 
 
 You noble burghers, you excellent citizens! 
 though you were ten-fold our enemies, vre cur. 
 
100 HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 feel nothing on our part, save respect and affec- 
 tion for you. You have been sufficiently tried. 
 We loose your chains ; we snatch you from the 
 scaffold ; and we thank you for that lesson of hu- 
 miliation which you teach us, when you shew us 
 that excellence is not of blood, of title, or of sta- 
 tion ; that virtue gives a dignity superior to that 
 of kings ; and that those, whom the Almighty in- 
 forms with sentiments like yours, are raised 
 above all distinctions. 
 
 You are free to depart to your kinsfolk, your 
 countrymen, to all those whose lives and liber- 
 ties ye have so nobly redeemed, provided you re- 
 fuse not to carry with you the due token of our 
 esteem. 
 
 Yet we would rather bind you to ourselves, by 
 every endearing obligation ; and for this purpose, 
 we offer to you the choice of the gifts and ho- 
 nours, that Edward has to bestow. Rivals for 
 fame, but always friends to virtue, we wish that 
 England were entitled to call you sons. 
 
 " Ah my country, exclaimed Saint Pierre, (the 
 mayor of Calais and one of those distinguised 
 citizens) it is now that I tremble for you ! Ed- 
 ward could only win your cities, but Philippa con- 
 quers hearts." 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES, lOt 
 
 ELEANOR OF CASTILE. 
 
 IN the year 1290, Eleanor of Castile, who 
 was married to the prince of Wales, afterwards 
 Edward I. accompanied her husband in the 
 crusades, when he received a wound which was 
 supposed to have been made by a poisoned ar- 
 row. Eleanor immediately sucked the wound, 
 that by drawing away the poison from him to her- 
 self, she might preserve his life, which was dearer 
 to her than her own. Eleanor did not meet 
 that death which she expected, but her name is 
 transmitted to posterity, as having felt the strong- 
 est of conjugal attachment. Thompson has this 
 beautiful incident in his tragedy of Edward and 
 Eleonora. 
 
 MARGARET OF ANJOU 
 
 CONSORT OF HENRY VI. 
 
 MARGARET of Anjou, was most probably, 
 the cause of raising the dreadful contest between 
 the houses of York and Lancaster. If she had 
 not made Henry's reign obnoxious, he would per- 
 haps, unmolested, have transmitted the crown to 
 his posterity. But there is almost in every per- 
 son something to praise, as well as something to 
 blame ; therefore a sketch of the various events 
 of the life of Margaret is given, not doubting, 
 that the bad part of her character will be con- 
 demned as it deserves, and the worthy part ap- 
 plauded and admired. 
 
 On the death of Henry V. in 1422, his on- 
 ly sen Henry VI. an ' infant, inherited En g- 
 
102 HiSTOHlCAX SKETCHES* 
 
 land and the greater part of France. During his 
 minority the great virtues and talents of his un- 
 cle, the duke of Bedford and Gloucester, main- 
 tained him on the throne ; when he came of age, 
 he was too weak in his intellects to bear the 
 sveight of government ; and the duke of Glou= 
 tester, who had been appointed regent during the 
 king's minority, continued to guide the realm. — 
 A party, in opposition to the duke of Gloucester, 
 concluded a treaty of marriage between Henry 
 and Margaret of Anjou. She was daughter of 
 Rene, titular king of Naples, Sicily, and Jerusa- 
 lem, and duke of Anjou ; who with all these 
 pompous titles, was the poorest prince in Europe: 
 and though she brought no accession of fortune 
 or territory, yet Henry was induced to purchase 
 the marriage by the cession of Maine and Anjou 
 to France. 
 
 Margaret was the most accomplished princess 
 of the age, and seemed to possess those talents 
 which would equally qualify her to govern, and 
 supply all the weaknesses and defects of her hus- 
 band. Of a masculine and enterprising temper, 
 endowed with solidity as well as vivacity of un- 
 derstanding ; she had displayed the power of her 
 .mind, even in the privacy of her father's family ; 
 and it was reasonable to expect, that when she 
 should ascend the throne, her talents would break 
 out with still superior lustre. 
 
 On her arrival in England, in 1448, she endea- 
 voured to acquire an entire ascendency in all po- 
 litical affairs. Grateful to the party which had 
 raised her to the throne ; she joined the cabal of 
 the cardinal of Winchester, the dukes of Somer- 
 set and Suffolk, against the duke- of Gloucester. 
 He was a great and generous character, as un* 
 suspicious of plots and conspiracies, as he was-m- 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 105 
 
 capable of forming them against others ; and 
 therefore easily became the dupe of the artifices 
 of his rivals lor power : he was accused, arrest- 
 ed, confined, and as it was supposed privately 
 put to death in prison. How far Margaret was 
 involved in this dreadful transaction, does not ap- 
 pear from history ; but it is reasonable to sup- 
 pose, that a princess who had not reached the. 
 twentieth year of her age, could not be accessa- 
 ry to the murder of her husband's uncle ; and it 
 is probable that he fell a victim to the revenge 
 and perfidy of his brother the cardinal of Win- 
 chester, the most unprincipled character of that 
 barbarous age. The duke of Suffolk, Margaret's 
 peculiar favourite, succeeded the duke of Glou- 
 cester as a prime minister, and became so ex- 
 tremely obnoxious, that an insurrection took place. 
 To appease the people, Suffolk was arraigned, and 
 condemned to banishment ; and in this attempt to 
 retire into France, was seized and beheaded, by 
 persons unknown* Somerset succeeded him, as 
 well -in the ministry and favour of the queen as in 
 the hatred of the nation* 
 
 The administration of Margaret "became so 
 unpopular, that Richard, duke of York, lineally 
 descended from Edward III. was induced to 
 advance his right to the throne in preference to 
 the house of Lancaster, and to come forward as 
 the great leader of opposition to the councils of 
 Margaret : and as the reigning king, always un- 
 fit to conduct the helm of government, was at 
 this time seized with a mental derangement, 
 which increased his natural imbecility, and ren- 
 dered him incapable of maintaining even the ap- 
 pearance of royalty ; the party of the white rose 
 prevailed over the red rose ; Margaret yielded 
 •to the torrent, and Richard was appointed pro- 
 jector during .pleasure. His moderation, how- 
 
104 HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 ever, in being content with the protectorate, and 
 not seizing the crown when it was within his 
 grasp, raised the hopes of the Lancastrians. The 
 king recovered in a certain degree from his in- 
 disposition : Margaret, eager to regain her for- 
 mer influence, made him resume the reins of go- 
 vernment, released Somerset from the tower, and 
 dissolved the administration of the duke of York. 
 This held measure gave birth to instant hostilities, 
 and the memorable field of St. Alban's, in which 
 the Lancastrian party lost the day, was stained 
 with the first blood in that fatal quarrel between 
 the rival houses of York and Lancaster; a quar- 
 rel which continued during thirty-six years, was 
 signalized by twelve pitched battles, opened a 
 scene of extraordinary fierceness and cruelty, is 
 computed to have cost the lives of eighty princes 
 of the blood, and almost annihilated the ancient 
 mobility of England. 
 
 In 1460, after a variety of successes and de- 
 feats on both sides, the competitor of Henry was 
 slain, and Margaret stained her memory by gaz- 
 ing with delight on his head, which was fixed on a 
 pole over the gates of York. His son who pos- 
 sessed more spiait and less scruples than his fa- 
 ther, repaired to London. Assisted by the earl 
 of Warwick, he was proclaimed king, under the 
 name of Edward the fourth; and after two de- 
 cided victories at Towton and Hexham, appeared 
 firmly established on the throne. 
 
 Trie fate of the unfortunate royal family af- 
 ter these defeats was truly singular. Margaret 
 flying with her son, who was only in the ninth 
 year of his age, into a forest, was beset during the 
 "darkness of the night by robbers, who despoiled 
 her of her rings and jewels, and treated her with 
 the utmost indignity. While the robbers were 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 105 
 
 disputing on the division of the spoil, she escaped 
 with her son into the thickest part of the forest, 
 and wandered for some time, leading the prince 
 by the hand, till exhausted with hunger and fa- 
 tigue, they sunk upon the ground." In this dread- 
 ful situation she observed a robber approaching 
 with' his naked sword : finding all escape impos- 
 sible, she advanced towards him, and presenting 
 the young prince, exclaimed, u Behold, my friend, 
 the son of your king, I commit him to your pro- 
 tection." The man, whose humane and generous 
 spirit had been obscured, but not entirely extin- 
 guished by his vicious course of life, vowed to de- 
 vote himself to their security, concealed them in 
 the forest, and finally conducted them to the sea- 
 coast, from whence they made their escape into 
 Flanders. She repaired to her father's court and 
 passed several years in privacy and retirement, 
 brooding over the fate of her deposed husband, 
 who was confined in the tower. 
 
 In this disastrous state of affairs, Margaret 
 was surprised by the presence of the earl of 
 Warwick, who had hitherto been the devoted 
 partisan of the house of York, and the inveterate 
 enemy of the Lancastrian party. This great but 
 turbulent nobleman, from his exorbitant influence 
 called the king-maker, had taken umbrage at Ed 4 
 ward the fourth, and offered his services to rein- 
 state Henry the sixth. Margaret accepted his 
 offer with joy and gratitude : by her influence a 
 fleet and army was procured in France; War- 
 wick landed at Dartmouth, drove Edward from 
 England, released Henry from the tower, into 
 which place he had been the chief cause of throw- 
 ing him, and proclaimed him king with great so 
 lemnitv. 
 
rOd HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 During the troubles, Margaret had remained 
 in France, active in gaining assistance to restore 
 her husband, and extremely attentive to the edu- 
 cation and instruction of her son. She had set 
 him examples of magnanimity, and endeavoured 
 to inspire him with that true magnanimity which 
 braves danger. She besought hirn at the same 
 time to neglect nothing, and to fear nothing that 
 •could lead to the possession of a crown, which 
 heaven had given him a right to enjoy; and to 
 comfort himself with the same firmness, if its loss 
 should be found inevitable. On the news of 
 Warwick's success, Margaret and her son wiere 
 hastening towards England, but were detained 
 by contrary winds, till a new revolution, no less 
 sudden than the former, plunged them into great- 
 er misery than that from wh":ch they had just 
 emerged. In 1740, Edward, impatient to reco- 
 ver his lost authority, landed in Yorkshire with a 
 force net exceeding two thousand men.; and par- 
 tisans every moment flocked to his standard. 
 Warwick assembled an army at Leicester, with 
 an attention of giving battle to the enemy : but 
 Edw r ard taking another road, passed him unmo- 
 lested, and arrived in London. He was received 
 with acclamations in the city; met the enemy at 
 Barnet, and gained a complete victoiy over War- 
 wich who was slain in the engagement, and Hen- 
 ry was taken prisoner. 
 
 The same day in which this decisive battle was 
 fought, queen Margaret and her son, now a pro- 
 mising youth about eighteen years of age, arrived 
 at Weymouth. On receiving intelligence of her 
 husband's captivity, and of the death of the earl 
 of Warwick, her courage under so many trying 
 circumstances, did not yet forsake her, and she 
 still determined to defend to the utmost the ruins 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 10? 
 
 s* 
 
 6i her fallen fortunes. But her last attempt was 
 annihilated by the bloody defeat at Tewkesbury, 
 and she was almost a melancholy witness to the: 
 butchery of her only son. Margaret and her son- 
 were taken prisoners, and brought to the king ; 
 the young prince being asked in a most insulting- 
 manner, how he dared to invade England, more 
 mindful of his high birth than of his present for- 
 tune, boldly replied, u I came hither to recover 
 -ny father's kingdom." The ungenerous Edward, 
 irritated by this reply, and insensible to pity, 
 smote him on the face with his gauntlet, and his 
 attendants taking the blow as a signal for far- 
 ther violence, dispatched him with their dag- 
 gers. 
 
 From this dreadful scene, Margaret was con- 
 veyed to the tower, and in a few days her un- 
 paralleled misfortunes were finally aggravated by 
 the account of Henry's death, who was supposed 
 to have been privately murdered. She remained 
 in prison till 1475, in which year a treaty between 
 the kings of France and England stipulated her 
 liberty ; and Edward, in delivering Margaret 
 from her confinement, exhorted her to enjoy her 
 Freedom with tranquility. A solitary imprison- 
 ment of five years, which succeeded to a variety 
 of numerous calamities, had given such a turn to 
 her temper, that there was little occasion for this 
 exhortation. 
 
 History is silent in regard to a woman, whose 
 .nod a few years before could pacify or convulse 
 England. She resided with her father till his 
 death, which happened in 14S0, and followed him 
 to the grave in 1482 in the fifty-third year of her 
 age. This princess, who had been so active on 
 the stage of the world, and who had experienced 
 such a variety of misfortunes, was more illustri- 
 
108 HISTORICAL SKETCHED 
 
 ous for her undaunted spirit in adversity, than for 
 her moderation in prosperity. She seems neither 
 to have possessed the virtues, nor been subject to 
 #the weaknesses of her sex, and was as much 
 tainted by the ferocity, as endowed with the cou- 
 rage, of that barbarous age in which she lived. 
 But if there is a valuable lesson to be drawn 
 from her history, it is chiefly from that marvel- 
 lous vigour of mind which made her suddenly 
 pass from the lowest extremes of debasement and 
 consternation to the noblest resolution and the 
 most heroic enterprize. 
 
 LADY ELIZABETH GRAY. 
 
 WHEN Edward the fourth was established on 
 the throne by the captivity of Henry the sixth, 
 being desirous of ensuring the friendship of 
 X'rance, he dispatched in 1464, the earl of War- 
 wich to Paris, to demand in marriage the prin- 
 cess Bona of Savoy, sister of Charlotte, queen 
 of Louis the eleventh. His proposals were ac- 
 cepted ; the treaty was concluded ; and nothing 
 was wanting to complete the espousals but the 
 ratification of the terms, and the arrival of the 
 princess in England. But while policy was act- 
 ing abroad, love on a sudden changed the whole 
 scene at home. 
 
 Elizabeth, daughter of the dutchess of Bed- 
 ford, by a second marriage with Sir Walter Wid- 
 ville, was remarkable for the grace and beauty of 
 her person ; she had married Sir John Gray, to 
 whom she bore several children. Her husband 
 being killed as fighting on the side of the house of 
 Lancaster, and his estates being confiscated, his 
 

 HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 109 
 
 widow retired to her father's seat at Grafton in 
 Northamptonshire, and was involved in great 
 distress. At this period, Edward the Fourth be- 
 ing on a hunting party, paid an accidental visit to 
 the Dutchess of Bedford. He was a prince who 
 excelled in beauty of person and dignity of ad- 
 dress ; no less renowned in feats of gallantry than 
 in deeds of arms ; and possessed a heart easily 
 susceptible of soft impressions. The occasion 
 seemed favorable ; the young widow flung her- 
 self at his feet, and with many tears intreated 
 him to take pity on her impoverished and dis- 
 tressed children. The sight of so much beauty in 
 affliction strongly affected Edward ; love stole in- 
 sensibly into his heart under the guise of compas- 
 sion, and her sorrow, so becoming a virtuous ma- 
 tron, made his esteem and regard quickly cor- 
 respond with his affection. He raised her from 
 the ground with assurances of favour ; he found 
 his passion increase every moment by the conver- 
 sation of the amiable object ; and he was soon re- 
 duced in his turn to the posture and style of a 
 suppliant at the feet of Elizabeth. But the lady 
 disdainfully repulsed her royal lover, declaring 
 that although she knew herself unworthy to be a 
 queen, yet she valued her honor and person more 
 than to be the greatest prince's concubine ; and 
 all the endearments and caresses of the young 
 and amiable monarch proved fruiriess against her 
 rigid and inflexible virtue. At length, his passion 
 irritated by opposition, and encreasing by venera- 
 tion for such honorable sentiments, he icsolved 
 to share his throne as well as his heart, with a 
 woman, whose beauty cf person and dignity of 
 character rendered her worthy of both. On the 
 £rst of May 1664 the marriage was privately ce- 
 lebrated at Grafton. 
 
HO HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 It has been asserted that Warwick deemed 
 himself affronted at the breach of the treaty of 
 marriage and on his recall, retired from court 
 in disgust, and joined the Lancastrian party. But 
 this account has been recently shown to be false 
 by Henry, in his history of Britain, who pro- 
 ved from unquestionable evidence, that in Sep- 
 tember 1664, when Edward declared his marri- 
 age, the earl of Warwick himself assisted in 
 leading Elizabeth to the abbey church at Reading, 
 and in publickly declaring her queen ; that he 
 likewise stood godfather to the princess Elizabeth, 
 of whom the queen was delivered in February 
 1445 ; and received many honors and appointments 
 from Edwardsubsequent to his return from France. 
 
 In fact, Elizabeth undoubtedly occasioned the 
 defection of the earl of Warwick, but from ano- 
 ther cause. Her relations by whom she was im- 
 plicitly governed deriving influence from her ele- 
 vation, monopolized the powers and principal of- 
 fices of state, and endeavoured to remove from 
 court all persons who had any influence over the 
 king. On their representations^ Elizabeth infus- 
 ed jealousies into the mind of her husband, and 
 gradually estranged him from the earl of War- 
 wick, to whom Edward principally owed his ele- 
 vation. The earl's haughty and unbending spirit 
 could not brook to see such honour bestowed on 
 the queen's relations ; and was more particularly 
 irritated against them, from a conviction that 
 they were ardently endeavouring to diminish 
 the wealth, power, and influence of his family 
 in order to increase their own. Elizabeth and 
 her relations raised also the resentment of the 
 king's brother the duke of Clarence. He thought 
 himself neglected by the king, and imputed that 
 neglect to the influence of the queen, united him- 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES. Ill 
 
 •5,eli to Warwick by marrying his eldest daughter. 
 This marriage was soon followed by an open re- 
 bellion, by the ascendency of the Lancastrian 
 party, the flight of Edward, and the temporary 
 restoration o£ Henry the sixth. Elizabeth, the 
 cause of all these revolutions, seeing the king had 
 and with him all hopes of safety, and aU 
 friends vanishing with prosperity, retired private- 
 ly from the lower at midnight ; and with her 
 daughter and a few faithful friends, took shelter in 
 ihe sanctuary of Westminster. In this melan- 
 choly abode, she was delivered, on the fourth of 
 November 1470, of her eldest son, the unfortu- 
 nate Edward, whose birth while his mother was 
 in a state of seclusion from the world, seemed a 
 prophetic prelude to his fatal catastrophe. — 
 From this distress Elizabeth was relieved by the 
 triumphant restoration and return of Edward the 
 fourth ; and her misfortunes seemed only to have 
 overtaken her to render her power still greater, 
 and the influence of her family more conspicuous 
 than ever. Her ambition, inflamed by the tem- 
 porary degradation, exacted from her doating 
 husband continued marks Gf favour and distinc- 
 tion. But the mind of Elizabeth was not so wrap- 
 ed by ambition or steeled by resentment, as 
 to forget the sentiments of benevolence and pity, 
 on Edward's recovery of the throne. When 
 queen Margaret was committed to the tower, it 
 was judged expedient, from her well known spi- 
 rit of intrigue, to deny her the privilege of see- 
 ing or holding correspondence with any of her re- 
 lations or partizans, Pllizabeth had felt the vicis- 
 itudes of fortune, and schooled in adversity, 
 znight say, with the poet, 
 
 " What Borrow was, thou badst her know, 
 
 And from her own she learnt to melt at others w«e.*' 
 
 
112 HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 She accordingly exerted her influence over Ed- 
 ward in favour of Margaret, and obtained her 
 the permission of seeing a few friends, and ac- 
 quiring her such other indulgences as might in 
 some measure mitigate the rigours of imprison- 
 ment. 
 
 Happy for herself and children had it been, if 
 Elizabeth had always humanely interfered in fa- 
 vour of the unfortunate ; and if, incited by her re- 
 lations, she had not assisted in urging Edward 
 to a deed of cruelty, which proved fatal to her 
 own family. Clarence, who had been restored 
 to favour by a defection from the Earl of War- 
 wick, and had a principal share in the total defeat 
 of the Lancastrians, and the restoration of Edward 
 had never been sufficiently rewarded for these 
 important services. His conduct in espousing 
 the daughter of the earl of Warwick, the great 
 enemy of the house of York, in suffering him- 
 self to be declared prince of Wales and successor 
 to Henry the sixth, left lasting impressions on 
 Edward's mind, not to be effaced by his subse- 
 quent treachery to Warwick and Henry. The 
 displeasure and jealousy of the king were so fo- 
 mented by the queen and her relations j and it 
 was principally at their suggestion, that the weak 
 and imprudent Clarence, was tried for high trea- 
 son, and executed ; that his son, the earl of War- 
 wick was' attainted, his fortune confiscated, and 
 several of Clarence's estates granted to the earl of 
 Rivers, the queen's brother, under the hypocri- 
 tical pretence, that it would be an advantage to 
 his soul after death, that his estates would be 
 possessed by a man whom he had so much injur- 
 ed during his life. 
 
 Aidiough Richard duke of Gloucester, shared 
 in the imputation of co-operating in the ruin of 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES. lit 
 
 Clarence, yet that artful prince contrived to 
 throw the principal blame on the queen and her 
 relations, and thus increased their unpopularity. 
 Violent disputes took place between them and the 
 great officers -of the court ; and though Edward 
 on his death-bed, apparently effected a reconcilia- 
 tion, as the only means of securing the quiet suc- 
 cession to his son, yet this reconciliation was on- 
 ly feigned, and on the king's decease both parties 
 strove to secure the person of the young mo- 
 narch, and with it the administration of affairs. 
 
 The party of Elizabeth had taken every precau- 
 tion for this purpose. Her brother, earl Rivers, 
 was appointed governor ; Richard lord Grey, 
 her son by her first husband, had a distinguished 
 place in his household ; her eldest son, lately 
 created. the marquis of Dorset, was made govern- 
 or of the tower, and by that means was in posses- 
 ion of the arms and treasure ,* and the queen in- 
 stantly sent orders to escort the young king to 
 London with a train of two thousand horse. But 
 these very precautions hastened, if they did not 
 occasion the ruin of her family, and the dethrone- 
 ment of her son. 
 
 The party in opposition to the queen was chief- 
 ly headed by lord Hastings and the duke of Buck- 
 ingham, who dreaded the power vested in the 
 Jiands of her family; and Richard, duke of Glou- 
 cester, who, as first prince of the blood, was by 
 the laws of the kingdom entitled to the regency, 
 conceived suspicions, that the queen intended to 
 exclude him from the administration, and to go- 
 vern in concert with her own family. 
 
 While Elizabeth was endeavouring in London 
 to encrease her party, she received the alarming 
 intelligence, that her brother, earl Rivers, her son 
 lord Richard Grey, and the other officers of the 
 
114 HISTORICAL SfcETCftESr 
 
 household, were seized at Stoney Stratford, where 
 the king was arrived in his way to London; that 
 all his attendants were dismissed, and a procla- 
 mation published expelling them from court : that 
 the person of young Edward was likewise secur- 
 ed : and that the duke of Gloucester, just return- 
 ing from a successful expedition against the Scots, 
 after having proclaimed his nephew, king Edward 
 the fifth, and making the strongest professions of 
 loyalty and respect, was accompanying his royal 
 charge to London. On the first news of these 
 alarming transactions, Elizabeth took sanctuary 
 in Westminster, with her second son the duke o( 
 York, and her five daughters. She trusted that 
 the ecclesiastical privileges which had formerly 
 afforded her protection against the Lancastrian 
 oarty, would not be violated by her brother-in 
 jaw, while her son was seated on the throne ; and 
 she resolved there to 'await the return of better 
 fortune. 
 
 Meanwhile Richard accompanied the king tc 
 London, riding bare-headed before him, and re- 
 peatedly called to the people, a Behold your 
 king," conducted him in triumph to the tower of 
 London. He was declared protector by the 
 council of state, and issued orders for the corona- 
 tion of the young king. His immediate acces- 
 sion to power was stained with the execution of 
 carl Rivers, lord Richard Grey, and lord Hast- 
 ings ; because those noblemen were likely to op- 
 pose his designs on the crown. Before the queen 
 was made acquainted with those scenes of hor- 
 ror, Richard, anxious to secure the person of the 
 duVe of York, deputed the two archbishops of 
 Canterbury and York, and several lords of the 
 council, to represent to the queen her ill-ground- 
 ed apprehensions., and the necessity of the y^\ri£ 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 prince's appearance at the ensuing coronation of 
 his brother. 
 
 The deputies found the unhappy queen sur 
 rounded by her weeping children sitting on the 
 floor, bathed in tears and bewailing the approach- 
 ing destruction of herself and family. The two 
 .prelates were known to be persons of integrity 
 and honour, and being themselves persuaded Oi 
 the sincerity of the duke's intentions, they em- 
 ployed every argument accompanied with zeal- 
 ous entreaties, exhortations and assurances, to 
 bring Elizabeth over to the same opinion. She 
 persevered in her resolution for a great length of 
 time, and urged that the duke, by continuing 
 svithin those sacred walls, was not only secure 
 himself, but also gave security to the king, whose 
 life no one would dare attempt while his succes- 
 sor and avenger remained in safety. But, finding 
 that no one supported her in her sentiments, and 
 thai force in case of refusal, was threatened by 
 ^he council, she at length complied. On present- 
 ing her son, she said to hiin, u Farewell, my sweet 
 oon, the almighty be thy protector ! let me kiss 
 ihee once more before we part, for God knows 
 when we shall kiss again !" Having embraced 
 him, she bedewed his cheeks with tears, blessed 
 him, and then went away, leaving the child with 
 lords, weeping also for her departure. 
 
 The protector had no sooner secured the per- 
 son of the duke of York, than he manifested his 
 design -of seizing the crown. The queen and her 
 family were so obnoxious to the nobility, and so 
 odious to the nation in general, that he found 
 little difficulty in affecting his purpose, by a most 
 improbable and dishonourable falsity. , His emis- 
 saries asserted, that Edward the fourth, before 
 his marriage with the lady Grey, had. secretly 
 
116 HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 espoused lady Elizabeth Talbot, widow of lord 
 Butler, and daughter of the earl of Shrewsbury. 
 This idle tale was believed ; his marriage with 
 Elizabeth was declared illegal, and Richard as- 
 sumed the crown. The deposed monarch and his 
 brother were confined in the tower, and murder- 
 ed by the orders of the usurper. The estates of 
 the queen-mother were confiscated, and that un- 
 fortunate princess, reduced to poverty and over- 
 whelmed with disgrace, had no other alternative 
 than to leave the sanctuary, and put herself and 
 her five daughters into the hands of the usurper 
 of her son's throne. Richard took a solemn oath 
 in the house of peers, that they should be in no 
 danger of their lives, that he would allow her 
 seven hundred marks a year, give to each of her 
 daughters a portion of two hundred marks, and 
 marry them to gentlemen. 
 
 Thus reduced to the state of a private gentle- 
 woman, Elizabeth looked forward with hopes to 
 .the preparations of the earl of Richmond, and 
 promised to bestow her eldest daughter Elizabeth 
 on him who was considered as chief -of the Lan- 
 caster party. But while she was secretly abet- 
 ting this plot against the usurper, Richard, well 
 aware that the whole success of Richmond's plan 
 depended on his marriage with the princess, and 
 being a widower by the death of his wife Anne* 
 formed the designs of defeating the scheme of his 
 enemies, by espousing his niece Elizabeth ; and 
 as kings, court the fair with great advantage, and 
 the lustre of a crown is apt to dazzle the bright- 
 est eyes ; both the young princess and the queen 
 her mother consented to this unnatural alliance 
 with a man, who had done them the most cruel 
 injuries, but now enticed them by the most tempt- 
 ing promises. The queen communicated the de- 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 11/ 
 
 sign to her son the Marquis of Dorset, who was 
 at Paris with the earl of Richmond, and intreat- 
 ed him to return to England to receive the ho- 
 nours that had been promised him by Richard. — 
 This conduct cannot be justified, unless we sup- 
 pose, what is not improbable, that Elizabeth, in 
 whose cabinet was first laid the plan of the great 
 confederacy, which overthrew the throne of 
 Richard, deceived the king by false promies, and 
 was continuing her negotiations with the earl of 
 Richmond, and urging him to hasten his invasion 
 at the moment she affected to accept the alli- 
 ance of Richard. Richmond, alarmed with the 
 news of this intended marriage, hastened his pre- 
 parations ; landed in England, and being joined 
 by numerous bodies, who flocked to his standard 
 from all parts, he defeated and killed Richard at 
 the battle of Bosworth-field, and seated himself 
 on the throne, under the name of Henry the se- 
 venth. 
 
 Elizabeth seemed now to have attained the 
 height of human felicity. She saw the man who 
 had injured her own honour, usurped her son's 
 throne, and murdered her family, dethroned by 
 the earl of Richmond, who had promised to mar- 
 ry her daughter, and by uniting the two roses, she 
 gave peace and tranquillity to her districted 
 country, so long torn to pieces by civil discord. 
 
 But the chagrin of Elisabeth was only to be 
 terminated with her life. Instead of expressing 
 gratitude to Elizabeth, for having first laid the 
 plan of the greatest confederacy, to which he ow- 
 ed his elevation ; the gloomy and malignant Hen- 
 ry never forgave her consent to the alliance with 
 Richard, and treated her with coolness: 
 serve. Unwilling to appear as if he owed 
 r.rown to his marriage with the heircs^ of the 
 
 with 
 d >ir, 
 
118 HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 house of York he delayed two years the ceie- 
 bration of that ceremony. The general joy which 
 his subjects testified at his marriage, filled him 
 with displeasure. His suspicions disturbed his 
 tranquillity, bred disgust towards his queen, poi- 
 soned all his domestic enjoyments ; and the ma- 
 lignant ideas of party, prevailed in his sullen 
 mind over ail the sentiments of gratitude to the 
 queen-dowager, and affection towards his virtu- 
 ous and obsequious consort. 
 
 The queen- dowager seeing her daughter treat- 
 <A with severity, herslf excluded from the small- 
 est share of authority, her friends in disgrace, 
 and her party persecuted, conceived against Hen- 
 ry the most violent resentment. As she was pre- 
 paring again to discover that character of ambi- 
 tion and intrigue which she had betrayed during 
 the reign of her husband, and the usurpation of 
 Richard, she was suddenly arrested and impri- 
 soned in the abbey of Bermondsey. In excuse 
 for so arbitrary an act, it was alleclged that not- 
 withstanding a secret agreement to many her 
 daughter to Henry, she had yielded to the solici- 
 tations and menaces of Richard, and delivered 
 that princess and her sister into the hands of the 
 tyrant. This crime, if'such it could be called, 
 now become obsolete, was supposed not to be 
 the real cause of the severity with which she was 
 treated ; and it was credited, or at least Henry 
 himself believed, that she secretly countenanced 
 the report that the duke of York had escaped 
 from the tower, and that she abetted the impos- 
 ture of Lambert Simmel, who personated the earl 
 of Warwick, and was publicly proclaimed king 
 : Dublin, under the name of Edward the sixth. 
 se suspicions were afterwards the more con- 
 fir ore ch when it was found that the unfortunate 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 119 
 
 queen-dowager, though she survived this disgrace 
 several years, was never treated with more lenity : 
 her large estates were confiscated, and she end- 
 ed her life, which had been chequered with such 
 various fortunes, (as lord Bacon in his life of Hen- 
 ry the seventh savs,) " in prison, poverty, and so- 
 litude." 
 
 The merit of Elizabeth consisted in her pru- 
 dent and virtuous conduct towards Edward be- 
 fore she became his wife ; in her compliance with 
 his temper after marriage, and patience under his 
 numerous infidelities ; in her humanity towards 
 the dethroned queen Margaret ; and in the emi- 
 nent protection she afforded to literature by found- 
 ing Queen's College, in the university of Cam- 
 bridge. Her principal defects were a restless 
 ambition, and too great a partiality to her rela- 
 tions, which was the cause of all her misfortunes. 
 
 V' 
 
 CATHARINE OF ARRAGON, 
 
 £L T EEN-CONSORT OF HENRY THE EIGHTH. 
 
 IF any woman could ever derive elevation of 
 mind, from high birth and dignity of connections, 
 that woman was Catharine of Arragon : — Her 
 lather Ferdinand was king of Arragon, Naples, 
 and Sicily : her mother Isabella was queen of 
 Castile ; and her nephew, so well known under 
 the name of Charles the fifth, was emperor of 
 Germany. 
 
 Catharine was born 1485, and before she had 
 attained the age of sixteen, married Arthur, prince 
 of Wales, who was scarcely fifteen, and in less 
 than half a year became a widow. 
 
220 HISTORICAL SKE1L1 
 
 In 1502, by means of a dispensation from the 
 Pope, she was betrothed to Henry, the brother of 
 Arthur, then only twelve years of age. . This 
 match was so contrary to the inclination of the 
 young prince, that he did not agree to it, till he 
 was compelled by the positive commands of his 
 father, Henry the seventh, whose avarice ren- 
 dered him averse to return so considerable a 
 dowry as Catharine had brought into the king- 
 dom. 
 
 But as the nation in general was prejudiced 
 against the marriage of such near connections, 
 the king, though he had been so eager to have the 
 espousals solemnized, gave evident proofs of his 
 intention to annul them. He ordered the young- 
 prince, as soon as he came of age, to enter a pro- 
 testation against the marriage ; and on his death- 
 bed he charged him, as his last injunction, not 
 to finish so unlawful an alliance. 
 
 At the accession of Henry the eighth, a coun* 
 cil was summoned to deliberate on this momen- 
 tous affair. On the cne hand her former mar- 
 riage with the king's brother, and the inequality 
 of their years, were strong objections. On the 
 other, the propriety of the match was supported 
 by Catharine's known virtue, mild temper, and 
 affection to the king, by the necessity of return- 
 ing her large dowry, by the expediency of fulfill- 
 ing the engagements of the late king, and the 
 dread of offending two such powerful sovereigns 
 as Ferdinand and Isabella ; whose alliance, in case 
 of a rupture with France, was of so great impor- 
 tance. Henry followed the advice of his coun- 
 cil, and solemnized the marriage. Her person 
 being handsome, and her manner agreeable, 
 Henry behaved to her witjl affection ; and as she 
 possessed sound judgment, he treated her with 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 121 
 
 such confidence, that during an expedition into 
 France he appointed her agent. 
 
 The king had thus for eighteen years lived up- 
 on terms of affection with his virtuous queen t 
 without feeling the smallest scruples on the vali- 
 dity of the marriage, or giving any outward 
 mark of unkindness, when suddenly his consci- 
 ence smote him with remorse. Many other res 
 sons, however, besides religious scruples, made 
 him weary of this match, and induced him to 
 form another connection. The queen being six 
 years older than the king, the decay of her beau- 
 ty, together with her ill health, had contributed, 
 notwithstanding her blameless character, to ren- 
 der her person unacceptable. Though she had 
 borne him several children, they all died in early 
 infancy, except the princess Mary ; and it was 
 apprehended that should doubts of Mary's legi- 
 timacy be combined with the weakness of her 
 sex, the country might again be thrown into con- 
 fusion. 
 
 The evils of civil convulsions, as yet recent, 
 arising from a disputed succession, made a deep 
 impression on the minds of the people, and ren- 
 dered them universally desirous of any event, 
 which might obviate so dreadful a calamity. 
 
 But his affection for Anne Boleyn, was a still 
 more forcible reason, and concurring with private 
 disgust and motives of public interest, impelled 
 him to seek the dissolution of his inauspicious, 
 and, as it was esteemed by many, unlawful mar- 
 riage with Catharine. 
 
 Henry therefore applied to the sec of Rome 
 for a divorce : Clement the seventh, seemed in- 
 clined to favour the king's suit, Prid appointed a 
 commission, consisting of cardinal Campegio on 
 the side of the pope, and cardinal "YVolsey on the 
 3 ide of Henry, for the trial Of the marriage. 
 
122 HISTORICAL SKFTCHES. 
 
 Catharine herself, was naturally of a firm and 
 resolute temper, and was engaged by every mo- 
 tive to persevere in protesting against the mea- . 
 sure. The reluctance of yielding to her rival, who 
 had supplanted her in the king's affection, excited 
 the most poignant affliction ; the imputation of 
 incest, which was thrown upon her marriage with 
 Henry, struck her with the highest indignation ; 
 and the dread of her daughter being declared il- 
 legitimate, awakened the feelings of a mother.-— 
 Actuated by these considerations, she prevailed 
 on Charles the fifth to intercede with the pope in 
 her favour, and to insist that the cause should 
 be referred to Rome, where alone she thought 
 she could expect justice. 
 
 Meanwhile the two legates opened their court 
 at London, and cited the king and queen to ap- 
 pear. They both presented themselves, and the 
 king answered to his name when called ; but Ca- 
 tharine instead of answering to her's, rose from 
 her seat and throwing herself at Henry's feet, made 
 a very pathetic harangue, which her virtue, dig- 
 nity, and misfortunes rendered uncommonly af- 
 fecting. She told him, " that she was a stranger 
 in his dominions, without protection, without 
 council, and without assistance ; exposed to all the 
 injustice which her enemies were disposed to im- 
 pose upon her ; that she had quitted her native 
 country, without other resources than her . connec- 
 tions with him and his family ; and expected, 
 that instead of suffering any violence or indignity, 
 she should find an assylum ; that she had been 
 his wife during twenty years, and now appealed 
 to him in the face of the public, whether her 
 affectionate submission to his will had not merited 
 other treatment than to be thus thrown from him 
 •-vith so much indignity. Their parents/' she 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 123 
 
 added, '"the kings of England and Spain, were 
 esteemed the wisest princes of their times, and 
 had undoubtedly acted by the best advice when 
 they concluded the treaty of marriage, which was 
 now represented as so criminal ; that she acqui- 
 esced in their judgment, and would not submit 
 her cause to be tried by a court, whose depend- 
 ance on her enemies was too notorious, ever to 
 allow her any hopes of obtaining from them an 
 equitable and impartial decision." Having ut- 
 tered these words, she rose, and making the king 
 a low reverence, departed from the court, and 
 never would again appear. After her departure 
 Henry did her the justice to acknowledge, that 
 she had ever been a dutiful and affectionate wife, 
 and that the whole tenor of her behaviour had 
 been conformable to the strictest rules of probity 
 and honour. He only insisted on his own scru- 
 ples, with regard to the unlawfulness of the mar- 
 riage. 
 
 The legates, after citing the queen anew to ap- 
 pear, declared her contumacious, notwithstanding 
 her appeal to Rome, and then proceeded to the 
 examination of the cause. 
 
 The business went on so rapidly that the king 
 was every day in expectation of a sentence in his 
 favour ; when to his great surpize, Campegio, 
 without the least warning, and upon frivolous 
 pretences, prorogued the court for live months. 
 
 The impetuous Henry, who could bear no con- 
 tradiction to his will, was extremely enraged at 
 this disappointment, was ready to encourage eve- 
 ry argument which might seem to prove the ne- 
 cessity of a divorce ; and as at this time the doc- 
 trines of Luther had begun to gain strength, and 
 the idea of the pope's infallibility ^o lose ground, 
 many opinions were given, which tended to call it 
 
124 HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 question the power of the see of Rome to give a 
 dispensation for a marriage so contrary to the laws 
 both of God and man. Amongst the rest Dr. 
 Thomas Cranmer, an eminent divine of Cam- 
 bridge, happened to be in company with Gardi- 
 ner, secretary of state, when the business of the 
 divorce became the svbject of conversation ; he 
 observec', that the readiest way either to quiet 
 Henry's conscience, or extort the pope's consent, 
 would be to consult all the universities of Europe, 
 with regard to this controverted point : if they 
 agreed to approve the king's marriage with Catha- 
 rine, his remorse would naturally cease ; if they 
 condemned it, the pope would find it a difficult 
 matter to resist the solicitation of so great a mo- 
 narch, seconded by the opinion of all the learned 
 men in Christendom. When the king was inform- 
 ed of this proposal, he swore, with more alacrity 
 than delicacy, that Cranmer had got the right sow 
 by the ear. 
 
 His agents were immediately employed to col- 
 lect the judgments of all the universities in Eu- 
 rope ; who gave a verdict in the king's favour. — 
 Henry, in order to give weight to all these autho- 
 rities, engaged his nobility to recommend his 
 cause to the pope, and to threaten him with the 
 most dangerous consequences in case of a denial 
 of justice. But Clement who was entirely under 
 the influence of the emperor, refused to grant a 
 divorce, and continued to summon the king by 
 proxy, before his tribunal at Rome. Henry re- 
 jected such a condition, and would not even ad- 
 mit of any citation, which he regarded as a high 
 insult, and a violation of his prerogative. The 
 father of Anne Boleyn, created earl of Wiltshire, 
 carried to the pope the king's reasons for not ap- 
 pearing by proxy ; and as the first instance oi 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES* 125 
 
 •disrespect from England refused to kiss his holi- 
 ness's slipper. 
 
 Henry being now fully determined to stand all 
 consequences, espoused the object of his affection, 
 and obtained both from parliament and from an 
 ecclesiastical court, which he summoned, in con- 
 tempt of the pope's authority, a confirmation of 
 his marriage with Anne Boleyn. 
 
 But the humiliation of Catharine, did not end 
 with her divorce* Henry, in order to efface as 
 much as possible, all marks of his first marriage, 
 sent to inform her that she was henceforth to be 
 treated only as princess of Wales, and all means 
 were employed to make her acquiesce in that de- 
 termination. But she persevered in maintaining 
 the validity of her marriage ; and she would ad- 
 mit of no service from any person who did not 
 approach her wiih the accustomed ceremonials. 
 
 Henry, with his usual harshness employed me- 
 naces against her servants, who complied with her 
 iCcmmands in this particular ; but even though 
 Jie attained several of high treason who treated 
 iier as queen ; yet this rigorous measure never 
 compelled Catharine to relinquish her title and 
 pretensions ; and she persisted till her death in 
 .calling herself his wife- 
 She died in 1536, at Limbolton, in the county 
 of Huntingdon, in the fiftieth year of her age ; 
 and on her death-bed she dictated this affectionate 
 letter. 
 
 " Jffy most dear Lord, Xing' and Husband^ 
 
 u THE hour -of my death approaching, I 
 
 cannot choose, out of love I bear you, but advise 
 
 you of your soul's health, which you ought to 
 
 prefer before all consideration* of the worlds 
 
 .1 2 
 
I2t> HISTORICAL SKETCKti: 
 
 flesh whatsoever. For which you have cast 
 mg into many calamities, and yourself into many 
 ^roubles : but I forgive you all, and pray God to 
 do so likewise. For the rest, I commend unto 
 you Mary my daughter, beseeching you to be a 
 good father to her as I have heretofore desired. 
 I must entreat you also* to respect my maids, and 
 give them in marriage, which is not much, they 
 being but three; and to all my other servants a 
 year's pay, besides their due, lest otherwise, they 
 should be unprovided for. Lastly, Frnake a vow 
 that mine eyes desire you above all things." 
 
 This last proof of Catharine's affection extort- 
 ed tears even from the obdurate Henry. He or- 
 dered her remains to be interred with due solem- 
 nity, in the monastry of St. Peterborough, and af- 
 terwards erected that monastry into a bishop's 
 see, as a tribute of affection and regard to the 
 memory of a person, w r hose sweetness of temper 
 and elevation of soul rendered her worthy of- it 
 better fate. 
 
 QUEEN-CONSORT OF HENRY THE EIGHTH. 
 
 ANNE BOLEYN, the daughter of Sir Tho- 
 -mas Boleyn, was born in 1507, and carried to 
 France at seven years of age, by the sister of 
 Henry VIII, who was given in marriage to Louis 
 XII. After the death of Louis, his widow re- 
 turned to her native country, but Anne remain- 
 ed in France, in the service of Claudia, the wife of 
 Francis 1. The year of her return to England 
 i* uncertain i but it appeared to' have been about 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 127 
 
 the time when scruples were first entertained by 
 Henry VIII, respecting the legality of his mar- 
 riage with the betrothed wife and widow of his 
 brother, Catharine of Arragon. In his visits to 
 the queen, to whom Anne Boleyn became maid 
 of honour, Henry had an opportunity of observ- 
 ing her beauty and captivating maimers. Anne 
 quickly perceived her influence over the heart of 
 the monarch, whose passion, either from principle 
 or policy, she resolutely resisted. 
 
 The king, soon after, entertained the design of 
 raising Anne Boleyn to the throne ;■ and was the 
 more confirmed in this resolution, when he found 
 that her virtue precluded all hopes of gratifying 
 his passion in any other manner. With this view 
 he eagerly sued for a divorce from Catharine ;* 
 and when Clement conducted the affair in so dila- 
 tory and ambiguous a manner, that Henry did not 
 ^;eem to be the least nearer the accomplishment of 
 ids wishes, he laid the extravagant proposal before 
 the, pope, to grant him a dispensation to have two 
 wives, and to render the children of both legiti- 
 timate ; and as the king was a great casuist in mat- 
 ters of divinity, which seem to flatter his passion, 
 he alledged in favour of so immoral a proceeding, 
 several precedents in the Old Testament. 
 
 But when these, and all other means of obtain- 
 ing the pope's consent failed of success, he broke 
 with the see of Home, divorced himself from 
 Catharine, espoused Anne Boleyn, and obtained 
 iiom parliament the ratification of his marriage. 
 
 Soon after this event, the pregnancy of Anne 
 both gave joy to the king, and was regarded by 
 (he people as a strong proof of lit r virtue. On 
 being delivered of a princess, (who afterwards 
 swayed the sceptre with such renown under the 
 name of Elizabeth) Mary, the only daughter of 
 
128 HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 Henry by Catharine, was set aside, and the suc- 
 cession to the crown vested in the issue of Anne 
 Boleyn by the king. 
 
 Henry had persevered constantly in his love 
 for this lady, during six years that his prosecution 
 of the divorce lasted ; and the obstacles which 
 opposed the gratification of his passion served 
 only to redouble his ardour : but the afFection 
 which had subsisted so long under difficulties, had 
 no sooner attained secure possession of its ob- 
 ject than it languished from satiety ; and the king's 
 heart was apparently alienated from his consort. 
 Her enemies soon perceived this fatal change, 
 and were very forward to widen the breach. She 
 had brought forth a dead son, and Henry's ex- 
 treme Fondness for male issue, being thus for the 
 present disappointed, his temper, equally violent 
 and superstitious, was disposed to make the inno- 
 cent mother answerable for this misfortune. But 
 the chief means which Anne's enemies employed 
 to inflame the king against her, was his jea- 
 lousy. 
 
 Anne, though she appears to have been entirely 
 innocent, and even virtuous in essentials, had a 
 certain gaiety, if not levity of character, which 
 threw her off her guard, and made her less cir- 
 cumspect than her situation required. Her edu- 
 cation in France rendered her the more prone to 
 these freedoms, and she conformed herself with 
 difficulty to that strict ceremony which was prac- 
 tised in the court of England. More vain than 
 haughty, she was pleased to see the influence of 
 her beauty on all around her ; and she indulged 
 herself in an easy familiarity with persons who 
 were formerly her equals. 
 
 Henry's dignity was offended by these popular 
 manners, and though the lover had been entirely 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 129 
 
 blind, the husband possessed but too quick dis- 
 cernment and penetration. Wicked instruments 
 interposed, and put a malignant interpretation on 
 the harmless liberties of the queen. The vis- 
 countess of Rocheford in particular, who was 
 married to the queen's brother, but who had lived 
 on bad terms with her sister-in-law, insinuated the 
 most cruel suspicions into the kind's mind ; and, 
 as she was a woman of a very profligate charac- 
 ter, paid no regard either to truth or humanity in 
 those calumnies which she suggested. She mis- 
 represented every instance of favour which the 
 queen conferred on all who approached her person, 
 as tokens of affection ; and even pretended that 
 her own husband was engaged in a criminal cor- 
 respondence with his sister. These imputations 
 of guilt were eagerly admitted by Henry, who 
 had transferred his affection to Jane Seymour, 
 maid. of honour to the queen, whom he had de- 
 termined to raise to the throne. 
 
 The divorce of one queen, or the murder of 
 another, under the sanction of the law, were no 
 obstacles to Henry's will, when his passion was 
 to be* gratified. 
 
 The king's jealousy first appeared openly in a 
 tilting at Greenwich; where the queen happened 
 to drop her handkerchief ; an instance, probably 
 casual, but interpreted by him as an instance of 
 gallantry to some of her paramours. He imme- 
 diately retired from the place, sent orders to con* 
 line her to her chamber, arrested several gentle- 
 men who were attendants at court, and her bro- 
 ther, the earl of Rocheford. 
 
 The queen was at; first more astonished than 
 alarmed at this instance of his violence and impe- 
 tuosity, and concluded that' he intended only to 
 terrify her. But when she discovered that his 
 
130 HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 indignation did not subside, she reflected on his 
 obstinate unrelenting spirit, and prepared herself 
 for that melancholy doom which seemed to wait 
 her. 
 
 As she was conveyed to the tower, she was in- 
 formed of her supposed offences, of which she 
 had been hitherto ignorant : she made earnest 
 protestations of her innocence, and when she en- 
 tered her prison, she fell upon her knees, and 
 prayed God so to help her, as she was not guilty 
 of the crime imputed to her. 
 
 Of all those whom the beneficence of the 
 queen's temper had obliged, during her prosper- 
 ous fortune, no one, except Cranmer, durst in- 
 terpose between her and the king's fury : and 
 the person whose advancement every breath had 
 favoured, and every countenance had smiled upon, 
 was now neglected and abandoned. Even her 
 uncle the duke of Norfolk, preferring the con- 
 nections of party to the ties of blood, was be- 
 come her most dangerous enemy, and all the re- 
 tainers to the catholic religion hoped, that her 
 death would terminate the king's quarrel with 
 Rome, and induce him to renew his intimate con- 
 nection with the apostolic See. 
 
 In this crisis of alarm and danger, the queen 
 endeavoured to soften the heart of her obdurate 
 husband, by a letter, which from its simplicity 
 and firmness conveys internal evidence that she 
 was not essentially culpable. 
 
 This letter had no influence on the mind of 
 Henry. The four gentlemen who were arrested, 
 Norris, Weston, Brereton and Smeton, were 
 tried, but no legal evidence was procured against 
 them. Smeton was prevailed on, by the vain 
 hope of life, to confess a criminal correspondence 
 with the queen ; but her enemies never dared to 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 131 . 
 
 confront him with her, and he was immediately 
 jexecuted. Norris, who had been much in the 
 king's favour, received an offer of pardon, if he 
 would confess his crime and accuse the queen ; 
 but he generously rejected that proposal, and said, 
 that in his conscience, he believed her entirely 
 guiltless, and would die a thousand deaths rather 
 than calumniate an innocent person. 
 
 The queen and her brother were tried by a ju- 
 ry of peers ; their uncle the duke of Norfolk pre- 
 sided as lord high steward. Upon what proof 
 or pretence the crime of incest was imputed to 
 them, is unknown : the most trivial and absurd 
 circumstances were admitted by the peers of En- 
 gland as a sufficient evidence for sacrificing an in- 
 nocent queen to the cruelty of a tyrant. Though 
 unassisted by council, she defended herself with 
 great judgement and presence of mind, and the 
 spectators could not forbear pronouncing her en- 
 tirely innocent. Judgement however was given 
 by the court both against the queen and lord 
 Rocheford. When sentence of death was pro- 
 nounced, lifting up her hands to heaven she said : 
 " O Father, O creator ! thou art the way, the 
 truth and the life, thou knowest that I have not 
 deserved this death ;"— -and then turning to the 
 judges, made the mostpathetic declaration of her 
 innocence. 
 
 The queen now prepared for death. She sent 
 her last message to the king, and acknowledged 
 her obligations to him, in continuing thus uni- 
 formly his endeavours for her advancement : 
 from a private gentlewoman, she said he had first 
 made her a marchioness, then a queen, and now 
 since he could raise her no higher in this world, 
 he was sending her to be a saint in heaven. She 
 then renewed the protestations of her innocence. 
 
132 HISTORICAL SKETCHES, 
 
 and recommended her daughter to his care. Be- 
 fore the lieutenant of the tower, and all who ap- 
 proached her, she made the like declaration, and 
 continued to behave herself with her usual sere- 
 nity, and even with cheerfulness. 
 
 When her execution was deferred for a few 
 hours, she said to the lieutenant of the tower, 
 " I am sorry I shall not die till noon, for I thought 
 to be dead by this time, and past my pain ; but 
 the executioner, I hear is very expert, and my 
 neck is very slender." Upon which she grasped 
 it in her hand and smiled. 
 
 Such was her calmness and serenity at the hour 
 of her death, that the lieutenant of the tower 
 said, "I have seen many men and women exe- 
 cuted, and they have been in great sorrow ; and 
 to my knowledge, this lady hath much pleasure 
 in death." 
 
 When she was brought tq^the place of execu- 
 tion she expressed herself in the following man- 
 ner : 
 
 " Good christian people ! I am come hither to 
 die according to law, and by the law I am judged 
 to die, and therefore I will speak nothing against 
 it. I am come hither to accuse no man, nor to 
 speak any thing of that whereof I am accused 
 and condemned to die. But I pray God save the 
 king, and send him long to reign over you ; for a 
 gentle and more merciful prince was there never, 
 and to me he was ever a good, a gentle, and, a 
 sovereign lord. And if any person will meddle 
 of my cause, I request them to judge the best. 
 And thus I take my leave of the world, and of 
 you all ; and I heartily desire you to pray for i 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 133 
 
 CATHARINE PAR, 
 
 HENRY having divorced himself , from Ca- 
 tharine of Arragon, and Anne of Cleves, lost Jane 
 Seymour by death, and beheaded Anne Boleyn, 
 and Catharine Howard ; espoused in 1543, Lady 
 Catharine Par, widow of Nevil, Lord Latimer, 
 " a woman," according to Lord Herbert of 
 Cherbury " of much integrity and worth, and 
 some maturity of years ; beautified with many ex- 
 cellent virtues, especially with humanity, the 
 beauty of all other virtues." 
 
 Henry, who was as fickle in his opinions and 
 sentiments about religion, as he had shewn him- 
 self with regard to his wives, was continually al- 
 tering his religious tenets, which he obstinately 
 required should be believed and followed through- 
 out the kingdom. Many persons were cruelly- 
 tortured and punished with death, for not recant- 
 ing their opinion ; among others queen Catha- 
 rine was near falling a sacrifice to his malignity. 
 In 1546, the king from his extreme corpulency 
 and bad habit of body, became afflicted with 
 disorders, which threatened his life, and rendered 
 him even morethan usually peevish and passion- 
 ate. The queen attended him with the most 
 tender and dutiful care, and endeavoured by every 
 soothing art and compliance, to allay those gusts 
 of humour which were increased by his infirmi- 
 ties, to a most alarming degree. His favorite topic 
 of conversation was theology ; and Catharine, 
 whose good sense made her capable of discour <>- 
 ing on any subject, was frequently engaged in the 
 argument ; and being secretly inclined to xh.r 
 
134 HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 principles of the reformers, she, unwarily disco 
 vered too much of her mind on these occasions. 
 Henry, highly provoked that she should presume 
 to differ from him, made complaints of her ob- 
 stinacy to Gardiner, bishop of Winchester, who 
 gladly laid hold of the opportunity to inflame the 
 quarrel. He praised the kifig's anxious care for 
 preserving the orthodoxy of his subjects ; and 
 represented that the more elevated the person 
 was, who was chastised, and the more near to his 
 person, the greater terror would the example 
 strike into everyone, and the more glorious would 
 the sacrifice appear to all posterity. 
 
 Henry, hurried by his own impetuous temper, 
 and encouraged by his councellors y went so far 
 as to order articles of impeachment to be drawn 
 up against his consort, Wriothesely, the chancel- 
 lor, executed his commands ; and having ob* 
 tained the signature of the warrant* he chanced 
 to drop this important paper from his pocket; 
 and as some persons of the queer- 7 s party found it, 
 it was immediately carried her. She was sensi- 
 ble of the extreme danger to which she was ex- ■ 
 posed ; but did despair of being able by 
 her prudence and address, still to elude the ef- 
 forts of her enemies. She paid her usual visit 
 to the king, and found him in a more serene dis- 
 position than she had reason to expect. He en- 
 tered on a subject which was -so familiar to him, 
 and he seemed to challenge her to an argument 
 in divinity. She gently declined the conversa- 
 lion, and observed thr* such profound speculations 
 were ill suited to the natural imbecility of the sex. 
 " Women," said she, " by their first creation, 
 were made subject to men: the female after the 
 image of the male ; it belonged to the husband 
 oose principles for his wife ; the wife's duty 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES. io5 
 
 was, in all cases, to adopt implicitly the senti- 
 ments of her husband : and as to herself, it was 
 doubly her duty, being blest with a husband, 
 who was qualified by his judgment and learning, 
 not only to choose principles for his own family, 
 but for the most wise and knowing of every na 
 tion." 
 
 " Not so by St. Mary \ n replied the king ; 
 " you are now become a doctor, Kate : and better 
 fitted to give to than to receive instruction. " She 
 meekly replied, " that she was sensible how little 
 she was entitled to these praises ; that though 
 she usually declined not any conversation, how- 
 ever sublime, when proposed by his majesty : she .. 
 well knew that her conceptions could serve to no 
 other purpose, than to give him a little momentary 
 amusement, that she found the consersation apt to 
 languish when not revived by some opposition, 
 and had ventured sometimes to feign a contrariety 
 of sentiments, in order to give him the pleasure 
 of refuting her ; and that she .also pi -opooed, by 
 this innocent nrtiiice, to engage him into topics 
 whence she had observed by frequent experience, 
 that she reaped profit and instruction.'' — ** And is 
 it even so sweetheart ?" replied the king, u then 
 we are perfect friends again." — He embraced her 
 with great affection, and sent her away with as- 
 surances of protection and kindness. 
 
 Catharine's enemies, who were ignorant of this 
 reconciliation prepared next day to convey her 
 to the tower, pursuant to the king's warrant* 
 Henry and Catharine wery conversing amicably 
 in the garden, when the chancellor appeared with 
 forty constables. The king spoke to him at some 
 distance from her : and seemed to expostulate 
 with him in the severest manner : she even over- 
 heard the terms of knave, fool, and beast, which 
 
136 HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 he very liberally bestowed upon the magistrate - ? 
 and then ordered him to depart from his presence. 
 Catharine afterwards interposed to mitigate his 
 anger, M poor soul ! you know not how little intit- 
 Jed this man is to your good offices. From thence- 
 forth, the queen having narrowly escaped so great 
 a danger, was careful not to offend Henry 'V hu- 
 mor by any contradiction ; and Gardiner whose 
 malice had endeavoured to widen the breach, 
 could never afterwards recover his favour and 
 good opinion* 
 
 Thus Catharine, by her good sense and pro- 
 priety of conduct, and by yielding to the torrent 
 which she could not stop, affords a convincing 
 proof that mildness of temper will often gain 
 that ascendency over the turbulent passions of 
 man, which a less gentle spirit would in vain en- 
 deavour to control. 
 
 MARIA BEATRICE D'£5T», 
 
 CONSORT OF JAMES THE SECOND.. 
 
 MARIA BEATRICE LEONORA, of the 
 
 illustrious house of Este, second consort of Jamesr 
 the second, was daughter of Alfonso the fourth^ 
 duke of Modena, and of Loura Martinozz ; , niece 
 of cardinal Mazarine. She was born in 1658, 
 and educated with a view to take the veil : but 
 fortune disposed of her otherwise, and instead oi 
 being immured in the tranquil gloom of a con- 
 vent, she was thrown into a busy scene, and des- 
 tined to be buffettedby the storms and tempests 
 of an adverse world. 
 
 : 
 
. HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 13? 
 
 James, duke of York, soon after the death of 
 his first wife, declared his conversion to the Cath- 
 olic religion, and agreed to espouse Maria of the 
 house of Este, whom Louis the fourteenth de- 
 clared an adoptive daughter of France, and of- 
 fered to provide her with a suitable portion. But 
 when the messenger brought to Modena the pro- 
 posals of the duke of York, her mother Loura, 
 opposed the match, under the pretence that her 
 daughter, then only fifteen was too youug, and 
 intended to assume 1 the veil, and recommended 
 in her stead the princess Honoria, sister of her 
 late husband Alfonso the fourth. 
 
 The young princess either secretly instigated 
 by Rer mother, or impelled by devotion, express- 
 ed a determined resolution to enter into a con- 
 vent ; nor was her repugnance overcome, until a 
 letter was procured from the pope, commending 
 the marriage as highly beneficial to the Roman 
 Catholic religion, and condemning the resolutions 
 of the princess, to persevere in assuming the veil, 
 as immoral and criminal. This letter had its in- 
 tended efFect : on the SOth of September, Maria 
 was married to the dnke of York, by proxy, and 
 accompanied by her mother, -arrived at Paris : 
 where, as a prelude to her future misfortunes, she 
 was" detained till the repugnance of the parliament, 
 to the marriage of the presumptive heir with a 
 Catholic princess, was finally overcome. It was 
 not till the tenth December that she disembarked 
 at Dover, where she was received by the duke, 
 her husband ; by whom she was conducted with 
 regal pomp to London. 
 
 Her amiable ^qualities and meekness of .beha- 
 viour, would have conciliated the esteem of the 
 lish, if the dread of the Roman Catholic re- 
 -. had not hardened their hearts, and made 
 
i38 J?ISTOKICAL SKLTCHEa. 
 
 'her the object of general aversion. Unfortunate- 
 ly for her, the conduct of James contributed to 
 render his marriage more and more unpopular 
 ffd as the house of Modena was in close alliance 
 with France, it was apprehended that Louis 
 would assist him, on his accession to the crown, 
 to restore the church of Kome. These apprehen- 
 sions were but too nearly verified :. James after his 
 Accession rapidly caused laws to be enacted for 
 the advantage of the Roman Catholics, and the 
 oppression of the Protestants. 
 
 In consequence of these innovations, tiie Pro- 
 testants made application to the prince of Orange 
 to protect their laws and religion. The prince 
 hmded at Torbay the 5th of November, 1688 . 
 James himself, deserted by his army, and even by 
 his own children, and none remaining in whom 
 he could confide* precipitately embraced the re- 
 solution of sending his family, and likewise of re- 
 tiring himself, into France. In this resolution he 
 was encouraged by the queen, who was sensible 
 that her strong attachment to her own religion, 
 had rendered her the object of general hatred, 
 and who was terrified by the great ferment into 
 which the nation was thrown. 
 
 Louis the fourteenth having, with the great- 
 est humanity, offered his protection to the depos- 
 ed king, at ihe time when all abandoned and be- 
 trayed him, sent the duke de Lauzun to London, 
 to convey the queen and the prince of Wales, then 
 an infant, privately to France. Madame de Se- 
 vign'e has tbus described their escape : 
 
 "The evening of Lauzun's arrival in London, 
 the king, who had taken the resolution to favour 
 the queen's escape, retired with her as usual into 
 her department, laid himself down to repose, and 
 dismissed his attendants. An hour afterwards he 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 139 
 
 rose, and ordered a valet to introduce a person 
 whom he would find waiting at the door of the 
 anti chamber ; it was the duke de Lauzun. The 
 king said to him, 4 I ti .<st the queen and my son 
 to your care ; you must risk all hazards, and en- 
 counter all difficulties, to conduct them into 
 France.'' Lauzun thanked him for the trust re- 
 posed in him, but said it was .absolutely necessa- 
 ry, that another person should accompany him ; 
 and introduced Saint Victor, a gentleman of cou- 
 rage* and merit. Saint Victor took the infant and 
 wrapped him up in his great coat. Lauzun hand- 
 ed the queen, (you may easily imagine the scene 
 of parting between the king and queen) and, fol- 
 lowed by two female attendants, conducted her 
 into the street, placed her in a hackney coach, 
 and conveyed her to the Thames, where they took 
 a small open boat and descended the river, in 
 such boisterous and rainy weather, that the ele- 
 ments while they seemed to conspire against 
 them, in reality favoured their escape. 
 
 At length reaching the mouth of the Thames, 
 they embarked in a small sloop. Lauzun sat by 
 the side of the captain purposing to throw him 
 into the sea, if he should discover the rank of the 
 persons whom he had on board, and offered to 
 deliver them unto the adverse party : but the cap- 
 tain imagining that he carried ordinary passen- 
 gers, was only anxious to pass carefully through 
 fiftv, Dutch ships, which paid no attention to this 
 little yatch. 
 
 u Thus concealed by the mean appearance of 
 the vessel, and conducted by heaven,, the queen 
 ;md her party landed at Calais. The queen re-. 
 tired into a convent at Bologue, till she received 
 news of the king's safety, It is well known that 
 the prince of Orange was desirous that James 
 
140 HISTORICAL SKETCHES* 
 
 should leave England. He was sent to Roches- 
 ter, the very place to which he had intended go- 
 ing. The house appointed for its reception was 
 strongly guarded in front, but the back part was 
 not secured, by which means he made his escape 
 to France. 
 
 "Louis acts divinely towards the royal fugi- 
 tives ; for is it not being the image of the All- 
 powerful Being, to support a king at a time when 
 he was betrayed and abandoned by his subjects, 
 and obliged to fly from his kingdom? 
 
 " The magnanimous soul of Louis performs 
 this great part He set out with his retinue and 
 a hundred coaches and six, to meet the queen and 
 the prince of Wales. When he perceived the 
 prince's coach, he alighted from his carriage, and 
 embraced the child tenderly ; he then ran to the 
 queen, saluted her, and conversed with her some 
 time, he seated her on his right hand in his own 
 carriage, and carried her to Saint Germain, 
 where she found herself treated like a queen ; 
 was provided with clothes, and every accommo- 
 dation, and was presented with a small box, con- 
 taining six thousand louis'd'ors. 
 
 u The following day James arrived at St. Ger- 
 main. Louis went to the end of the hall to re- 
 ceive the king of England: James bowed very 
 low, as if he would embrace his knees : Louis 
 prevented him, and embraced him very cordially ; 
 and then said to him, 'This, sir, is your house; 
 when I shall corne here you will do the honours, 
 anil I will pay them to you when you come tc 
 Versailles. 
 
 u Louis sent ten thousand louis'd'ors to the fal- 
 len king. James appears old and worn one; the 
 queen is thin, and distress is painted on her coun- 
 tenance ; bat she has fine black eves, beautifu- 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 141 
 
 teeth, an elegant shape : and is possessed of a su- 
 perior understanding. On seeing Louis caress 
 the prince of Wales, who is a lovely child, she 
 said to him, i I have often envied the happiness 
 of my son, because he cannot feel the weight of 
 his misfortunes, but now I pity him because he is 
 insensible to the value of ihe caresses and the 
 kindness of your majesty. " 
 
 u Her husband forms a total contrast to her 
 character ; h£ has great personal counige, but an 
 inferior understanding, and relates, with an aston- 
 ishing degree of insensibility, the unparalleled 
 adventures which have befallen him in England." 
 
 Many efforts were made by Louis to restore 
 James to the throne, but they all proved ineffec- 
 tual. The queen entered into correspondence 
 with several of the English nobility, who were 
 favourable to her cause ; but all her attempts to 
 procure a revolution were fruitless. She had 
 much more spirit and far greater ambition than 
 James, who was satisfied with the empty title ox 
 king, which he enjoyed in France, and what he 
 valued still more highly, the appellation of saint; 
 for which he relinquished a crown, and even pri - 
 ded himself on the loss. His principles of reli- 
 gion were sincere, and he frequently was heard to 
 declare, that he owed more to the prince of 
 Orange than to all the world besides, as, by seiz- 
 ing the crown, he had proved to him the nothing- 
 ness of all human grandeur, and rendered him 
 fitter for the kingdom of heaven. 
 
 On his death bed, almost his last words were, 
 that he entreated God to pardon all his enemies, 
 and particularly the prince of Orange ; and he 
 said to his son with a mixture of philosophy and 
 religion, ' whatever may be thecharms of a crown, 
 the time must come when it will be of no va> 
 
14^ HISTORICAL SKETCHES* 
 
 me ; respect your mother, love the king of France, 
 and prefer your religion to all eirthly grandeur.' 
 
 Louis the fourteenth had long hesitated whe- 
 ther he should acknowledge the son of James the 
 second, after the death of his father. 
 
 On the day previous to that en which James 
 died, Maria, introduced b)^ Madame de Mainte- 
 zion into the presence of Louis the fourteenth, 
 conjui id him not to affront the memory of a king, 
 whom he had so warmly protected, and who was 
 soon to be no more, by withholding from his son 
 a simple title, the sole remains of all his grandeur, 
 nor to heap such disgrace on her innocent son, 
 whom he had already treated as prince of Wales, 
 and whom he ought therefore to acknowledge as 
 king after the death of his father. His glory by- 
 such a conduct, she added, would be sullied, and 
 his interests would not be advanced : for whether 
 he acknowledged, or refused to acknowledge, the 
 son of the unfortunate king, England would 
 equally arm against France, and he would only 
 experience the regret of having sacrificed the 
 feelings of humanity and dignity cf *.<?*»* iment, 
 to useicss precautions. Louis affected by her 
 tears, which w ere ably seconded by the represen- 
 tations of Madame de Maintenon, immediately 
 repaired to the apartment of the dying king : 
 4 1 come, sir,' he said, ' to acquaint your ma- 
 jesty, that whenever it pleases God to remove you 
 from this world into a better, I will take your fa- 
 mily under my protection ; that I will treat your 
 son, the prince of Wales, in the same manner as 
 king of England, as will be his undoubted right.'' 
 
 All who were present, shed tears at this speech, 
 some threw themselves at his feet and embraced 
 <h\s knc;-s : scrae uttered incoherent expression? ; 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 145 
 
 others testified, by gestures, more expressive than 
 words, their sensibility at so generous an action. 
 Louis himself was so affected at this touching 
 scene, that he wept ; and the dying monarch was 
 seen struggling, almost in the agonies of death, 
 to signify his gratitude and joy. 
 
 Not long before the death of Anne, Maria in- i 
 dulged the fond hope that her son would be called 
 to the succession ; but saw that hope frustrated 
 almost as soon as it was conceived. She heard 
 that, on the accession of George, the English na~ 
 tion was filled with discontent, and that a large 
 party was ready to declare in favour of her son. 
 She embraced him at his departure, in order to 
 put himself at the head of the mal -contents, and 
 said, 'My son, return king, or do not return at 
 all ;' yet in a few months she had the mortification 
 to see him return without a crown, and the still 
 greater mortification to behold the regent-duke of 
 Orleans in close alliance with George the first, 
 and the court of France, which had hitherto pro- 
 tected her son, compel him to retire in disgrace 
 from that kingdom in which he had taken an 
 asylum. 
 
 She lived, however, to hear, that he was re- 
 seived at Madrid with royal honours, and that 
 great preperations were making to restore him to 
 the throne, but death saved her from the chagrin 
 of finding her sanguine expectations again frus- 
 (rated, and of beholding him a fugitive, wander- 
 ing without any settled abode, and avoided by the 
 principal powers of Europe. 
 
 Maria died at St. Germain, on the 7th of May, 
 in 8, in the sixty-first year of her age ; a prin- 
 cess whose meekness in prosperous, and dignity 
 in adverse circumstances, attracted the esteem 
 
144 WW HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 of her own age, and deserve the admiration of 
 posterity. 
 
 QUEEN MARY, 
 
 CONSORT OF WILLIAM III. 
 
 MARY, eldest daughter of James, duke of 
 York, by Anne Hyde, daughter of the earl of 
 Clarendon, was born in May, 1662, and by the 
 command of Charles the second, was educated in 
 the protestant religion, in direct opposition to her 
 father, who professed the doctrines of the Roman 
 Catholic church. 
 
 Charles, though without religion himself, had 
 sense sufficient to perceive and calculate its ef- 
 fects and influence over the public mind, and in 
 order to quiet the-suspicions of the people, and to 
 stem the torrent of popular discontents, offered 
 the lady Mary in marriage to his nephew, Wil- 
 liam, prince of Orange. 
 
 During the course of the negociation for the 
 marriage, Mary experienced a satisfaction which 
 few princesses ever enjov, that of being convinc- 
 ed that her person and dispositions, no less than 
 her rank and situation, were the motives which 
 influenced the choice of William. 
 
 On his arrival in England he declined acceding 
 to the offer of the princess's hand, until he had 
 seen and conversed with her. He declared that, 
 contrary to the usual sentiments of persons of his 
 rank, he placed a great part of his happiness in 
 domestic satisfaction ; and would not, upon any 
 •consideration of interest or policy, unite himself 
 with a person who was not perfectly agreeable tc 
 
aiSTOKICAL SKETCHED. 146 
 
 him. Being introduced, be found the princess in 
 the bloom of youth and beauty, pleasing in her 
 manners, graceful in her person, and meek in her 
 dispositon ; and became no less eager from incli- 
 nation than prompted by interest to conclude the 
 match. Mary had penetration sufficient to dis- 
 tinguish the great and noble mind of die prince 
 of Orange, through his cold and reserved beha- 
 viour. 
 
 The marriage was solemnized on the 10th of 
 May, 1677. Mary accompanied her husband 
 abroad, and resided in Holland. The court of 
 the Hague became the centre of the intrigues and 
 cabals of the popular party in England, who 
 looked up to the prince of Orange as their support 
 and protection against the profligate Charles, the 
 pensioner of the French court, and the attempts 
 of James, to subvert the constitution of church 
 and state. At length the spirit of the English 
 nation, and the prudence and valour of William 
 effected the revolution of 1688, and placed Wil- 
 liam and Mary on the throne. During the dis- 
 putes which accompanied the act of settlement, 
 Mary preserved herself free from all interference, 
 and co-cperated with the wishes of her husband, 
 and the sentiments of the nation. Both houses 
 of parliament were desirous of proclaiming Mary 
 queen and the prince of Orange regent. When. 
 William had expressed his resolution not to ac- 
 cept a crown, which must depend on the life 
 and will cf another, Mary seconded his views, 
 and preferred her duty to her husband and the 
 interest of her country, to every motive Gf am- 
 bition and interest. When lord Danbv also offer- 
 ed the princess, that if she would join his party- 
 he would place her alone upon the throne, Mary 
 replied, that she was the prince's wife, and that 
 
146 HISTORICAL SKETCHED 
 
 her only desire was to act in conjunction with him, 
 and that she should be extremeiy displeased with 
 all those, who, under a pretence of promoting her 
 particular welfare, should presume to set up a 
 divided interest between her and the prince ; and 
 she instantly sent lord Danby's letter and the an- 
 swer to the prince, and thus broke all the mea- 
 sures of those who wished to created a misunder- 
 standing between them. 
 
 Accordingly the crown was settled on Willian\ 
 and Mary, the sole administration vested in Wil- 
 liam ; and Mary did not again appear in a public 
 and political character till 1690, when James 
 landed in Ireland at the head of a French army, 
 and was joined by a large concourse of the na- 
 tives : William repaired instantly to the scene of 
 danger; and Mary was appointed regent during 
 his absence. She had lived so abstracted from 
 business, and so totally absorbed in domestic oc- 
 cupations, that it was generally concluded she had 
 no talents for government : but William knew 
 and appreciated her capacity for business. 
 
 While the English were intent upon the fate of 
 the Irish war, they were alarmed with the disco- 
 very of a conspiracy at home, in which several 
 Scottish and English noblemen were engaged, 
 and were to be assisted by the navy of France, 
 which soon arrived upon the coast of England. 
 The queen exerted herself with great vigour in 
 causing the principal conspirators^o be arrested, 
 and exemplified a wonderful magnanimity in this 
 time of trial and danger, as appears by the fol- 
 lowing expressions in her letter to king Wil- 
 liam : 
 
 4i The news which has come to-night, of the 
 French fleet being upon the coast, makes it be 
 thought necessary to write to you both ways ; and 
 
HISTORICAL SK'eTCHLS. '147 
 
 i, that you may see how matters stand ..in my 
 heart, prepare a letter for each. I think lord 
 Torrington has made no haste : and I cannot tell 
 whether his being sick, and staying for lord Pem- 
 broke's regiment, will be a sufficient excuse. But 
 I will not take up your time with my reasonings, 
 I shall only tell you that I am so little afraid, 
 that I begin to fear I have not sense enough to 
 apprehend the danger : for whether it threatens 
 Ireland or this place, tome it h much as one as 
 to the fear ; for as much a coward as you think 
 me, I fear more for your dear person than for 
 myself. I know which is most necessary in the 
 world. What I fear most at present is not hear- 
 ing from you. Love me, whatever happens, and 
 be assured I am ever entirely your's till death." 
 
 When the French squadron arrived upon the 
 coast of England, lord Torrington, who com- 
 manded the English and Dutch fleets engaged 
 with the French oif Beachy-head ; the Dutch 
 lost several vessels, and the next day the combin- 
 ed fleet declined a second battle, and retired to 
 the Thames, to defend the metropolis; the Dutch 
 in their retreat, burning some of their own ship.-, 
 to prevent their falling into the hands of the 
 cue in)-. 
 
 When this defeat was known in London, a sud • 
 den despondency seized all the people, and it was 
 believed that England and Holland would fail 
 victims to the fatal friendship of Louis and James. 
 Vet Mary, even then, by her actions and in her 
 letters, shewed great fortitude, and expressed ex- 
 treme confidence in the goodness of her cause : 
 
 " As for the ill-success at sea, I am more con- 
 cerned for the honour of the nation than any 
 thing else ; but I think it has pleased God to pun- 
 ish them justlv, for thev reallv talked as if it 
 
14S HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 were;impossible they should be beaten. I pray 
 God we may no more deserve the punishment* 
 I fear this news may give courage to those who 
 retired before ; but God can disappoint them all, 
 and i hope will take care of his cause. I long to 
 hear again from yon, which is my only comfort, 
 loving you more than my life." 
 
 Again — u Monmouth endeavours to fright me, 
 by telling me the danger we are in, and indeed 
 things have but a melancholy prospect ; but I am. 
 fully persuaded God will do some great thing or 
 other, it may be when human means fail, he will 
 shew his power." 
 
 Having heard that William was wounded, in 
 the midst of her anxiety for the fate of Great 
 Britain, she writes; — " For God's sake let me 
 beg you to take more care for the time to come ; 
 consider what depends upon your safety ; there 
 are so many more important things than myself, 
 that I am not worthy of naming them." 
 
 William immediately after gaining the memo- 
 Table battle of the Boyne, which entirely gave his 
 party the ascendency in that kingdom, and James's 
 cause seemed hopeless. On receiving the news 
 of this victory, in which William totally routed 
 James's army, Mary thus represented'the feelings 
 of her heart : 
 
 " How to begin this letter I do not know, or 
 how ever to render God thanks enough for his 
 mercy ; my heart is so full of joy and acknow- 
 ledgement to that great God who has preserved 
 you, and given you such a victory, that I am 
 unable to explain it. I was yesterday out of my 
 senses with trouble — I am now almost so with 
 
 « When lord Nottingham brought me your 
 jotter yesterday, I could not hold, so he saw me 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES* 140 
 
 cry, # which I have hindered myself from before 
 every body till then, when it was impossible ; and 
 this morning, when I heard the joyful news from 
 Mr. Butler, I was in pain to know what was be- 
 come of tbe late king, and durst not ask him ; but 
 when lord Nottingham came, I did venture to do 
 it, and I had the satisfaction to know he was safe. 
 I know I need not beg you to let him be taken 
 care of, for I am confident you will for your own 
 sake; yet add that to all your kindness, and, for 
 my sake, let people know you would have no hurt 
 come to his person — forgive me this.' 7 
 
 The news of William's success no sooner ar- 
 rived in England than the people's spirits, which 
 were before so much depressed, were immedi- 
 ately raised. William became extremely popu- 
 lar. The queen took advantage of the favour- 
 able current, and in order to save the honour of 
 national courage, which had suffered by the late 
 engagement at sea, committed lord Torrington to 
 the tower. She ordered the Dutch ships to bo 
 repaired at the expense of the English ; their 
 wounded seamen were taken care of in the hospi- 
 tals ; pensions were given to the widows and chil- 
 dren of those who died in the battle; and conduct- 
 money to the seamen vhose ships had been burn- 
 ed, which led them to carry accounts to their 
 countrymen of the noble disposition of that na- 
 tion, for which they had suffered. 
 
 Mary continued to act with vigour for the sup- 
 port of the nation till William's return. The 
 following letter to him shews her humble opinion 
 of herself, and her attachment to her husband : 
 
 " You may believe I shall do as much as lies 
 in my power to follow your directions in all things 
 
 * When king William was wounded. 
 N 2 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES* 
 
 whatever, and am never so easy as when I have 
 them. Judge then what a joy it was to me to 
 have your approbation of my behaviour ; and 
 the kind way you expressed it in, is the only 
 comfort I can possibly have in your absence j 
 what other people tell me I ever suspect, but when 
 you tell me I have done well, I could be almost 
 vain upon it." 
 
 Her anxiety to promote the cause of religic:: 
 appears by the following letter to William : 
 
 " I have been desired also to beg you not to 
 he too quick in parting with confiscated estates, 
 but consider whether you will not keep some foi 
 public schools, to instruct the • poor Irish. For 
 my part, I must needs say, that I think you would 
 do very well if you would consider what care 
 can be taken of the poor souls there ; and indeed, 
 if you give me leave, I must tell you, I think the 
 wonderful deliverance and success you have had 
 should oblige you to think upon doing what you. 
 can for die advancement of true religion and pro- 
 noting the gospel. 7 '* 
 
 William, upon his return from Ireland, was re- 
 ceived with joy by the people, and Mary retired 
 from the management of public affairs, to the 
 milder enjoyment of domestic happiness ; in 
 which retirement she still continued to set as 
 bright an example to the nation as she had before 
 den? in public life. She endeavoured to reform 
 me manne-/3 of the ladies about the court, for 
 ;^reat irregularities had been committed during 
 the two preceding reigns. Her deportment was 
 pei fec'.ly prudent, yet unrestained ; and she was 
 so animated with a natural cheerfulness of dispo- 
 sition, and she set religion and virtue in so amia- 
 ble a liuht, that she freed the court from I 
 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES, 151 
 
 intrigues and immoralities which had so long been 
 a scandal to the nation. 
 
 But the adored queen of the English nation had 
 but "a-very short time allotted her to influence the 
 world by her example. She was seized with the 
 small-pox. Her illness was soon judged to be 
 fatal : the king, on hearing that the queen was 
 past all hope of recovery, called bishop Burner 
 into his closet, burst into tears, and exclaimed, 
 " From the happiest, I am now going to be the 
 most miserable creature upon earth. During the 
 whole course of my life, I have never known one 
 single fault in her; there is a worth in her which 
 nobody knows besides myself." While she re- 
 mained alive he was in great agonies, fainting and 
 bursting into loud lamentations. 
 
 She expired in the thirty third year of her age, 
 and the sixth of her reign. After her death, the 
 king's spirits were so depressed, that it was appre- 
 hended he would not long survive her. 
 
 Mary was a rare instance of a person, who was 
 the next heir to a crown, who had abilities re- 
 quisite to fill that exalted station, and yet was so 
 entirely devoid of ambition, as not to appear even 
 desirous of being the first person in the kingdom. 
 Conjugal affection seems to have been the ruling 
 principle of her life. The only part of her cha- 
 racter which can be called in question, is the tak- 
 ing part against her father. But it may surely 
 be allowed as her justification, that her regard 
 for her religion, and for the liberties of the nation, 
 might make her think this step necessary and 
 lawful. And it is to be lamented, that she was 
 placed hi so critical a situation, that she must 
 either have joined her father against her husband, 
 her religion, and the liberty ol h^r native country 
 -—or have joined her husband, her religion, and 
 liberty, against her father. 
 
i5^ HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 The character of this great and amiable queen 
 has been often drawn, but by none more ably 
 than by Mr. Boyer.^ 
 
 " Her person was tall and well proportioned ; 
 her shape, while princess of Orange, easy and 
 genteel ; her visage oval, her eyes quick and lively, 
 and the rest of her features regular. Her stately 
 port and native air of greatness, commanded res- 
 pect from the most confident ; but her sweet and 
 graceful countenance tempered the awfulness of 
 majesty, and her affable temper encouraged the 
 most timorous to approach her. 
 
 u Her apprehensions were clear and ready, he: 
 memory exact, and her judgement steady and 
 solid ; her soul free from all the weaknesses of 
 her own sex, and endowed with the courage and 
 strength that seemed peculiar to ours. She was 
 neither elated with prosperity, nor Rejected by- 
 adversity ; and it remains undecided, whether 
 she bore with more temper the smiles or the 
 frowns of fortune ! 
 
 a When the necessity of affairs called the king 
 out of his dominions, she alone was sensible of 
 his absence, which she fully supplied to these 
 three kingdoms, by her wise and prudent admin- 
 istration. While he went abroad as the arbiter 
 of Europe, to wage a just war, she staid at home, 
 to maintain peace and administer justice. He 
 was to oppose and conquer enemies ; she to main- 
 tain and gain friends. In all this there was an 
 union of their thoughts, and a concurrence in the 
 sam^firnds, the safety of Europe the support of 
 the protestant religion, and the honour and pros- 
 perity of England. An eagerness of command 
 was so far below her, that never was so great a 
 
 * See Rapin's History of England, vol. xlv. p. 146- 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES, l5d 
 
 capacity for government joined with so little ap- 
 petite to it; or an authority so unwillingly assum- 
 ed, so modestly managed, and so cheerfully laid 
 down. It was easy for her to reward, for all 
 sorts of bounty flowed readily from her ; but it was 
 much harder for her to punish, except when the 
 nature of the crime made mercy become a cruelty, 
 for then she was inexorable. 
 
 " She had the most active zeal for the public, 
 and^ the most constant desire of doing good, 
 joined with such unaffected humility, that the se- 
 cret flatteries of vanity or self-love had no power 
 over her ; for, when due acknowledgements were 
 made, or decent things said upon occasions that 
 well deserved them, these seemed scarce to be 
 heard, and she presently turned off the discourse 
 to other subjects. 
 
 " Her piety and virtue were real and unaffect- 
 ed ; and the vivacity and sweetness of her tem- 
 per and conversation softened all those disagree- 
 able ideas, which the world is too willing too en- 
 tertain of the severities of virtue, and of the 
 strictness of true religion. 
 
 " She was not content with being devout her- 
 self, but she infused piety into all who came near 
 her; especially those whom she took into her 
 more immediate care, and whom she sudied to 
 form with the tenderness and watchfulness of a 
 mother- She charmed them with her instructions, 
 as she overcame them with her kindness. Never 
 was mistress both feared and loved so entirely as 
 she was. She scattered books of instruction round 
 about her, that such as waited might not be con- 
 demned to idleness, but might entertain them- 
 selves, usefully, when they w T ere in their turns of 
 attendance* 
 
lo4< HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 a She had a sublime idea of the christian rcli 
 gion in general, and a particular affection to the 
 church of England, but an affection that was nei- 
 ther blind nor partial. She had a true regard to 
 piety wherever she saw it, in whatever form or 
 party soever. Her education and judgement led 
 her to the national communion; but her charity, 
 was extended to all. She longed to see all pro- 
 tectants both at home and abroad, in a close and 
 brotherly conjunction ; and few things ever griev- 
 ed her more than the prospect of so desired an 
 union vanished out of sight. 
 
 " Access to her was never obstructed by self- 
 interested supercilious domestics. She made those 
 her favourites, who made the distressed theirs. 
 She wondered that the true pleasure which accom- 
 panied doing good, did not engage princes to pur- 
 sue it more effectual!}'. Without this she thought 
 that a private life was the happier, as well as the 
 safer state. When reflections were once made 
 before her of the sharpness of some historians, 
 who had left heavy imputations on the memory 
 of some princes, she answered, " That if those 
 princes were such as the historians represented 
 them, they had well deserved that treatment ; 
 and others, who tread their steps, might look for 
 the same, for truth would be told at last. 1 ' Her 
 charity was not confined to her own subjects, but 
 extended in a most particular manner to multi- 
 tudes of French exiles, whom persecution sent 
 hither. The scattered Vaudois had a share in 
 her bounty; and when, by the king's intercession, 
 restored to their vailies, they were enabled by the 
 queen to transmit their faith to posterity. And 
 the last great project that her thoughts were 
 working on, with a relation to a noble and ro3 T al 
 provision for disabled seamen at Greenwich, was* 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 155 
 
 particularly designed to be so constituted , as to 
 put them in a probable way of ending their day? 
 in the fear of God. 
 
 " She was a perfect example of conjugal love, 
 chastity and obedience. She set her husband's 
 will before her as the rule of her life. Her admi- 
 ration of him made her submission not only easy, 
 but delightful ; and it is remarkable, that when 
 Dr. Tennison, named to be archbishop of Can- 
 terbury, went to comfort the king, his majesty 
 answered, " that he could not but grieve, since 
 he had lost a wife, who in seventeen years, had 
 never been guilty of any indiscretion." 
 
 u The openness of her behaviour was subject to 
 univefsa! observation, but under such regularity 
 of conduct, that those, who knew her best, or saw 
 her oftenest, could never discover her thoughts 
 further than she herself had a mind to reveal 
 them ; and this she managed so, that no distrust 
 was shewn in it, nor distaste given by it. 
 
 "She maintained sincerity so entirely, that she 
 never once needed explanations to justify either 
 her words or actions. As she would never de- 
 ceive others, so she avoided the saying of any 
 thing that might give them occasion to deceive 
 themselves. And when she did not intend to 
 promise, she took care to explain her meaning so 
 critically, that fruitless hopes might not be concei- 
 ved from general words of favour. 
 
 " Her age and her rank had denied her oppor- 
 tunities for much study, yet she had read the best 
 hooks in English, French and Dutch, the 'three 
 languages that were almost equally familiar to 
 her. She gave the most of her retired hours to 
 the reading of the Scriptures, and of books relat- 
 ing to them. Next to the best subjects, she bes- 
 towed ^nost of her time in books of history, espe- 
 
156 HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 cially of the latter ages, and particularly of her 
 own kingdoms, as being the most proper to give 
 her useful instructions. She had a great relish, 
 as well as a great love for poetry, but loved it best 
 when it was conversant about divine and moral 
 subjects ; and she would often express her concern 
 for the defilement of the English stage. 
 
 " She had no relish for those indolent diversions 
 which are too common consumers of most people's 
 time, and which make as great wastes on their 
 minds, as they do on their fortunes. If she used 
 them sometimes, it was only in compliance with 
 forms, because she was unwilling to seem to cen- 
 sure others with too harsh a severity. She gave 
 her minutes of leisure with the greatest delight 
 to architecture and gardening. She had no other 
 inclination, besides this, to any diversions that 
 were expensive ; and since this employed many 
 hands, she was pleased to say, " that she hoped 
 it would be forgiven her." When her eyes were 
 endangered by reading too much, and in all those 
 hours that were not given to better employments, 
 she wrought with her own hands, and that some- 
 times with so constant a diligence, as if she had 
 been to get her living by it. It was a new sight, 
 (and such an one as was made by some the sub- 
 ject of raillery) to see a queen work so many 
 hours in a day. But she used to say, " that she 
 looked upon idleness as the greatest corrupter of 
 human nature. That if the mind had no employ- 
 ment given it, it would create some of the worst 
 sort to itself." Her example soon. wrought on 
 not only those who belonged to her, but the \yhole 
 kingdom to follow it ; so that it was become as 
 much the fashion among the ladies of quality to 
 work, as it had been formerly to be idle- 
 

 HISTORICAL SKETCHES. IV?" 
 
 '■'- She thought it a barbarous diversion which 
 resulted from the misfortunes, imperfections, or 
 follies of others ; and she scarce expressed a 
 more entire satisfaction in any sermon, than inth&t 
 of archbishop Tiilotson, against evil speaking : 
 ■when she thought some were guilty of it, she 
 would ask them, " if they had read rfiat senjSbn?" 
 which was understood to be a reprimand, though 
 in the softest manner. She had indeed one of 
 the blessings of virtue, that docs not always ac- 
 company it, for she was as free from censures, as 
 she was from deserving them. 
 
 " She received the intimations of approaching 
 death, with an entire resignation to the will of 
 God ; and when in the closest struggle with the 
 king of terrors, she preserved a perfect tranquil- 
 lity. The melancholy sighs of all who came near 
 her, could not discompose her. She then declar- 
 ed, " that she felt the joys of a good conscience, 
 and the power of religion, giving her support, 
 which even the last agonies could not shake. '- 
 She received the sacrament with a devotion that 
 mftamed as well as melted all who saw it ; and 
 then quietly concluded a life that had been led 
 through a variety of accidents with a constant 
 equality of temper. To sum up all, she 1 was a 
 tender wife, a kind friend, a gentle mistress, a 
 f,;ood christian, and one of the best of women." 
 
 lRIE ANTOINETTE. 
 
 THE unfortunate Marie Antoinette, consort 
 ©f the equally unfortunate Louis XVI . king of 
 France, was sister to the late emperor of Germa- 
 ny. Thev were married vUUe Lol-iis was dan- 
 

 158 HISTORICAL SKETCHES- 
 
 phin ; and, on their accession-to the throne, wee? 
 idolized by the people for that mild condescension 
 of manners which induced them to forego much 
 of the etiquette of royalty, and mingle familiarly 
 with their subjects. The queen, in particular, a 
 beautiful young woman, the pride of the house of 
 Austria launched too precipitately into the vortex 
 of pleasure, consulting less the dignity of her 
 exalted situation than the vain gratification of a 
 perpetual thirst after gaiety, and those frivolous 
 amusements, which, in time, enervate the noblest 
 hearts, and stamp the foundation of the sternest 
 virtue. A momentous lesson, this, to the sove- 
 reigns of Europe ! who might expect similar ef- 
 fects to result from similar causes ; and a no less 
 salutary caution to the subordinate ranks of so- 
 ciety, who are not likely to escape unhurt, by the 
 inordinate desire of seeking a meretricious feli- 
 city, in those flowery paths of pleasure, where 
 lurk the concealed serpents, whose deadly fangs 
 have so unpityingly lacerated royalty. 
 
 How far this ill-fated queen was lead to tran- 
 gress the bounds of decorum, we hare no mate- 
 rials on which we can rely, that enable ifs to judge. 
 The fabrication of the many gross calumnies, 
 published against her character, by the most de- 
 praved of the human species, bear internal evi- 
 dence of the vileness and atrocity of their au- 
 thors, whose detestable, minds are capable of the 
 most diabolical suggestions, and who are, there- 
 fore, not entitled to the smallest degree of credi- 
 bility. In the relaxed morals of the court of 
 France, and the feminine degeneracy and dissi- 
 pation of the whole nation, we have, probably, 
 the true causes of all the miseries with which that 
 devoted country has been overwhelmed. 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 159 
 
 The queen certainly degraded herself, by emu- 
 rating opera performers ; and by suffering those 
 to become her companions who were of reproach* 
 able characters. It is sufficient for virtue if she 
 pities, but she ought never to countenance vice. 
 It is probable, however, that a mere excess of 
 good nature impelled the queen to associate with 
 those whom she found it necessary to consult re- 
 specting her favourite fetes, and other trivial 
 amusements. She sought to secure happini 
 herself; she sought to diffuse it among the people; 
 hut unhappily she sought it not solely in that tran- 
 quil and retired path of domestic virtue, where all 
 that is to be met with on earth., can aicnebc £u\.md ; 
 in the pure affection of a beloved husband, and in 
 the chaste endearments of a lovely and innocent 
 offspring, trained up to piety and virtue. This 
 seems to have beea the grand error of her life. 
 She loved her husband, and she loved her chil- 
 dren ; but sought not, in their society alone, her 
 chief happiness* 
 
 There are various well authenticated anecdotes, 
 of the queen's feelings and humanity ; of the ma- 
 ny gross and indelicate charges against her, there 
 aeems no one positive proof. On her true character 
 the page of a future historian must decide ; 
 when prejudices shall have been mowed down by 
 the scythe of ^ime ; and when friendly pity for 
 her sufferings, which must long fill every virtuous 
 bosom, and render humid every eye, at the shock- 
 ing recital, shall sufficiently subside, to yield truth 
 the powers of giving the sad tale faithfully to pos- 
 terity. In the mean time, we make no scruple to 
 assert that the charges under which both herself 
 and her august consort were condemned to the ig- 
 nominous death they so shamefully suffered, 
 .constituted the vilest mockery of justice that evrr 
 
PoO HISTORICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 was exhibited among a people pretending to the 
 smallest degree of civilization. And that no- 
 thing against her morals was exhibited on her 
 trial, except the incredible story respecting her 
 infant son, a child scarcely eight years, of age, 
 and which no human being ever believed, is a 
 most powerful argument in favour of the queen's 
 actual virtue* 
 
 After suffering a long and cruel imprisonment ; 
 having seen a beloved husband led to the scaffold ; 
 been deprived of the sole remaining consolation, 
 by a brutal separation from her children, and in- 
 sulted by the solemn mockery of a public trial ; 
 <he was beheaded at Paris, on Wednesday, the 
 16th of Obtober, 1793, being in her thirty-eighth 
 year. The corpse of the ill-fated queen was im- 
 mediately buried in a grave filled with quick-lime, 
 in the church-yard, called De La Maaelaine\ 
 where her unfortunate consort, Louis XVI. had 
 been before deposited and consumed in the same 
 manner. 
 
 Mr. Burke [s animated description of the late Queen 
 of France. 
 
 It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw 
 the queen of France, then the dauphiness, at 
 Versailles ; and surely never lighted on this orb, 
 which she hardly seemed to touch, a more de- 
 lightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, 
 decorating and cheering the elevated sphere, she 
 just began to move in — glitteringlike the morning 
 star, full of life, and splendor, and joy. Oh, 
 what a revolution ! and what an. heart must I have 
 to contemplate,- without emotion, that elevation, 
 and that fall ! Little did I dream, when she 
 added titles of veneration to those of enthusias- 
 tic, distant respectful love, that she should ever 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCHES., lG£ 
 
 be obliged to carry the sharp antidote against dis- 
 grace, concealed in that bosom ; little did I dream 
 that I should live to see such disasters fal- 
 len upon her in a nation of gallant men, in a nation 
 of men of honour, and of cavaliers. I thought ten 
 thousand swords must have leaped from their 
 scabbards, to avenge even a look, that threatened 
 her with insult. But the age of chivalry is gone ; 
 that of sophisters, economists and calculators 
 has succeeded ; and the glory of Europe is ex- 
 tinguished fore-ver. Never, never more, shall we 
 behold that generous loyalty to rank and sex , 
 that proud submission, that dignified obedience, 
 that subordination of the heart, which kept alive., 
 even in servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted 
 freedom. The unbought grace of life, the cheap 
 defence of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment 
 and heroic enterprize, is gone! It is gone — that 
 sensibility cf principle, that chastity of honour, 
 which felt a stain like a wound; which inspired 
 courage, while it mitigated ferocity; which enno- 
 bled whatever it touched, and under which, vice 
 itself lost half its evil. \:y losing all it^ gross- 
 

 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 MISS ELIZA-BETH SMITH. 
 
 f HE " Fragments in prose and verse," of 
 this extraordinarily ingenious and most excellent 
 young lady, have been lately published, with some 
 account of her life and character ; and from them 
 we extract the leading particulars illustrative of 
 the life and mind of Miss Smith. 
 
 She was born at Burnhall, in the county of 
 Durham, in December, 1776. 
 
 At a very early age she discovered that love 
 of reading, and that close application to whatever 
 she engaged in, which marked her character 
 through life. She was accustomed, when only 
 three years old to leave an elder brother and young- 
 er sister to play and amuse themselves, while she 
 eagerly seized on such books as a nursery library 
 commonly affords, and made herself mistress of 
 their contents. At four years of age she read 
 extremely well. What in others is usually 
 the effect of education and habit seemed born 
 with her. From a very babe the utmost regula- 
 rity was observable in all her actions. Whatever 
 she did was ivell done, and with an apparent re- 
 flection far beyond her years. 
 
 44 In the beginning of 1782," says Mrs. Smith, 
 " we removed into a distant country, at the earnest 
 entreaty of a blind relation, and in the following 
 year my attendance on him becoming so necessary 
 as daily to engage several hours, at his request I' 
 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 103 
 
 waj influenced to take a young lady, whom he 
 wished to serve in consequence of her family hav- 
 ing experienced some severe misfortunes. This 
 lady was then scarcely sixteen ; and I expected 
 merely to have found a companion for my chil- 
 dren during my absence ; but her abilities ex- 
 ceeded her years, and she became their governess 
 during our stay in Suffolk, which was about eigh- 
 teen months. On the death of my relation, in 
 1784, we returned to Biunhall, and remained 
 there till June, in the following year, when wc 
 removed to Piercefield. In the course of the 
 preceding winter Elizabeth had made an uncom- 
 mon progress in music. From the time of cur 
 quitting Suffolk, till the spring of 1786, my chil- 
 dren had no instruction except from myself; but 
 their former governess then returned to me, snd 
 continued in the family three years longer. By 
 her the children were instructed in French, and 
 in the little Italian, which she herself then under- 
 stood. I mention these particulars to prove how 
 very little instruction in languages my daughter 
 received, and that the knowledge she afterwards 
 acquired of them was the effect of her own, un- 
 assisted study. 
 
 " It frequently happens that circumstances ap- 
 parently trifling determine our character, and, 
 sometimes, even our fate in life. I always thought 
 that Elizabeth was first induced to apply herself 
 to the study of the learned languages, by acci- 
 dentally hearing that the late Mrs. Bowdler ac- 
 quired some knowledge of Hebrew and Greek, 
 purposely to read the holy scriptures in the origi- 
 nal languages. In the summer of 1789, this most 
 excellent woman, with her youngest daughter, 
 spent a month at Piercefield, and I have reason 
 to hail it as one of the happiest months of my 
 

 164- BIOGRAPHICAL .SKETCHES. 
 
 life. From the above men$io*ned visit I date the 
 tarn of study, which Elizabeth ever after pursued, 
 and which, I firmly believe, the amiable conduct 
 of our guests first led her to delight in. 
 
 ." At the age of thirteen, Elizabeth became a 
 sort of governess to her younger sisters ; for I 
 then parted with the only one I ever had, and 
 from that time the progress she made in acquiring 
 languages, both ancient and modern, was most 
 rapid. This degree of information, so unusual 
 in a woman, occasioned no confusion in her well 
 regulated mind. She was a living library ; but 
 locked up, except to a chosen few. Her talents 
 were Mike bales unopened to the sun ;' and, from 
 a want of communication, were not as beneficial 
 to others as they might have been ; for her dread 
 of being called a learned lady, caused such an 
 excess of modest reserve, as perhaps, formed the 
 greatest defect in her character. 
 
 " When a reverse of fortune drove us from 
 Piercefieid, my daughter had just entered her se- 
 venteen tli year, an age at which she might have 
 been supposed to have lamented deeply many- 
 consequent privations. Of the firmness of her 
 mind on that occasion, no one can judge better 
 than yourself ; for you had an" opportunity to ob- 
 serve it, when immediately after the blow was 
 struck, you offered, from motives of generous 
 friendship, to undertake a charge which no pecu- 
 niary considerations could induce you to accept a 
 few months before. I do not recollect a single 
 instance of a murmur having escaped her, or the 
 least expression of regret at what she had lost. 
 On the pohtrary, she always appeared contented ; 
 and particularly after our fixing at Coniston, it 
 seemed a* if the place and mode of life wen 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES, 165 
 
 such as she preferred, and in which she was most 
 happy. 
 
 " I pass over in silence a time in which we had 
 no home of our own, and when, from the derang- 
 ed state of our affairs, we were indebted for one 
 to the kindness and generosity of a friend; nor 
 do I .speak of the time spent in Ireland, when 
 following the regiment with my husband, because 
 the want of a settled abode interrupted those stu- 
 dies in which my daughter most delighted. — 
 Books are not light of carriage, and the blow 
 which deprived us of Piercefield, deprived us of 
 a library also. But though this period cf her 
 life afforded little opportunity for improvement in 
 science, the qualities of her heart never appeared 
 in .a more amiable light. Through all the incon- 
 veniencies which attended our situation while liv- 
 ing in barracks, the firmness and cheerful resig- 
 nation of her mind at the age of nineteen, made 
 me blush for the tear which too frequently trem- 
 bled in my eye, at the recollection of all the com- 
 forts we had lost. 
 
 " In October, 1800, we left Ireland, and deter- 
 mined on seeking out some retired situation in 
 England ; in the hope, that by strict economy, 
 and with the^blessing of cheerful contented minds, 
 we might yet find something like comfort ; which 
 the frequent change of quarters, with four chil- 
 dren, and the then insecure state of Ireland, made 
 it impossible to icd^ notwithstanding the kind and 
 generous attention we invariably received from 
 the hospitable inhabitants of that country. We 
 passed the winter in a cottage on the banks of the 
 lake of Uls water, and continued there till the 
 May following, when we removed to our presen: 
 residence at Coniston. This country had many 
 charms for Elizabeth. She drew corrcctlv from 
 
166 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 nature/ and her enthusiastic admiration of the 
 sublime and beautiful often carried her beyond 
 the bounds of prudent precaution, with regard to 
 her health. Frequently in the summer she was 
 out during; twelve or fourteen hours, and in that 
 time walked many miles. When she returned at 
 night ahc was always more cheerful than usual ; 
 never said she was fatigued, and seldom appeared 
 go. It is astonishing hew she found time for all 
 she acquired and all she accomplished. Nothing 
 was neglected. There was a scrupulous attention 
 to all the min atis of her sex; for her well regulated 
 mind, far from despising them, considered them 
 as a part of that system of perfection at which 
 she aimed ,* an aim which was not the result of 
 vanity, nor to attract the applause of the world. 
 No human being ever sought it less, or was more 
 entirely free from conceit of every kind. The 
 approbation of God and of her own conscience, 
 were the only rewards she ever sought. 
 
 " Her translation from the book of Job war, 
 finished in 1803. During the two last years of 
 her life, she was engaged in translating from the 
 German, some letters and papers, written by Mr. 
 and Mrs. Klopstock. 
 
 u In the summer of the year 1305, Elizabeth 
 was seized with a cold, which terminated in her 
 death : and I wish the cause was more generally 
 known, as a caution to those whose studious turn 
 of mind may lead them into the same error, I 
 will give the account as she herself related it, a 
 very short time before she died, to a faithful and 
 affectionate servant, who first came into the fa- 
 mily when my daughter was only six weeks old. 
 
 " One very hot evening in July, I took a book, 
 and walked about two miles from home, where I 
 seated myself on a stone beside the lake. Being 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 167 
 
 much engaged by a poem I was reading, I did not 
 
 perceive , that the sun was gone down, and was 
 succeeded by a very heavy dew : till in a moment 
 I felt struck on the chest as if with a sharp knife. 
 I returned home, but said nothing of the pain. 
 The next day being also very hot, and every one 
 busy in the hay-field, I thought I would take a 
 rake and work very hard, to produce perspiration, 
 in the hope that it might remove the pain : but 
 \t did not." 
 
 u From that time a bad cough, with occasional 
 loss of voice gave me great apprehension* of what 
 might be the consequence, if the cause were net. 
 removed ; but no entreaties could prevail on 
 her to take the proper remedies, or to refrain 
 from her usual walks. This she persisted in, be- 
 ing sometimes better and then a little worse, till 
 the beginning of October." 
 
 About this time Miss Smith accompanied her 
 mother on a visit to Bath, and thence to Sunbury ; 
 but finding no amendment in her health, they re- 
 turned to Coniston, where Miss Smith expired 
 on the Tib of August, 1806, aged twenty-nine,, 
 and was interred at Hawkshead. 
 
 The character of Miss Smith is thus briefly 
 summed up by Mrs. Bowdler, in a letter to Di% 
 Mumsseii : 
 
 " Her character was so extraordinary, and she 
 was so very dear to me, that I hope you will for» 
 o-ive my dwelling a litrie longer on my irreparable 
 loss. Her person and manners were extremely- 
 pleasing, with a pensive softness of countenance 
 that indicated deep reflection ; but her extreme 
 timidity concealed the most extraordinary talentr, 
 that ever fell under my observation. With 
 scarcely any assistance, she taught herself the 
 French, Italian, Spanish, German, Latin, Greek, 
 

 16$ BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 and Hebrew languages. She had no inconsider- 
 able knowledge of Arabic and Persic. She was 
 well acquainted with geometry, algebra and other 
 branches of the mathematics. She was a very 
 fine musician. She drew landscapes from nature 
 extremely well, and was a mistress of perspec- 
 tive. She showed an early taste for poetry, of 
 which some specimens remain ; but, I believe, 
 she destroyed most of the effusions of her youth- 
 ful muse, when an acquaintance with your great 
 poet, and still more, "when the sublime composi- 
 tions of the Hebrew bards gave a different turn 
 to her thoughts. With all these acquirements 
 she was perfectly feminine- in her disposition ; 
 elegant, modest, gentle and affectionate. Nothing 
 was neglected which a woman ought to know ; no 
 duty was omitted which her situation jn life re- 
 quired her to perform. But the part of her cha- 
 racter on which I dwell with the greatest satisfac- 
 tion, is that exalted piety which seemed always to 
 raise her above this world, and learn her, at six- 
 teen years of age, to resign its riches and its plea- 
 sures annost without regret; and to support with 
 dignity a very unexpected change of situation. 
 For some years before her death the Holy Scrip- 
 ture was her principle study, and she translated 
 from the Hebrew the whole book of Job, &c. e^c* 
 How far she succeded in this attempt I am not 
 qualified to judge ; but the benefit which she her- 
 self derived from these studies, must be evident 
 to those who witnessed the patience and resigna- 
 tion with which she supported a long and painful 
 illness ; the sweet attention which she always 
 showed to the feelings of her parents and friends, 
 and the heavenly composure with which she look- 
 ed forward to the awful change which has row 
 remove d her to a world, i where (as one of 
 
BIOGlUPHICAL SKETCHES. 169 
 
 friends observes) her gentle, pure and enlightened 
 spirit will find itself more at home than in this 
 land of shadows, he. &c. 
 
 To this Dr. M. replies in a letter, from which 
 we select the following paragraph : 
 
 u The account you gave me in the extraordina- 
 ry character of your late angelic friend, has 
 filled my breast with admiration and awe. I have 
 read your letter with tears. So many accomplish- 
 ments, natural and moral ; so much of science, 
 erudition and eminence of rare talents, combined 
 with grace, with gentleness, and all the virtues 
 that adorn a female mind ! It is wonderful, and 
 cannot be enough admired. Great, indeed must, 
 have been your happiness in the possession of 
 this treasure ! Alas ! the gentle spirit that moved 
 her tender limbs is soon divested of its mortal 
 garment, and gone to join its kindred angels ! 
 
 Vattene in pace, Almabeata e bella 1" 
 
 But I think her happy in this our period ; for 
 what can be more fortunate on earth than to fall 
 into the hands of the virtuous, and, free from 
 contact of a corrupted race, to make her passage 
 over our unlucky planet, pure and immaculate, 
 and, with the robe of innocence, appear before 
 her Creator ? To taste all the sweets of science 
 and art, and having satisfied all honest desires, 
 remove from the feast of life with gratitude — 
 " Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished." 
 
 ANNA MARIA SCHURMAN. 
 
 THE learned and ingenious Anna Maria Schur- 
 man was born at Cologn, Nov. 5th, 1607. Her 
 
170 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 parents were descended from noble protestant fa- 
 milies. Anna Maria discovered from her early 
 childhood extraordinary ingenuity. At six years 
 of age, she cut, with her scissars, without pattern 
 or model, a variety of curious figures in paper.— 
 Two years afterwards, she learned in a few days 
 to design flowers with great perfection ; and in 
 her eleventh year, acquired, in three hours, the 
 art of embroidering. She afterwards received 
 instructions in music, in painting, in sculpture, 
 and in engraving ; in all of which she was admi- 
 rably successful. It is observed, by Mr. Evelyn, 
 in his History of Calcography, " that the very 
 knowing Anna Maria Schurman is skilled in this 
 art, with innumerable others, even for a prodigy 
 of her sex !" Her hand-writing, specimens of 
 which have been preserved by the curious in their 
 cabinets v was in all languages inimitably beautiful. 
 Mr. Joby, in his journey to Munster, speaks of 
 the beauty of her penmanship in Greek, Hebrew, 
 Syriac, Arabic, and French, of which he had been 
 an eye-witness : he also mentions her skill in mi- 
 niature painting ; and in drawing, with the point 
 of a diamond, portraits upon glass : she painted 
 her own picture. She possessed the art of imi- 
 tating pearls, which could not be distinguished 
 from the originals, but by piercing them .with a 
 needle. 
 
 The powers of her understanding were hot in- 
 ferior to her ingenuity. At eleven years of age, 
 being occasionally present at the lessons of her 
 brothers, she frequently set them right, by a whis- 
 per when examined in their Latin exercises.— 
 Her father, observing her genius for literature, 
 resolved to cultivate a capacity so uncommon : 
 a foundation was thus laid for her future acquire- 
 ments. Her proficiency in the Hebrew, Greek, 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 171 
 
 and Latin languages, in which she wrote and 
 spoke- fluently, astonished the learned. She made 
 great progress also in the Oriental languages, the 
 Arabic, Ethiopic, Chaldee, and Syriac. With 
 the living languages, English, Italian, and French, 
 she was not less conversant. She studied the 
 sciences with equal success, geography, astrono- 
 my, and physics. Her temper having early ac- 
 quired a devotional cast, she at length exchanged 
 for theology the more liberal pursuit of learning. 
 Her father had, during her infancy, settled at 
 Utrecht, whence, for the improvement of his 
 children, he moved to Franeker ; where, in 1623, 
 he died. On this event, his widow returned to 
 Utrecht, where Anna Maria continued to devote 
 herself to her studies. Her predilection for let- 
 ters prevented her from engaging in more active 
 life, and induced her to decline an advantageous 
 establishment. Mr. Cots, pensionary of Holland, 
 and a celebrated poet, who when she was only 
 fourteen years of age, had written verses in her 
 praise, offered her his hand and heart. 
 - .Her modesty, no less singular than her know- 
 ledge, rendered her desirous of burying her ac- 
 quirements in obscurity : It was in despite of her 
 inclination that Rivetus, Spanheim, and Vossius, 
 brought her forward to notice. To these may be 
 added, Salmassius, Huvgens, and Beverovicius 
 who holding with her a literary correspondence, 
 spread her fame through foreign countries. Her 
 reputation, thus extended, procured her letters 
 from Balzac, Gassendi, Mercennus, Rochart, 
 Contart, and other men of eminence : while she 
 w r as visited by princesses, and persons of the first 
 distinction, cardinal Richelieu also honoured her 
 with marks of hisesteem. 
 
17>2 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 About the year 1650, her religious sentiments 
 underwent a revolution. Having declined atten- 
 dance on public worship, she performed her de- 
 votions in private. It. was reported that she 
 meant to embrace popery. The truth was, she 
 had attached herself to Labadie, the celebrated 
 quietest, whose principles she embraced, and 
 whom she accompanied wherever he went. She 
 resided with him for some time at Altona, in 
 Holstein, where she attended him at his death, in 
 1674. She retired afterwards to Wierwart, in 
 Frieland, where she was visited by William Penn, 
 in 1677. She died at Wiewart, the following 
 year, May 5th, 1678. 
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH FERGUSON. 
 
 BY DOCTOR RUSH. 
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH FERGUSON was the 
 
 daughter of Dr. Thomas Graeme, by Anne, the 
 daughter of Sir William Keith, then governor 
 of Pennsylvania. Her father was a native ol 
 Scotland, and a graduate in medicine. For nearly 
 half a century he maintained the first rank in his 
 profession in the city of Philadelphia. He held, 
 during the great part of this time, the office of 
 collector of the port. Her mother possessed a 
 masculine mind, with all those female charms and 
 accomplishments which render a woman alike 
 agreeable to bo:h sexes. They had one son and 
 three daughters, all of whom attained to the age 
 of maturity. The subject of this memoir was the 
 youngest of them. She discovered, in early life, 
 signs of uncommon talents and virtue, both of 
 which were cultivated with great care, and chiefly 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 173 
 
 by her mother. Her person was slender and her 
 health delicate. The latter was partly the effect 
 of native weakness, being a seven month's child, 
 and partly acquired by too great application to 
 books. She passed her youth in the lap of pa- 
 rental affection. A pleasant and highly improved 
 retreat, known by the name of Graane Park, in 
 Montgomery county, twenty miles from Philadel- 
 phia, in which her parents spent their summers, 
 afforded' her the most delighttul cpportunties for 
 study, meditation, rural walks and pleasures, and, 
 above all, for cultivating a talent for poetry. This 
 retreat was, moreover, consecrated to society and 
 friendship. A plentiful table was - spread daily 
 for visitors, and two or three young ladies from 
 Philadelphia generally partook with Aliss Graeme 
 of the enjoyments which her situation in the 
 country furnished. About her seventeenth year 
 she v. sed by a citizen of Philadelphia 
 
 of repeet rneciions and character. She 
 
 heart, with the promise of her band, 
 upon his return from London, whither he went 
 to c< ation in the law. From, 
 
 lich it is not nece? 3 ay. to detail, the con- 
 tract-of marriage, at a future ejaj , v.as broken ; 
 but iv suffering oh the part of 
 
 Miss Graeme. To relieve and divert her mind 
 
 she translated the 
 whole of Tdemachus into English verse ; but 
 •, perhaps aided the distress 
 of her disappointment, in imparing her health, 
 icii a degree as to induce her father, 
 in conjunction with two other physicians, to ad- 
 vise a voyage to England for its recovery. Hxr 
 mother concurred in this advice, In it for another 
 esides that of restoring her daughter's 
 health. r . le and excellent woman had 
 
174 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 long laboured under a disease which, she believed, 
 would have a fatal issue* She anticipated the 
 near approach of death ; and that it might be 
 less terrible to her, she wished her. daughter to 
 be removed beyond the sphere of the counter at- 
 traction of her affections from the world of spirits, 
 which her presence near her deathbed would ex- 
 cite. This feeling is not a solitary or casual one, 
 in the human mind. Archbishop Lightfoot wish- 
 ed to die from home, that he might dissolve more 
 easily his ties to his family. A lady in Philadel- 
 phia, some years ago, in her last moments, said to 
 her daughter, who sat weeping at her bedside, 
 f* leave me, my child ; I cannot die while you 
 are in the room."' Many instances of similar 
 conflicts between religion and nature have occur- 
 red in domestic history, which have escaped ge- 
 neral observation. 
 
 Mrs. Graeme died, according to her expecta- 
 tions and wishes, during her daughter's absence, 
 leaving behind her two farewell letters to be de- 
 livered to her upon her return ; one, upon the 
 choice of a husband, and the other upon the ma- 
 nagement of a family. These letters contain 
 many original ideas,. .and the most ardent expres- 
 sions of maternal affection. The tenor of these 
 expressions may easily be conceived by the fol- 
 lowing sentence extracted from the introduction 
 to one of them. h * I have rested for some time 
 with my pen in my hand, from being at a loss to 
 find out an epithet to address you with, that shall 
 fully express my affection for you. After a good 
 deal of deliberation,! can find nothing that pleases 
 me better than i my own dear Betsy."* 
 
 * Mrs. Graeme left letters to several of her friends, 
 to be delivered to them after her death. The follow- 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 175 
 
 Miss Gneme spent a year in England, where 
 she was accompanied by the Kevv Dr. Richard Pe- 
 ters of Philadelphia, a gentleman of bighly-pol^sh- 
 ed manners, and whose rank, enabled him to intro- 
 duce her to the most respectable circles of com- 
 pany. She sought and was sought for, by the 
 most celebrated literary gentlemen who flourished 
 in England at the time of the accession of George 
 ihe Third to the throne. She was introduced to 
 this monarch and particularly noticed by him* 
 The celebrated Dr. FothergiiJ, whom she con- 
 sulted as a physician, became her friend and cor- 
 respondent as long as she lived. An accident at- 
 tachedthe sentimental and then popular author of* 
 Tristram Shandy to her. She took a seat upon 
 the same stage with him at the York races. While 
 bets were making upon different horses, she se- 
 lected a small horse that was in the rear of the 
 coursers as the subject of a trifling wager. Upon 
 being asked the reason for doing so, she said that 
 the " race was not always to the swift, nor the 
 battle to the strong." Mr. Sterne, who stood near 
 
 ing is an extract from one of them to Mrs. Redman, 
 the wife of the late Dr. John Redman : 
 
 " I have been waiting with a pleasing expectation 
 of my dissolution a great while, and I believe the 
 same portion of grace which has been afforded mc 
 hitherto, will not be withdrawn at that trying hour. 
 My trust is in my heavenly Father's mercies, procur- 
 ed and promised for the all-sufficient merits of my 
 blessed Saviour, so that whatever time it may be be- 
 fore you see this, or whatever weakness I may be un- 
 der on ray deathbed, be assured this is my faith ; this 
 is my hope from my youth up until now. And thus, 
 my dear, I take my final leave of you. Adieu, for- 
 ver. ANNE GRAEME," 
 
 Sept. 22, 1762. 
 
176 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 to her, was struck with this reply, and, turn 
 hastily towards her, begged for the honour of her 
 acquaintance. The}' seen became sociable, and 
 a good deal of pleasant conversation took place 
 between them, to the great entertainment of the 
 surrounding com pany. 
 
 Upon her return to Philadelphia, she was visit- 
 ed by a numerous circle of friends, as well to con- 
 t dole with her upon the death of her mother, as to 
 welcome her arrival to her native shores. They 
 soon discovered, by the streams of information 
 she poured upon her friends, that she had been 
 " all eye, all ear, and all grasp," during her visit 
 to Great- Britain. The Journal she kept of her 
 travels, was a feast to all who read it. Manners 
 and characters in an old and highly civilized coun- 
 try, contrasted with those to which she had been 
 accustomed in her own, accompanied with many 
 curious facts and anecdotes, were the component 
 part's of this interesting manuscript. Re? mo- 
 destv alone prevented its being made public, and 
 thertby affording a specimen to the worlu an 
 posterity, of her -happy talents for observation, 
 reflection and composition. 
 
 In her father's fam.il}' she now occupied the 
 place of her mother. She kept his house,, and 
 
 ided at his table and fire-side, in entertai 
 all his company. Such was the character of Dr. 
 Graeme's family for hospitality and refinement of 
 manners, that ail strangers of note who visited 
 Philadelphia were introduced to it. Saturday 
 evenings were appropriated for many years dur- 
 ing Miss Gramme's winter residence in the en 
 the entertainment not only of strangers, but of 
 such of her friends of both sexes^as were consi- 
 dered the most suitable company for them. Thesa 
 Evenings were properly speaking, of the Attic kind* 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 177 
 
 The genius of Miss Graeme evolved the heat and 
 light tha r t animated them. One while she in- 
 structed by the stores of knowledge contained in 
 the historians, philosophers and poets of ancient 
 and modern nations, which she called forth at her 
 pleasure ; and again she charmed by a profusion 
 of original ideas, collected by her vivid and widely 
 expanded imagination, and combined with exqui- 
 site taste and judgment into an endless variety of 
 elegant and delightful forms. Upon these occa- 
 sions her body seemed to evanish, and she appear- 
 ed to be all mind. The writer of this memoir 
 would have hesitated in giving this description cf 
 the luminous display of Miss Graeme's know- 
 ledge and eloquence at these intellectual banquets, 
 did he not know there are several ladies and gen- 
 tlemen now living in Philadelphia, who can testi- 
 fy that it is not exaggerated. 
 
 It was at one of these evening parties she first 
 saw Mr. Hugh Henry Ferguson, a handsome and 
 accomplished young gentlemen who had lately 
 arrived in this country from Scotland. They 
 were suddenly pleased with each other. Private 
 interviews took place between them, and in the 
 course of a fcw months they were married. The 
 inequality of their ages (for he was ten years 
 younger than Miss G ramie) was opposed in a cal- 
 culation of their conjugal happiness, by the same- 
 ness of their attachments to books, retirement and 
 literary society. They settled upon the estate in 
 Montgomery county, which Mrs. Ferguson's 
 father (who died at an advanced age soon after 
 her marriage) bequeathed to her. But before the 
 question of their happiness could be decided by 
 the test of experiment, the dispute between Great 
 Britain and America took place, in which it be- 
 , came necessary for Mr. Ferguson to take part. 
 

 178 BIOGRAPHICAL SKITCKES. 
 
 He joined the former in the year 1775, and from 
 that time a perpetual separation took place be- 
 tween him and Mrs. Ferguson. Other causes 
 contributed to prevent their re-union after the 
 peace of 1782 : but the recital of them would be 
 uninteresting as well as foreign to the design of 
 this publication. Mrs. Ferguson passed the in- 
 1 between the year 1775 and the time of her 
 death, chiefly in the country upon her farm, in 
 reading and in the different branches of domestic 
 industry* A female friend who had been the 
 companion of her youth, and whose mind was 
 congenial to her own, united her destiny with 
 hers, and soothed her various distresses by all the 
 kind and affectionate offices which friendship and 
 sympathy could dictate. In her retirement she 
 was eminently useful. The doors of the cottages 
 that were in her neighbourhood bore the marks of 
 her footsteps, which were always accompanied or 
 followed with cloathing, provisions or medicines 
 to relieve the nakedness, hunger or sickness of 
 their inhabitants. During the time Gen. Howe 
 had possession of Philadelphia, she sent a quan- 
 tity of linen into the city, spun with her own 
 hands, and directed it to be made into shirts 
 for the benefit of the American prisoners that 
 were taken at the battle of Germantown. 
 
 Upon hearing, in one of her visits to Philadel- 
 phia, that a merchant, once affluent in his circum- 
 stances, was suddenly thrown into jail by his cre- 
 ditors, and was suffering from. the w T ant of many 
 of the usual comforts of his life, she sent him a 
 bed, and afterwards procured admission into his 
 apartment, and put twenty dollars into his hands. 
 He asked for the name of his benefactress. She 
 refused to make herself known to him, and sud- 
 denly left him. This humane and charitable act 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 179 
 
 would not have been made known, had not the 
 gentleman's description of her person and dress 
 discovered it. At this time her annual income 
 was reduced to the small sum of one hundred and 
 sixty dollars a year, which had been saved by the 
 friendship of the late Mr. George Meade, out of 
 the wreck of her estate. Many such secret acts 
 of charity, exercised at the expense of her per- 
 sonal and habitual comforts, might be mentioned. 
 They will be made known elsewhere. In these 
 acts she obeyed the Gospel commandment of lov- 
 ing her neighbours better than herself. Her sym- 
 pathy was not only active, but passive in a hiyh 
 degree. In the extent of this species of sensi- 
 bility she seemed to be all nerve. She partook 
 of the minutest sorrows of her friends, and even 
 a newspaper that contained a detail of public or 
 private woe, did not pass through her hands with- 
 out being bedewed with a tear. Nor did her 
 sympathy with misery end here. The sufferings 
 of the brute creation often drew sighs from her 
 bosom, and led her to express a hope that repara- 
 tion would be made to them for those sufferings 
 in a future state of existence. 
 
 I have said that Mrs. Ferguson possessed a 
 talent for poetry. Some of her verses have been 
 published, and many of them are in the hands of 
 her friends. They discover a vigorous poetical 
 imagination, but the want of a poetical ear. This 
 will not surprise those who know there may be 
 poetry without metre, and metre without poetry. 
 
 The prose writings of Mrs. Ferguson indicate 
 strong marks of genius, taste and knowledge. 
 Nothing that came from her pen was common. 
 Even her hasty notes to her friends placed the 
 most trivial simjects in such anew and agreeable 
 light, as not only secured them from destruction. 
 
180 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 but gave them a durable place among the most 
 precious fragments of fancy and sentiment. 
 
 Mrs. Ferguson was a stranger to the feelings 
 of a mother, for she had no children ; but she 
 knew and had faithfully performed all the duties 
 of that relation to the son and daughter of one of 
 her sisters, who committed them to her care upon 
 her deathbed. They both possessed hereditary 
 talents and virtues. Her nephew John Young, 
 became under her direction, an accomplished 
 sholar and gentleman. He died a lieutenant in 
 the British army, leaving behind him a record of 
 his industry and knowledge, in an elegant trans- 
 lation of d' Argent's Ancient Geography, into the 
 English language. A copy of this valuable work A 
 is to be seen in the Philadelphia library, with a 
 tribute to the memory of the translator, by Mrs. 
 Ferguson.* The mind of her niece, Ann Young, 
 was an elegant impression of her own : she mar- 
 ried Dr. William Smith, of Philadelphia, and li- 
 ved but a few years afterwards. She left a son 
 and daughter ; the latter followed her mother 
 prematurely to the grave, in the year 1808, in the 
 thirtieth year of her age : after exhibiting to a 
 numerous and affectionate circle of acquaintances, 
 a rare instance of splendid talents and virtues, 
 
 * A singular incident laid the foundation for the li- 
 terary acquirements of this young gentleman. Be- 
 fore his twelfth year, he was an idle boy ; about that 
 time his aunt locked him up in his father's library, for 
 four and twenty hours, as a punishment for some of- 
 fence. In this situation he picked up a book to re- 
 lieve himself from the uneasiness of his solitude. 
 This book arrested and fixed his attention, He read 
 it through, and from that time he became devoted to 
 books and study. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 18 i 
 
 I 
 
 ng unimpaired through four successive 
 genertitions. 
 
 The virtues which have beep ascribed to Mrs. 
 Ferguson, were not altogether the ejects of edu- 
 cation, nor of a happy moral texture of mind. 
 They were improved invigorated, and directed in 
 their exercises by the doctrines and precepts of 
 Christianity. To impress the contents of the bible 
 more deeply upon her mind, she transcribed ev- 
 ery chapter and verse in it, and hence arose the 
 facility and success with which she frequently se- 
 lected its finest historical and moral passages to 
 illustrate or adorn the subjects of her writings 
 and conversation. 
 
 She was well read in polemical divinity, and a 
 firm believer in what are' considered the myste- 
 ries of revelation. Although educated in the 
 forms and devoted to the doctrines of the church 
 of England, she worshipped devoutly with other 
 sects-, when she resided among them, by all of 
 whom she was with a singular unanimity believed 
 to be a sincere and pious christian. 
 
 There was a peculiarity in frer disposition, 
 which would seem at first sight, to cast a shade 
 over the religious part of her character. After 
 the reduction of her income, she constantly re- 
 fused to. accept of the* least pecuniary assistance 
 and even of a present, from any of her friends. 
 Let such persons who are disposed to ascribe this 
 conduct to unchristian prMe, recollect there is a 
 great difference between that sense of poverty 
 which is induced by adverse dispensations of pro- 
 vidence, and that which is brought on by volun- 
 tary charities. Mrs. Ferguson conformed, in the 
 place and manner of her living, to the nar 
 iiess of her resources. She knew no wantthat could 
 e n wise or good woman unhappy, aad she 
 o_ 
 
 

 1&2 „ BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 was a sparger to the * c rea.1 evil" of debt. Her 
 charities, moreover, would' not have been her 
 own, had they been replaced by the charities of 
 her friends. 
 
 The afflictions of this excellent woman from all 
 the causes that have been mentioned, did not fill 
 up the measure of her sufferings. Her passage 
 out of life was accompanied with great and pro- 
 tracted pain. This welcome event took place on 
 the 22d of February, in the year 1801, in the six- 
 ty-second year of her age, at the house of Seneca 
 Lukens, a member of the society of Friends, 
 near Gramme Park. Her body was interred, 
 agreeably to her request, by the side of her pa- 
 rents, in the enclosure of. Christ Church, in Phi- ■ 
 ladelphia. 
 
I ■ * 
 
 NARRATIVE, 
 
 Til K VELVET PELISSi; 
 
 BY MUS. 01MC 
 
 MR. BERESFORJD, was a merchant, engaged 
 
 n a very expensive business, and possessed of 
 
 considerable property, a great part of which was 
 
 vested in a large estate in the country, on which 
 
 he chiefiy resided. 
 
 Be res ford was what is commonly denominated 
 purse -proud ; and so eager to be honoured upon 
 account of his wealth, that he shunned rallies 
 than courted the society of men of rank, as he 
 was fond of power and precedence, and did not 
 like to associate with those who had an indisputa- 
 ble claim to that deference of which he himself 
 v/as desirous. But he earnestly wished that his 
 only child and heiress, should marry a man oi 
 rank ; and being informed that a young baronet 
 of large. estates in his neighbourhood, and who- 
 was also heir to a barony, was just returned from 
 Ids travels, and intended 10 settle at his'.patermd 
 seat, Mr. Beresford was res hat Julia 
 
 shoukljhave every possiole opportunity of shew- 
 ing off to the best adv. 
 ghbour ; and he d 
 Uv, his house, and his table 
 charm which money could j 
 
 Beresford had gained his fortune by degrees, 
 ■ luxated by frugal and retired 
 

 1S4 NARRATIVE. 
 
 parents, his habits were almost parsimonious , 
 and when he launched out into unwonted expenses 
 on becoming wealthy, it was only in a partial 
 manner. His house and his furniture had a sort 
 cf pye-bald appearance ;— his style of living was'--; 
 not consistent, like that of a man used to live 
 Iike% gentleman, but opulence, with a timid gr;\sp, 
 seemed to squeeze out its indulgences from the 
 griping fingers of habitual economy. True, he 
 could on occasions, be splendid, both in his pub- 
 lic and private gifts ; but such bounties were ef- 
 forts, and he seemed to wonder at himself when- 
 ever the exertion was over. 
 
 Julia Beresford, his daughter, accustomed from ^ 
 her birth to affluence, if not to luxury— and ha- - 
 ving in every thing what is called the spirit of a 
 gentlewoman, was often distressed and mortifiecj. 
 at the want of consistency in her father's mode of 
 living ; but she was particularly distressc d to find 
 that, though he was always telling her what a for- 
 tune/he would give her when she married, and at 
 his death, he allowed her but a trifling sum, com- 
 paratively, for pocket money, and required from 
 her, with teasing minuteness, an account of the 
 manner in which her allowance was spent ; repro- 
 bating very severely her propensity to spend her 
 money on nlausible beggars and pretended inva- 
 lids. " 
 
 But on this point he talked in vain ; used 1 ■•_». 
 9. benevolent and pious mother, whose loss she 
 tenderly deplored, to impart comfort to the poor, 
 'Tie sick, and the afflicted ; Julia endeavoured to 
 make he r residence in the country a blessing to 
 the neighbourhood' but, too often, kind words, 
 soothing visits, and generous promises, were ail 
 that she had to bestow ; and many a time did she 
 purchase the meabs of relieving a distressed fcl- 
 
# ' 185 
 
 low creature by a personal sacrifice : for thou gh 
 ever ready to contribute to riptioneither 
 
 ^public or private, Beresford could not be prevail- 
 ed upon to indulge his daughu ing way to 
 that habitual benevolence, which, when once prac- 
 'i-iised, can never be left off., 
 
 But though the sums were trifling which Julie, 
 had to bestow, she had so many cheap charities 
 in her power, such as sending broth to the neigh- 
 bouring cottages,, and making linen of various 
 sorts for poor women and children, that she was 
 , deservedly popular in the neighbourhood ; and 
 
 though her father was reckoned as prou 
 wwas rich, the daughter was pronounced to' 1 
 ^pattern of good nature, and as affable as he was 
 
 But wherever Beresford could have an oppor- 
 tunity of displaying his wealth to advantage, he 
 regarded not expense : — and to outvie the neigh- 
 bouring gentlemen in endeavours to attract the 
 rich. young baronet, whom all the young ladies 
 would, he snppo^ed^be aiming to captivate, he 
 purchased magnificent furniture and carriage*, 
 and promhed Julia a great addition to her ward- 
 robe, • Frederic Mortimer should 
 up his abufi 
 Julia neard-thaj^ie baronet was expected, " 
 a beating heart. tad been several v. 
 i*s ccgnpany It a watering place, im; on 
 om abroad, and had wished to appear 
 as charming in his eyes as he appeared in hei 
 
 had been disappointed. Modest and re - 
 ti: r, and not showy in her | 
 
 •. her. features were Regularly beautiful, 
 lortimer, who had only seon her 
 mpanies, and with very striking and 
 ^2 . 
 
136 NARRATIVE. 
 
 attractive women, had regarded her mere^as an 
 amiable girl, and had rarely thought of her again. 
 
 Julia Beresford was formed to steal upon Ihe 
 affections by slow degrees .; to interest on ac- 
 quaintance, not to strike at first sight. But the 
 man who had opportunities of listening to this'' 
 sweet tones of .her voice, and of gazing on her 
 varied countenance when emotion crimsoned her , 
 pale cheek, and lighted up the expressions of her 
 eyes, could never behold her without a degree of 
 interest which beauty alone often fails to excite. 
 Like most women, too, Julia derived great advan- 
 tages from dress : of this she was sensible, 
 though very often did she appear shabbily attired, 
 from having expended on others, sums destined 
 to ornament herself; but, when she had done so* 
 a physiognomist would have discovered in her 
 countenance probably an expression of self satis- 
 faction, more ornamental than any dress could be. 
 But, generally, as Julia knew the value of exter- 
 nal decoration, she wisely wished to indulge in it* 
 One day Julia, accompanied by her father, went 
 to the shop of a milliner, in a large town, near 
 which they lived ; and as winter was coming on, 
 and her pelisse, a dark and now faded purple, was 
 nearly worn out, she was very desirous of pur- 
 chasing a black velvet one, which was on sale ; 
 but her father hearing that the price of it was 
 twelve guineas, positively forbade her to wish for 
 so expensive a piece of finery ; though he owned 
 that it was very handsome, and very becoming. 
 
 " To be sure," said Julia smiling, but casting a 
 Jonging look at the pelisse, u twelve guineas might 
 be better bestowed:" and they left the shop. 
 
 The next day Mr. Beresford went to town on 
 business, and, in a short time after, he wrote. to 
 -his daughter to say that he had met sir Frederic 
 
NARRATIVE. 18/ 
 
 Mortimer in London, and he would soon be 
 down at his seat, to attend some pony rafts which 
 Mr. Hanmer, who had a mind to shew off his 
 dowdy daughter to the young baronet, intended 
 to have on a piece of land belonging to him ; and 
 that he had heard all the ladies in the neighbour- 
 hood were to be there. 
 
 u I have received an invitation for you and my- 
 self, " continued Mr. Beresf'ord : and therefore, 
 as I am resolved the Miss Traceys, and the other 
 girls, shall not be better or more expensively 
 dressed than my daughter, I enclose you bills to- 
 the amount of thirteen pounds ; and I desire you 
 to go and purchase the velvet pelisse which we so 
 much 'tfdmired ; and I have sent you a hat, the 
 most elegant which money could procure, in order 
 that my heiress may appear as an heiress should 
 do." 
 
 Julia's young heart beat with pleasure at this 
 permission : for she was to adorn herself to ap- 
 pear before the only man whom she ever wished 
 to please ; and the next morning she determined 
 :o set off to make the desired purchase. 
 
 That evening, being alone, she set out to take 
 her usual walk"; and having, lost in no unpleasing 
 reverie, strayed very near to a village about three 
 miles from home, she recollected to have heard an 
 affecting account of the distress of a very virtu- 
 ous and industrious family in that village, owing 
 to the poor man's being drawn for the militia, and 
 not rich enough to procure a substitute* She 
 therefore resolved to go on and enquire how the 
 matter had terminated. Julia proceeded to the 
 village, and reached it just as the very objects of 
 her solicitude were come to the height of their, 
 distresses* 
 
188 NAN RATI 
 
 The father of the family, not being able to raise 
 moretfan half the- money wanted, was obliged 
 to serve ; and Julia, on seeing a crowd assembled,. 
 approached to ask what was going forvlferd ; and 
 Found she was arrived to witness a very affecting 
 scene : for the poor man was taking his last fare- 
 well of his wife and family, who, en his departure 
 to join the regiment, would be forced to go to the 
 workhouse, where, as they were. in delicate health, 
 it was most probable they would soon fall victims 
 to bad food and bad air. 
 
 The poor man was universally beloved in his 
 village ; and the neighbours, seeing that a young 
 lady enquired concerning his misfortunes with an 
 air of interest, were all eager to give her every 
 possible information on the subject of his distress. 
 " And only think, Miss," said one of them, a for 
 the want of nine pounds only, as honest and hard 
 working a lad. as ever lived, and as good & bus- T - 
 band and father, must be forced to leave his fami- 
 ly, and be a militia man — apd they, poor things, 
 the workhouse !" 
 
 " Nine pounds!" said Julia, "would that be 
 sufficient to keep him at home ?'\«t 
 
 lt La ! a es, Miss ; for that young fellow yonder 
 would gladly go for him for eighteen pounds !" 
 
 hearing this how many thoughts rapidly 
 succeeded each other in Julia's mind ? — If she 
 paid the nine pounds, the man would be restored 
 to his family, and they preserved perhaps from an 
 untimely death in a workhouse f — But then she 
 had no .money but what her father had sent to 
 purchase the pelisse, nor was she to see him till 
 she met him on the race ground ?— and he would 
 be so disappoinreel if she were not well dies; 
 True,' she' might take the pelisse on trust ; 
 then she wa& sure her father would be highly in- 
 
 I 
 
 «*yn 
 
NARRATIVE. 189 
 
 ce used at her extravagance, if she spent twelve 
 guineas, and gave away nine poinds at the same 
 t^.me : — therefore she knew she must either 
 give up doing a generous action, or give up the 
 pelisse, that is, give up the gratification of her fa- 
 ther's pride and her own vanity. 
 
 " No, I dare not, I cannot do it," thought Ju- 
 lia; u my own vanity I would willingly mortify, 
 —hut not my father's — No— the poor man must 
 go !" 
 
 During this mental struggle the bye standees 
 had eagerly watched her countenance ; and think- 
 ing she was disposed to pay the sum required, 
 they communicated their hopes to the poor peo- 
 ple themselves ; and as J ulia turned her eyes to- 
 wards them the wretched couple looked at her with 
 such an imploring look ! but she was resolved : — • 
 u I am sorry, I am very sorry,*' said she, that I 
 can do'nothing for you : — however, take this." So 
 saying, she gave them all the loose money she 
 had in herpocket, amounting to a few shillings, and 
 then, with an aching heart, walked rapidly away ; 
 hut as she did so, the sobs of the poor woman, as 
 she leaned on her husband's shoulders, and the 
 cries of the little boy, when the father struggling 
 with his grief, bade him a last farewell, reached 
 her, and penetrated to her heart. 
 
 u Poor creatures !" she inwardly exclaimed ; 
 " and nine pounds would change these tears into 
 gladness, and yet I withhold it ! And is it for this 
 that Heaven has blessed. me with opulence ? for 
 this, to be restrained by the fear of being re- 
 proved lor spending a paltry sum, such as this is, 
 k j from doing an action acceptable in the eyes of my 
 creator ! no ; no I will pay the money ! I will give 
 myself the delight of serving afflicted worth, ajid 
 
w 
 
 ' NARRATIVE. 
 
 spare myself from, perhaps, eternal 
 proach. 
 
 She then, without waiting for farther consl 
 ration, turned back again, paid the money into 
 the poor man's hands ; and giving t ming 
 
 four pounds to the woman, who though clean, was 
 miserably clad, desired ht j r to lay part of it out 
 in clothes for herself and children. 
 
 I will not attempt to describe the surprise and 
 gratitude of the relieved sufferers, nor the over- 
 whelming feelings which Julia experienced ; who 
 withdrawing herself with the rapidity of light- 
 ning from their thanks, and wishing to remain 
 unknowri,'ran hastily along her road home, not 
 daring to stop, lest her joy at having done a gen- 
 erous deed, should be checked by other ce/nside- 
 rations. 
 
 But at length exhausted, and panting for 
 breath, she was obliged to relax in her speed; 
 and then the image of her angry and disappoint- 
 ed parent appeared to her in ail its terrors. 
 
 " What can I do ?" she exclaimed.—'^ Shall I 
 order the pelisse, though I can't pay for it, or go 
 without? No ; I ought not to incur so great an 
 expense without my father's leave, though I know 
 him to be able to afford it ; and to run in debt 
 he would consider as even a greater fault than 
 the other. Well, then — I must submit to mortify 
 his pride ; and though I rejoice in what I have 
 done, the joy is amply counterbalanced by the 
 idea of giving pain to my father." 
 
 Poor Julia;! her own wounded vanity came in 
 for its share in causing her uneasiness ; and the 
 rest of that day, and the next, Julia spent in re- 
 flections and fears, which did not tend to imp 
 her looks, and make a becoming dress unne 
 
NARRATIVE. * 19 
 
 k The next morning was the morning for»the 
 races. The sun shone bright, and every thrng 
 looked cheerful but Julia. She had scarcely spi- 
 rit to dress herself. It was very cold ; therefore 
 ■die was forced to wear her faded purple pelisse, 
 and now it looked shabbier* than usual ; and still 
 shabbier from the contrast of a very smart new 
 black velvet bonnet. 
 
 At length Julia had finished her toilette, say- 
 ing to herself, a My father talked of Mr. H 
 mer's dowdy daughter.* I am sure Mr. fianmer 
 may return the compliment ;" and then, with a 
 heavy heart, she got into the carriage, and drove 
 to the house of- rendezvous. 
 
 Mr. Beresford was there before her ; and while 
 he contemplated with fearful, admiration the ele- 
 gant cloaks, and fine showy figures and faces of 
 the Miss Traceys, between whose father and him- 
 self there had been long a rivalship of wealth, he. 
 was consoled for their elegance by reflecting how 
 much more expensive and elegant Julia's dress 
 would be, and how well she would look, flushed, 
 as he expected to see her, with the blush of 
 emotion on etrfgrag a full room, and t the con- 
 sciousness of moire than usual attraction in her 
 appearance. 
 
 Julia at length appeared, but pale, dejected, 
 
 'arid in her old purple pellisse ! 
 
 What a mortification ! His daughter, the 
 great heiress, the worst dressed, and most dow- 
 dy looking girl in the company ! Insupportable .' 
 scarcely could he welcome her, though Ik 
 not seen her for some days; and lie seized the 
 very first opportunity of asking her if she had 
 received the notes. 
 
 '• Yes, I thank ye, sir ;" replied Julia. 
 
19; 
 
 NARRATIVE 
 
 
 "Then why did you not buy what I hade you . 
 It could not be gone; for, if you did not buy it," 
 nobody else could, I am sure. 1 ' 
 
 " L — I — I thought I could do without it — and 
 
 " There now, there is perverseness. When I 
 wished you not to have it, then you wanted it ; 
 and now 1 protest if I don't believe you did it on 
 purpose to mortify me ; and there's those minxes, 
 whose father is not worth half what I am, are 
 dressed out as fine as princesses. I vow, girl, 
 you look so shabby and ugly, I can't bear to look 
 
 at vou 
 
 !» 
 
 What .a trial for Julia! her eyes filled with 
 tears ; and at this moment sir Frederic Morti- 
 mer approached her, and hoped she had not been 
 ill ; but he thought she was paler than usual ! 
 
 " Paler !" cried her father : " why, I should 
 not have known her, she has made such a: fright 
 of herself." 
 
 u You may say so, sir" replied the baronet 
 politely, though he almost agreed with him ; 
 " but no other man can be of that opinion." 
 
 Julia was rather gratified by this speech ; bm 
 without waiting for an answer, sir Frederic had 
 gone tc join the Miss Traceys ; and as he enter- 
 ed into an animated conversation with them, Ju- 
 lia was allowed, unattended, to w r alk to the win- 
 dow in the next room, and enjoy her own me- 
 lancholy reflections. 
 
 At length to Julia's great relief, they were 
 summoned to the race-ground ; the baronet taking 
 Miss Hanmer under one arm and the elder Miss 
 Tracey under the other. — u So" cried Beresford, 
 '. seizing Julia roughly by the hand, u I must lead 
 you,. I see ; for who will take any notice of such 
 

 ARRATIVE. 
 
 a dowdy ? Well girl, I Was too proud of^you, 
 and you have contrived to humble me enough." 
 
 There was a mixture of tenderness and re- 
 sentment in this speech which quite overcame JV 
 lia, and she burst into tears. " There — now she 
 is going to make herself worse by spoiling her 
 eyes. Bat come, tell me what you did with the 
 money ; I insist upon knowing." 
 
 " I — I — gave it away," sobbed out Julia. 
 
 " Gave it away ! monstrous ! I protest I will 
 not speak to you again for a .month." so saying 
 he left her, and carefully avoided to look at or 
 speak to her again. 
 
 The races began and,, were interesting to all bat 
 Julia, who conscious of being beheld by her fa- 
 ther witii looks of mortification and resentment, 
 and by the man of her choice with indifference, 
 
 id no satisfaction to enable her to support the 
 unpleasantness of her situation, except the con- 
 
 .oasness that her sorrow had been the cause o 
 
 happiness to others, and that the family whom she 
 had relieved were probably at that moment nam- 
 ing her with praises and blessings. Then why 
 should I be so,, selfish as to, repine r" thought 
 J ulia ; " perhaps no one present-lias such a righl 
 as I to rejoice ; for how poor are the gratifica- 
 tions of. vanin triumphs of benevolence 1" 
 
 So like a philosopher reasoned our .heroine $ 
 but she, felt like a woman, an J, spite of herself, 
 an ex[>reshion of vexation still : r va^kd over the 
 usual sv/etUiess of her countenance. 
 
 The -races 1 at lengih ^finished, and with the'ttf, 
 she flattered herself would finish her mortifica- 
 tions ; bat in vain. The company was expected 
 to stay to paitake of a cold collation, which was 
 to be precocled'by music and dancing ; and Ju- 
 lia was obliged to accept the unwelcome invitation, 
 
 R 
 
194 i NARRATIVE. 
 
 A^theiadies were most of them very young, 
 they were supposed not to have yet forgotten the 
 art of dancing minuets — an art now of so little 
 use ; and Mr. Hanmer begged sir Frederic 
 would lead off his daughter to shew off in a min- 
 uet. The baronet obeyed ; and then offered to 
 take out Julia for the same purpose ; but she, 
 blushing, refused to comply. 
 
 " Well, what's that for ?" cried Beresford, an- 
 grily, who knew that Julia was remarkable for 
 dancing a good minuet. " Why can't you dance 
 when you are asked, Miss Beresford ?" u Be- 
 cause," replied Julia, in a faultering, voice, " I 
 I have no gown on, and I can't dance a minuet 
 in my — in my pelisse." 
 
 u Rot your pelisse !" exclaimed Beresford, for- 
 getting all decency and decorum, and turned to 
 the window to hide his angry emotions, while 
 Julia hung her head, abashed ; and the baronet 
 led out Miss Tracey, who throwing off the cloak 
 which she had worn before, having expected such 
 an exhibition would take place, displayed a very 
 fine form, set off with the most becoming gqvvn 
 possible. ^^ 
 
 • lk Charming ! a^nfirable ! what a figure ! what 
 grace !" was murmured throughout the room. 
 Mr. Beresford 's proud heart throbbed almost to 
 agony, while Julia, though ever ready to ac- 
 knowledge the excellence of another,'still felt the 
 whole scene so vexatious to her, principally 
 from the mortification of her father, that her on- 
 ly resource was again thinking on the family res- 
 cued from miser)' by her.' 
 
 Reels were next called for ; and Julia themstood 
 up to dance ; but she had not danced five minutes 
 when, exhausted by the various emotions which 
 she had undergone during the last eight and forty 
 
SARRAT1VE. 195 
 
 hours her head became so giddy, that she could 
 not proceed, and was obliged, to sit down. ' 
 
 u I believe the deuce is in the girl," muttered 
 Mr. Beresford ; and to increase her distress, 
 Julia overheard him. 
 
 In a short time the dancing was discontinued 
 and a concert begun. Miss Hanmer played a 
 sonata, and Miss Tracey sung a bravura song 
 with great execution. Julia was then called up- 
 on to play ; but she timidly answered., -that she 
 never played lessons : 
 
 11 But you sing," said Miss Hanmer. 
 
 " Sometimes ; but I beg to be excused singing 
 now." 
 
 " What ! you will not sing neither ?" said Mr. 
 Beresford. 
 
 " I-can't sing now, indeed sir; I am not well 
 enough ; and I tremble so much that I have not 
 a steady note in my voice." 
 
 " So, Miss," whispered Mr. Beresford, and 
 this is 'what I get in return for haying squandered 
 so much money on your education ?" 
 
 The Miss Traceys were then applied to, and 
 they sung/with great applause, a difficult Italian 
 duo, and were complimented into the bargain 
 on their readiness to oblige. 
 
 Poor Julia. 
 
 " You see Miss Beresford, how silly and con- 
 temptible you look," whispered Beresford, 
 " while these squalling Misses run away with all 
 the admiration." 
 
 u Julia's persecutions were not yet over.— 
 ( ' Though you are not well enough, Miss Beres- 
 iord, to sing a song," said Mr. Hanmer, " which 
 requires much exertion, surely you can sing a 
 ballad without music, which is I am told, your 
 forte;' 
 
396 m NARRATIVE. 
 
 m 
 
 " So I have heard," cried sir Frederic. " Do, 
 ?vliss*Beresford oblige 'us." 
 
 " Do,'' said the Miss Traceys ,\.and we have a 
 claim on you/ 1 
 
 44 I own it," replied Julia, in a voice scarcely 
 audible ; " but you, who are such proficients in 
 music, must know, that to sing a simple ballad 
 requires more self-possession and steadiness of 
 tone than any other kind of singing ; as all the. 
 merit depends on the clearness of utterance, and 
 the power of sustaining the notes." 
 
 14 True : but do try." 
 
 44 Indeed I cannot : v and, shrugging up her 
 shoulders, the ladies desisted from further im- 
 portunities. 44 I am so surprised," said one of 
 them to the other, leaning across two or three 
 gentlemen : I had heard that Miss- Beresford- 
 was remarkably good humoured and obliging, and : 
 she seems quite sullen and obstinate : don't you 
 think so ?■* 
 
 44 O dear, yes ! and not obliging at all." 
 
 44 No, indeed," cried Miss Hanmer : " she 
 seems to presume on her wealth, I think : what 
 think you, gentlemen ?" 
 
 But the gentlemen ^rere not so hasty in their 
 judgments — tw r o of them only observed that Miss 
 Beresford was in no respect like herself that day. 
 
 44 I don't think she is well," said the baronet. 
 
 44 Perhaps she is in love," said Miss Tracey, 
 laughing at the shrewdness of her own observa- 
 tions. 
 
 44 Perhaps so," replied sir Frederic, thought- 
 fully. 
 "Jit was sir Frederic's.intention to marry, and 
 if possible a young woman born in the same 
 county as himself ; for he ^shed her to have the 
 same "local prejudices as he had, and to have the 
 
NARRATIVE. 197. 
 
 same early attachments : consequently he en- 
 quired of his steward, before he came to reside at 
 his seat, into the character of the ladies in the 
 neighbourhood ; but the steward could or would 
 talk of no one but Julia Beresford ; and of her 
 he gave so exalted a character, that sir Frede- 
 ric, who only remembered her as a pleasing mo- 
 dest girl, was very sorry that he had not paid her 
 more attention. 
 
 Soon after in the gallery of an eminent painter, 
 he saw her picture ; and though he thought it 
 flattered , he gazed on it with pleasure, and fan- 
 cied that Julia when animated might be quite as 
 handsome as that was. Since that time he had 
 frequently thought of her, and thought of her as 
 a woman formed to make him happy S an*} in- 
 Bleed he had gone to look at her picture the day 
 before he came down to the country, and had it 
 strongly in his remembrance when He saw Julia 
 herself, pale, spiritless, and* ill dressed, in Mr. > 
 Hanraer's drawing room. 
 
 Perhaps it would be too much to say, that he 
 felt as much chagrined as Mr. Beresford : but 
 certain it is, that he was sensibly disappointed, 
 and could not help yielding to the superior at- 
 traction of the lovely and elegant Miss Tracy ube- 
 sides, he was the object of general attention, and 
 
 " We know of o^lthat that all contend 
 " To win her grace, whom alkcommend." 
 
 The concert being over the company adjourn- 
 ed to ah elegant entertainment set out in an open 
 pavilion "in the park, which commanded a most 
 lovely view of the adjacent country. 
 
 Julia seated herself near the entrance ; the ba- 
 ronet placed himself between the two lovely sis- 
 ters ; and Beresford, in order to be able to vent 
 
:9S NAURATIVL. 
 
 his spleen every now and then in his . daughter's 
 car, took* a chair beside her. 
 
 The collation had ever}' delicacy to tempt the 
 palate and every decoration to gratify the taste 
 and all except the pensive Julia, seemed to en- 
 joy it : when as she was leaning from the door to 
 speak to a lady at tiie head of 'the table, a little 
 boy, about ten years old, peeped into the pavilion, 
 as if anxiously looking for some one. 
 
 The child was so clean, and so neat in his dress, 
 that a' gentleman near him patted his curly head, 
 and asked him what he wanted? 
 
 " A lady." 
 
 " But what lady ? Here is one, and a pretty 
 one too," showing the lady next him ; " will not 
 she do r" 
 
 " Oh no ! she is not my lady," replied the 
 boy. : 
 
 At this moment Julia turned round, and the 
 little boy, clapping his hands, exclaimed, " Oh ! 
 that's she ! that's she !" Then turning out, he 
 cried, " Mother ! mother "! Father! father ! hero 
 she is ! we have found her at last !" and before 
 Julia, who suspected -what was to follow, could 
 leave her place, and get out of the pavilion, the 
 poor^man and woman whom she? had relieved, 
 and their now well clothed, happy, looking fami- 
 ly, appeared before the door of it. 
 
 " What does all this mean ? cried Mr. Ham 
 mer. " Good pe'bple, whom do o want ?' 
 
 11 We come, sir," cried the ma , " l in search of, 
 that young lady," pointing to Julia ' as we could 
 not go from the neighborhood without coming to 
 thank and bless her ;*1orTshe saved me from go- 
 ing for a soldier, and my wife and children from 
 a" workhouse, sir, and made me and mine as 
 •^omfortal^e as you now see us»" 
 
 I 
 
 M 
 
I 
 
 MA?.RATIV£. 199 
 
 ' )ear Father ! let me pass, pray do," cried 
 Julia, trembling- with emotion, and oppressed with 
 ingenuous modest v. 
 
 u Stay where you are, girl,"" cried B^resford, in 
 a voice between laughing and crying. 
 
 "Well, but flow' came you hither :" cried Mr. 
 Hanmer, w ho began to think this wa.s a premedi- 
 tated scheme of Julia's to show off before the 
 company. 
 
 " Why, sir — shall I tell you the wheh 
 asked the man. 
 
 " No, no, pray go>away," cried Julia, u 
 come and speak to you. 7 ' 
 
 " By no means," cried the baronet eagerly--: 
 " the story, the story, if .ycu please." 
 ^ The man then began, and related Julia's meet- 
 ing him and his family, her having relieved them., 
 and then running away to avoid their thanks, and 
 to prevent her being followed, as it seemed, and 
 being known. That, resolved not to rest till thetf$ 
 had learned the name of their benefactress, they 
 had described her person and her dress : " but 
 bless your honour," interrupted the woman, " when 
 we said what she had done for us, we had not to 
 ask any more, for every one said it could be nobo- 
 dy but Miss Julia Beresford." 
 
 Here Julia hid her face on her father's shoul- 
 der, and the company said not a word. The young 
 ladies appeared conscience struck ; for it seemed 
 that none in the neighbourhood (ana they were of 
 it) could do a kind action but Miss Julia Beres- 
 
 * 
 
 ford. 
 
 "Well7my good man, go on," cried Beresford 
 gently. *. 
 
 " Well, sir ; yesterday I heard that if I went 
 to live at a market town four miles off, I could 
 get more work to do than I have in mv#wn viU 
 
■ 
 
 200 NARKATlVil. 
 
 lage, and employ for my little boy too ; so we re- 
 solved to go and try our luck there : but we could 
 not be easy to go away, without coming to thank 
 and bless that good young lady ; so, hearing at 
 her house that she was come hither, we made bold 
 to follow her ; your servants told us where to 
 find her — ah ! bless her ! — thanks to her, I can 
 afford to hire a cart for my poor sick wife and 
 family !" 
 
 u Ah ! Miss, Miss," cried the little boy, pull- 
 ing Julia by the arm, " only think, we shall ride 
 in a cart, with a tall horse; and brother and I 
 Have got new shoes — only look!" 
 
 But Miss was crying and did not like to look ; 
 however, she made an effort, and looked up, but 
 was forced to turn away her head again, overset 
 by a "God bless you !" heartily pronounced by 
 the poor woman, and echoed by the man. 
 
 " This is quite a scene, I protest," cried Miss 
 Tracey. 
 
 " But one in which we should all have been 
 proud to have been actors, I trust," answered the 
 baronet. " What say you, gentlemen and la- 
 dies ?" continued he, coming forward : u though 
 we cannot equal Miss Beresford's kindness, since 
 she sought out poverty, and it comes to us, what 
 say you ? shall we make a purse for these good 
 people, that they may not think there is only one 
 kind being in the. neighbourhood ?" 
 
 "Agreed !" cried every one ; , ; and as sir Fre- 
 deric held the hat, the subscription from the ladies 
 was a very liberal one ; but Mr. Bercsford gave 
 five guineas ; then Mr. ; JrIahmer desired the over- 
 joyed family to go to his house to get some re- 
 freshment, and the company reseated themselves. 
 
 But Mr. Beresford, having quitted his seat, in 
 order to wipe his eyes unseen at the door, the ba- 
 ronefc had taken the vacatft^lace by Julia. 
 
NARRATIVE. 
 
 ,; Novn, ladies and gentlemen," cried Beresford, 
 blowing his nose, " you shall see a new sight — a 
 parent asking pardon of his child. Julia, my dt ar, 
 I know I behaved very ill — I know I was very- 
 cross to )"ou — very savage ; I know I was. You 
 are a good girl—and always were, and ever will 
 be, the pride of my life — so let's kiss and be 
 friends" — and Julia, throwing herself into her 
 lather's arms, declared she should now be herself 
 again ! 
 
 " What ! more scenes !" cried Mr. Kanmer. 
 " What are you sentimental too, Mr. Beresforcl ? 
 Who should have thought it." 
 
 u Why, I'll tell a story now," continued he? 
 v * that girl vexed and mortified me confoundedly 
 -r-that she did. I wished her to be smart, to do 
 honour to you and your daughter to-day ; so I 
 sent her twelve guineas to buy a very handsome 
 velvet pelisse, which she took a fancy to, but which 
 I thought too dear. But instead of that, here 
 she comes in this old fright, and a fine dowdy 
 figure she looks : and when I reproached her, she 
 said she had given the money away; and so I sup- 
 pose it was that very money which she gave to 
 these people. Heh ! was it not so, Julia ?'? 
 
 a It was," replied Julia; " and I ddve not then 
 be so extravagant as to get the pelisse too." 
 
 " Hanmer, continued Beresford, '" you may 
 sneer at me for being scntimaiial y if you please : 
 but I am now prouder of my girl in her shabby 
 cloak here, than if she we're dressed out in silks 
 and satins." 
 
 u And so you ought to be," cried sir Frederic. 
 " And Miss Beresford has converted this gar- 
 ment," lifting up the end of the pelisse," into a 
 robe of honour :"•— so saying, he gallantly pressed 
 it to his lips. " Come, I will give you a toast," 
 
m 
 
 
 NARRATIVE. 
 
 continued he : here is th« health of the woman 
 7who was capable of sacrificing the gratification 
 of her personal vanity to the claims of benevo- 
 lence !" 
 
 The ladies put up their pretty lips, but drank 
 the toast, and Beresford went to the door to wipe 
 his eyes again ; while Julia could not help owning 
 to herself, that if she had had her moments of 
 mortification, they were richly paid. 
 
 ' The collation was now resumed, and Julia par- 
 took of it with pleasure ; her heart was at ease, 
 lur cheek recovered its bloom, and her eyes their 
 lustre. Again the Miss Traceys sung, and with 
 increased brilliancy of execution. It was won- 
 derful ! they sung like professors," every one 
 said ; and then again Julia was requested to sing. 
 
 " I can sing now" replied she ; " and I never 
 refuse when I can do so. Now I have found my 
 father's favour, I shall find my voice too ;" and 
 then, without any more preamble, she sung a 
 plaintive and simple bajlad, in a manner the most 
 touching and unadorned. 
 
 No one applauded while she sung, for all seem- 
 ed afraid to lose any particle of tones so sweet 
 and so pathetic ; but when she had ended, every 
 one, except sir Frederic, loudly commended her, 
 and he was silent ; but Julia saw that his eyes 
 glistened, and she heard him sigh, and she was 
 very glad that he said nothing. 
 
 Again the sisters sung, and Julia too, and then 
 the party broke up"; but Mrs. Tracey invited the 
 same party to meet at her house in the evening, 
 to a ball and supper, and they all agreed to wait 
 en her. 
 
 As they returned to the house, sir Frederic 
 4 * gave his arm to Julia, and Miss Tracey walked 
 before them. 
 
NARRATIVE. 203 
 
 c; That is a very fine, showy,, elegant %irl," ob- ' 
 served sir Frederic. 
 
 u She is, indeed, and very handsome,'' replied 
 Julia; " and her singing is wonderful. " 
 
 u Just so," replied sir Frederic ; " it is won- 
 derful, but not pleasing. Her singing is l.ke her- 
 self — she is a bravura song — showy and brilliant, 
 but nr,»t touching — not interesting." Julia smiled 
 at the illustration ; and the baronet continued : — 
 " Will you be angry at my presumption, Mis? 
 Beresford, if I venture to add that you too. re- 
 semble your singing? If Miss Tracey be a bra- 
 vura song, you are a ballad — not showy, not bril- 
 liant, but touching, interesting and — " 
 
 "O ! pray say no more," said Julia, blushing 
 a*id hastening to join the company — but it was a ' 
 blush of pleasure ; and as she rode Rome- she 
 amused herself with, analysing all the properties 
 of the ballad, and she was very well contented 
 with the analysis. 
 
 That evening Julia, all herself again, dres- 
 sed with exquisite and becoming taste, danced, 
 smiled, talked and was universally admired. But 
 was she particularly so ? Did the man of her 
 heart foiiowher with delightful attention : 
 
 u Julia," said her happy father, as they went 
 home at night, " you will have the velvet, pelisse 
 and sir Frederic too, I expect." 
 
 Np.r was he mistaken. The pelisse was hers 
 the next day, and the baronet some months after. 
 But Julia to this hour preserves with the utmost 
 care the faded pelisse, which sir Frederic had 
 pronounced to be " a robe of honour." 
 
ARKATIVE. 
 
 THE MOTHER-IN-LAW 
 
 BY MRS. HUNTER* 
 
 1 shall proceed without any prelude beyond 
 
 that of telling you that the family, as usual, dis- 
 persed yesterday morning immediately alter we 
 left the room, mh Davenport repaired to the 
 library to write letters for our conveyance to town, 
 and Mrs. Berry to her girls. Mrs. Davenport 
 and myself, said Mr. Palmerstone, whose words 
 I mean to adopt, were tete-a-tete. ' I intend, 
 my good friend,' said this charming woman with 
 her usual vivacity, c to. keep you a prisoner. I 
 have ow^|you a grudge for some years : and 
 this shall be the hour of retribution. 
 
 * You will perceive,' continued she, taking lip 
 her knotting-bag, J the odious appellation which 
 vou and some others of my very kind friends con- 
 trived to affix to my name. It is but just that you 
 listen patiently to all the various griefs and mor- 
 tifications which have resulted from youi plots 
 and contrivances with Davenport, to render me a, 
 cruel step-mother, instead of a handsome widow. 
 How many sad events/ sighed she, ' have sepa- 
 rated us since those smiling hours ! And let me 
 add,' pressing my hand affectionately, on ftbsei ving 
 my emotion — ' let rne add, my dear and vener 
 friend, how many blessings have marked that 
 chVquered interval !:" 
 
 " From your hand my excellent Davenport re- 
 ceived me," continued she : ' you may remember 
 we parted- at the abbey-door ; and, leaving you to 
 answer all congratulations, we set out for fir. 
 Davenport's seat in Dorsetshire. I was then in 
 my thirty-third year, and my boy George, twelve. 
 
NARRATIVE. 
 
 Oar reception at my destined home had more in 
 it of vulgar curiosity than of cordial welcome. 
 All was in state, and we were ushered into the 
 best drawing room with sullen reverence.. Poor 
 HarriJ&as stationed in it, as fine as hands could 
 make fle¥, and, without doubt, had been tutored 
 to receive her mother-in-law with her best court- 
 sev : but no sooner did she sec her father, than, 
 unmindful of me, she ran into his arms and sob- 
 bed aloud. A very fat but comely woman joined 
 her in these lamentations ; and Frank pavenpfcrt 
 stood confused and sad with his eyes to 
 
 the carpet. A look from my husband sent Mr«. 
 Nurse, as I found herwGo be, to her apartment : he 
 then put the weeping child into mj arms ; shedfc 
 actually shrunk from my embrace, 'artl^again, as 
 it were, so.ight the protecting wing ot her fctiher; 
 who, to conceal his agitation, now presented his 
 son to me and my George. 
 
 " A few questions relative to the occurrences 
 which had happened in rijs absence succeeded ; 
 d the detail of the lameness o 's pony 
 
 gave George an pit}- of showing his \sk ill 
 
 in farriery. The boys became h in this 
 
 conversation, and soon at their ease : this some- 
 ;g. George was at home again 
 re : he produced his treasures of flies, s^d an 
 uppoir.tment followed for the next morning to 
 ( ' m l4py "ie-m m the finest trout-stream in 'Eng- 
 land. Pool Harriet, dfurtn ; this animated con- 
 versation, umained silent and d.jected : but I 
 iortunau.lv recollected some caricature prints we 
 up in our road from Bath : these were 
 [ bad the satisfaction of seeingfher 
 x into a smile. We supped 
 tolerably composed, and not uncheerfully. Frank, 
 on retiring for the night, took his father's hand 
 
NARRATIVE. 
 
 wishing him good night. I held cut mine. He 
 saw my purpose, blushed deeply, saluted me with 
 fervour, dropped his eyes, and then imploringly 
 raised them to his sister. She fearfully advanced, 
 and greatly distressed me by falling on my bosom 
 and weeping bitterly. " We shall meet to-mor- 
 row, my love,' 1 said I, returning her to her lather, 
 who looked displeased : u if it be a fine morning, 
 we will go and give notice to the poor trout 
 bf your brothers' evil intentions. 7 ' They each 
 took a passive hand, and conducted her, blinded 
 by tears, to her room. 
 
 a After they had quitted us, my husband ex- 
 pressed his tenderfears leastl might havereceived 
 an unfavourable impression of his child from her 
 behaviour. I re-assured him. ' I perfectly un- 
 derstand,' said I, 4 all this business : I have not 
 been so improvident as to be unprepared ; be sa- 
 tisfied. You shall be jealous of this child's affec- 
 tion for me in less than a year, unless your confi- 
 dence equals the love you cherish for me. Your 
 children must be happy,- or I miserable.' We theri 
 entered into some discussions relative to the do- 
 mestic concerns of the family. 
 
 " You may perceive already, my dear Susan, 
 (said my worthy husband) l that 1 repose all my 
 cares on you ; but I. conjure you exert not your 
 prudence at the expense of your comforts. I 
 well know I have been too easy a master, and that 
 by my indolence I Have converted very gcotts^ 
 vants into very idle ones.' He then detailed to 
 he enormous increase of his house-bills, and 
 the general neglect of his concerns, which had in- 
 sensibly gained upon his domestics. k They are, 
 said he, L honest, but, like their master, love their 
 ease. I visa to meet contented faces and cheer- 
 ful obedience ; and they see in mine that of a 
 
NARRATIVE. 207 
 
 friend': but we all want regulation, and you must 
 redress these grievances.' 
 
 " The next day Mrs. Dawson, vvith'much for- 
 mality, showed me the way through my new ha- 
 bitatjton .; talked a great deal 6f her good and in- 
 dulgent master ; of the surpri aid be to 
 some young ladies in the neighbourhood, to hear 
 that he had brought home a lady. I dismissed 
 my loqnaciousconductress at the door of Harriet's 
 apartment, and entered. She was composed, but 
 not gay ; and in all her answers to my questions 
 called me madam. Nurse was stately and re- 
 served ; and, I believe, thought my visit an intru- 
 sion, on asking her the age of her charge, she 
 said, " Miss Harriet had just turned of tlzvqxfy. 
 •—and voluntary added, 4 that her dear mother hicf 
 beeen dead six years.' Her face flushed, and her 
 eyes swam in tears. She suddenly "stooped to tie 
 anew Harriet's sash, which she had done, the in- 
 stant before, apparentlyto her satisfaction. 
 
 " The bustle of receiving visitors appeared to 
 divert Harriet's mind from the contemplation of 
 her misfortune ; she was also much flattered by 
 my attention to her dress. The stiff boned stays 
 gave place to the dimity corset ; and the Bath 
 fashions became with Harriet the standard of 
 taste. Nurse observed, with jealous eyes, my 
 growing influence, but prudently yielded to an 
 ascendancy with which she found herself unequal 
 to contest. 
 
 " Amongst our most early visitors were a Mr. 
 and ?>Irs. Barnet, with a very handsome daughter. 
 I concluded from the little c«remony they observ- 
 ed on the occasion, that they were very intimate 
 friends of my husband ; for they surprised'us a£ 
 the breakfast table : but the cold civility of the 
 mother and daughter tallied not with this idea ? 
 
208 KAuKATIVE. 
 
 am! suspended my opinion for further knowledge. 
 On their leaving us, I ask-d Harriet whether the 
 ladies were near neighbours ? * Oh, yes,' answer- 
 ed she, * within a w:\lk ; aad Miss Barnet is the 
 sweetest tempered young lady in the world. She 
 is so good, she comes herself to fetch me to pass 
 the day with her and her sisters ; and when I 
 am there she amuses me in the most obliging 
 manner, notwithstanding Nurse says she is very 
 proud.' The second time I met this family, was 
 at a large dinner party made in honour of the 
 bride. Harriet, although highly gratified by go- 
 ing with us, seemed to derive her principal plea- 
 sure from seeing Miss Barnet. The young lady 
 .appeared not to have forgotten her favourite. She 
 placed her next her at table ; and to judge from 
 the whispers which passed from ear to ear, had 
 much to say and to hear. 
 
 44 After dinner the lady of the house proposed 
 a walk in the labyrinth ; and quitting the room 
 for this purpose, I perceived Harriet and her 
 friend, arm in arm, taking a different path from 
 that the company were in. A sudden fog soon 
 made our retreat to the house prudent. On re- 
 turning thither, I saw the young folks sitting on 
 a rustic bench at a little distance from me. Fear- 
 ing Harriet should take cold, I turned to the path 
 which appeared to me to lead directly to war ere 
 her; but so ingeniously was this maze contrived, 
 that it conducted me behind the ladies, though 
 within hearing. 
 
 "As I approached them, I heard Miss Barnet 
 say, 'So you really *hink she is good natured ?' 
 4 Yes,' replied Harriet, 4 I do indeed believe she 
 is.' i Ah ! my dear tnrl,' rejoined Miss Bar 
 * she may seem to ^e what you think ; these are 
 early days: you will soon find in herihe mother- 
 
NARRATIVE. 209 
 
 in-lain*] I confess, my worthy friend, that I felt 
 my indignation rise ; but a moment's reflection 
 sufficed to check it. I advanced, rustling the 
 branches which impeded my approach, and calling 
 them aloud. They started with surprise, joining 
 me jli eminent confusion. I remarked |hc change 
 in the weather, and then instantly adverted to the 
 ingenuity which had so happily succeded in plant- 
 ing asnarefor the stranger's feet. I believe my 
 . ease banished their apprehensions of having been 
 overheard ; but had I wanted a clue to the heart; 
 of this misguided girl, I should have found it in 
 this little incident. I was sure that the innocent 
 and unsuspecting mind of a child could not long 
 retain the impressions of suspicious ill-will, when 
 opposed to uniform kindness and gentleness ; but 
 I had every thing to fear from the pernicious ef- 
 fects of such lessons as Miss Barnet's, and be- 
 came painfully anxious for the result of a conduct 
 on which I had reposed as the infallible means of 
 producing a change in this child's prejudiced 
 mind, and on which my happiness, as much as 
 her own, depended. 
 
 " The boys happily gav~ me no inquietude. 
 They were inseparable ; and Frank left us at the 
 end of a month or six weeks in triumph, having 
 accomplished his purpose with his father to place 
 him in the same school with his brother. Tran- 
 quillity succeeded to our late dissipated life ; and 
 somewhat more at my ease in regard to Harriet,. 
 I turned my attention to the servants., I had 
 been too much engaged to infringe on the privi- 
 leges of Dawson. I had silently observed that 
 my guests had been regaled with an abundance 
 which would not have disgraced a lord mayor's 
 fcay but there were also proofs of her skill, no 
 less undeniable. I made her my compliments on 
 
 
210 NARRATIVE. 
 
 the one and forbore to criticise on the other. On 
 her bringing me her accounts to settle, I mention- 
 ed with great caution some regulations which I 
 wished to introduce ; these were neither difficult 
 nor mortifying. I spoke of her long and faithful 
 services; of her master's sense of them ; and, 
 finally, of his intention of retrenching in some ar- 
 ticles of expense to which he affixed neither en- 
 joyment nor usefulness. ' To be sure, madam,' 
 answered she with civility, c the bills rise very 
 high ; but every thing is now so dear.' ' It is ve- 
 ry true,' replied I, smiling, c and you have given 
 an additional reason for economy. But you know; 
 your master, Mrs. Dawson ; his honour, his 
 comforts and independence will never be barter- 
 ed for idle parade. I doubt not but you will rea- 
 dily meet his wishes — to me they are commands 
 — -plenty, not profusion, is his aim.' She colour- 
 ed, * I will spare you some trouble,' continued 
 I : ' I have been in the habit of visiting my larder 
 every morning, and my present leisure will settle 
 me in my accustomed duty.' Dawson would not 
 have been displeased, I believe, with an occasion 
 more ostensible for offence ; but attachment to 
 her master, and something like respect for me, 
 repressed her displeasure. She sooa discovered 
 that I was not capricious or unreasonable, and 
 for some time we governed in our respective posts 
 very amicably. 
 
 " Three years after I married, she quilted me 
 and engaged in business ; on this occasion I serv- 
 ed her, and received at her recommendation, 
 the widow of her son, who is still in my service. 
 I allow you tojsmile, continued Mrs. Davenport. 
 at this enumeration of my troubles : but I assure 
 you, even in this point, they were vexatious ; my 
 firmness relieved rae, but my victory was not com- 
 
NARRATIVE. 
 
 tate. The butler fllund there was no \W — ■ 
 Mr. Davenport's second wife: he therein 
 his place — and many dozen's of empty bottles in- 
 stead of full ones in the cellar. Your favourite, 
 Richard, with, the title of Mr-. Bingham, took his 
 office. I am not ashamed to sav, that I v as as 
 much gratified as the honest man, by this proof 
 of j$is master's favour ; for Richard had not ap- 
 peared in any way alarmed by Mr. Davenport's 
 change of condition. On the approach of Christ- 
 mas vacation, I was importantly engaged one 
 morning in trimming a straw bonnet for Harriet : 
 the Bath fashion was to direct our taste ; and Mr. 
 Davenport v.as called upon -to decide on the colour 
 of the ribband. This point settled, he said to his 
 girl, i I dare say you will not wear this smart 
 bonnet till your brothers arrive. They will be 
 here to-morrow se'nnight,' added he, giving me 
 a letter from one of them he had just received.-— 
 4 We will surprise them,' continued he, . by show- 
 ing them what an excellent horse-woman \ou are 
 become Harriet. If the weather permit, we will 
 meet them at Blandford.' She looked delighted ; 
 t^-Jbut suddenlv checking her rising gaiety, sighed, 
 * Poor Sally Madder ! how sadly will her holi- 
 days pass this Christmas !' i Why so, my love*' 
 asked I. ' Why,' answered she, colouring like 
 scarlet, l Nurse says, she is sure you will not per- 
 mit her to come anv more to the Hail in her va- 
 cations from school. ' c Nurse is mistaken,' re- 
 plied J ; nor had she any ground for such a sup- 
 position. It is time she should know me. I am 
 incapable of depriving a mother of the innocent 
 and laudable satisfaction of the society of a de- 
 serving child, go and tell her this.' I spoke with 
 seriousness, and Harriet retired abashed. 
 
212 NARRATIVE. 
 
 " Oil entering her apartment some time after, 
 I found Mrs. Madder's features considerably re- 
 laxed. She thanked me with some confusion for 
 my goodness to her daughter. ' 1 am sure,' cried 
 
 gentle and ingenious ! I will show you some or 
 her work,' rummaging the drawers as she spoke. 
 
 * These] presenting some articles of school work, 
 
 * are nothing to what she does now : for she is a 
 fine young woman at present, and her governess 
 says she is her right hand.' A summons from 
 the music-master stopped Harriet in her eulogium 
 of Miss Madder ; but the subject was too agree- 
 able to Nurse to let it drop. She pursued it on 
 my daughter's quitting the room. ' She is, in- 
 deed, madam,' said she with honest exultation, 
 4 an excellent young creature, she is the pride 
 of my life.' * And in that pride,' replied I, ' you 
 may safely trust for an evidence that you deserve 
 to have a good child. But, 7 added I, ' cannot she be 
 settled with us before our young men coYne home ? 
 Gan you inform her that you and Harriet-will fetch . 
 her hither on Thursday in a carriage- I had inad- 
 vertently touched the heart of Mrs. Madder, by a 
 proposal I did not even consider as a compliment, 
 but merely as an accommodation; but it seems that 
 Sally had heretofore been obliged to the coachman 
 and a pillion on these annual visits to the Hall., 
 The fond mother, subdued by this unexpected at- 
 tention to her child, bowed before my irresistible 
 power. She burst into tears. ' You are too good 
 madam,' sobbed she. ' I do not deserve your 
 kindness, for I have not behaved well. I beg you"' 
 will hear my excuse.. 
 
NARRATIVE. Ulo 
 
 i had a cruel and wicked st~p-mother v , mad am ; 
 she vfas the ruin of ray poor industrious father: 
 she ny only brother from his home ; he 
 
 went to sea and never has been h -ard of since. — 
 •She beat and 'ill-treated me ; and robbed us al], 
 to supply her own dissolute son with money, to 
 maltii him still more wicked. My father died of 
 
 • a broken heart in a gaol. I must have starved, or 
 done worse, had it not been for a sister of my 
 mother. She received me, and, what was stiH 
 better, as her own child* 1 remained with her 
 till I married. My husband was under-tenant to 
 my master ; and we lived very near the Hall. — 
 At the death of my husband I was left with Sally,, 
 and an infant at my breast. Mrs. Davenport's 
 health was then on the decline, and she was una- 
 ble to suckle her infant, Miss Harriet. I was sent 
 for,. -and for some days took the charge of her 
 and my own child. My mistress was pleased 
 with me, and prevailed upon me to place my baby 
 at nurse, and to remain with her. The doctors 
 
 & assured me I was not able to rear two, and that 
 my infant, being a very vigorous one, would do 
 very well without the breast. My aunt recom- 
 mended to me a compliance, engaging to take care 
 of Sail}'. Thus, madam, I became a domestic in 
 this family : but my poor little boy was the vic- 
 tim," he drooped and died ; and I was very un- 
 happy. My kind mistress consoled and comfort- 
 ed me, and my dear nursling throve. I know 
 not how it was, but it seemed as if God had given 
 me this child in the place of that which he had \ 
 called to himself. Four happy years passed. — 
 My mistress placed Sally at Mrs. Cravan's, and 
 ordered that no pains should be spared in her 
 learning; and she often said, she was providing 
 rself with another comfort, She was- indeed a 
 
^14. NARRATIVE. 
 
 benefactress to me and mine! I nov, J til 
 
 event of Irer approaching confinement, I saw all 
 the hazard of it. She lived, however, some day 3 
 after the birth of the child, who died almost in- 
 staiitly after it was born. I never quitted my 
 dear "lady's bedside ; and I saw' with an aching 
 her trouble respecting her children, parti- 
 V for Miss Harriet. Some hours before she 
 breathed her last, she requested of my master that 
 I should never be removed from my attendance on 
 her daughter. Ah! m:wpm, had she requested 
 harder conditions, they \v ' '.aid have been complied 
 with f for never did I see such grief as my poor 
 master's., 
 
 " My lady provided for Sally's continuance at 
 school, and left me an hundred pounds* I shall 
 never forget her last look, nor her last words! 
 They were — 4 my Harriet ! — do not forsake my 
 child !' That -I should remember these words does 
 not surprise you, madam : but I doat upon this 
 child, and I have always dreaded my master's 
 marrying again, as the greatest misfortune I could 
 meet with. My own early afflictions were con- 
 stantly coming into my mind ; for although my 
 dear child had nothing to fear from poverty, I 
 well knew she" might be miserable in abundance. 
 I will now, madam, tell you all : I verily believe 
 I could have heard of the death of my honoured 
 master with less grief than I did of his second 
 marriage. Blessed be God! I see I have been 
 wrong. My child, yes madam, my child will be 
 I happy, and I shall die in peace.' I was, my good 
 friend, much affected.; and with sincerity and 
 warmth assured the good creature that I honoured 
 her principles : and from that hour Mrs. Madder, 
 I believe, forgot I was a step-mother. Her daugh- 
 ter fujly answered Harriet's eulogium, and I soon 
 
NARRATIVL. 21 
 
 ,\V 
 
 at Mrsi Davenport's plans would net be 
 rtive. 
 
 "After the holidays we went to town, Mr. 
 Davenport Laving secured a good house in Ber- 
 nefS-street i\ r cur reception. In April he set out 
 for Scotland, in order to settle the litigiou's claims 
 of nw sen's unworthv uncle. You already know 
 that he neither liked the spirit nor the activity 
 the agent we had chosen, and that he was glad to 
 compromise an affair in which he knew there was 
 not a shadow of justice, anel in which had been 
 involveel the happiness of. his brother's widow 
 and the provision for his child. Mr. Davenport 
 had scarcely reached the end of his journey, be- 
 fore poor Harriet sickened, and a violent fei 
 succeeded. It was pronounced contagious ; 
 .Nurse, on the ninth day, was forced from her 
 charge by the same alarming symptoms, and ob- 
 liged to retire to that bed from which she never- 
 rose more. 
 
 u This circumstance influenced my conduct, and 
 Mr. Davenport was not informed of Harriet's 
 danger until it had happily passed. I belie 
 however, that the fear of infection was iil-gicu. 
 eel ; for I escaped, although I never c t uitted the 
 sick room for nearly three weeks, anel no other of 
 the family suffered except Nurse. I have always 
 attributed the fatal consequences of her illness to 
 her ungoverned alarm, her excessive fatigue, anel 
 a habit of body ill suited to struggle with such a 
 malady. 
 
 " My cares were happily compensated, and my- 
 patient in a condition to be removed. I lost not ^ 
 an hour in London, and had the comfort of find- 
 ing the journey to the Kail less an evil than I had 
 expeueei. The extreme debility of her mind and v ^ 
 body appeared to have rendered her insensible 
 
216 NARRATIVE. 
 
 the loss she had sustained : she was as passive and 
 as helpless as an infant. In proportion is she 
 gained strength, I was not deceived in my expec- 
 tations of seeing her concern manifested, and I 
 was prepared to meet it. We were never sepa- 
 rate, and my attentions supplied these of her 
 faithful lost attendant. When able to move about 
 the house, I observed that she carefully avoided 
 her former apartment and sleeping- room ; and I 
 availed myself of this circumstance to new-model 
 them agreeably to the designs I had before me. 
 
 " One morning I found her very languid and 
 dejected. I talked to her of her father's return, 
 which we daily expected, of her rides with him, 
 &c. &c. in order to divert her. She wept in Si- 
 lence. I again exerted my powers. i You will 
 think me an ungrateful creature (said she) but in- 
 deed I am only a weak child. If I could but for- 
 get poor Mrs. Madder, all would be well. But 
 my dear mamma, I have been very foolish. I 
 thought I should like to see the nursery. I ap- 
 proached the door, but I could not open it to erm r. 
 My heart died within me ; all my nurse's kindness 
 came into my mind, and I almost thought I heard 
 her voice, and her tender caution!. Poor wo- 
 man ! her love for me cost her her life.' I re- 
 pressed not this effusion of grateful remembrance; 
 but with seriousness adverted to the unfavourable 
 state of Mrs. Madder's health and her repugnance 
 to air and exercise. Shf; became more composed, 
 but silent. At 'length, faintly ^miling, she said, 
 >;Vshall soon have no mamma's pillow to press. 
 p If r am melancholy when my papa returns, you 
 will take care that he is net displeased. M#ry*ls 
 a very good-natured girl, and in time (sighed she) 
 I shall be accustomed to her.' fc J have no ihten- 
 
 
21f 
 
 tion (answered I) to make Mary, although a 
 ur companion cither by night or by 
 lay. I have provided one whom I hope my 
 Harriet will like better.' She looked with anxiety 
 and curiosity in my face. * I had purposed fetch- 
 ing her hither to morrow (pursued I ) ; 1 1 fear 
 you will not be well enough for the ride.' 4 Is it 
 possible? (criecl ; ih transport.) '®h!*I am 
 
 it is Sally .■'Madder.' 
 kt You are perfectly (right resumed I ) : she is 
 :hy of my confidence and your love. Und- 
 this roof 1^ trust she'wilf be happy'; and that in 
 will be reconciled to the loss of hergood 
 She will find another in you, (excluim- 
 rateful girl :) Oh ! you are all goodness! 
 But, (added she, sinking her voice and fixing 
 eyes. on mine) Gan you believe thai we all hatecl v 
 .you when you first came here f* ' No answered 
 V) I cannot; because I know to the contra:}-. 
 • in the house. were capable of hating an un- 
 ndiug object, and a stranger. Your zealous 
 chough humble friends taught yon. to believe, 
 j they believed it themselves, that as t : 
 1 choice of your father, I must of course b< 
 the object of their and your abhorrence : it wa 
 the mother-i.'i-Lav, not me that you hated. U h 
 der that character you saw t!ie invader of ti: 
 rights of another ; the interested encroacher on 
 your father's fortune, the artful monopolizer of 
 his affection, and the uhderminer of your interest 
 and the peace of the family. In' a word, you hat- 
 ed, and justly this common enemy, from whose Jk 
 usurped authority you conceived there could be 
 no appeal and from whose artful blandishments 
 there was every thing to fear* You saw me, 
 and you saw 1 me invested with the name you so 
 reasonably dreaded. But you were all soon con- 
 

 218 NARRATIVE. 
 
 i 
 
 vinced that I bore no resemblance to this hideous 
 picture : and you loved .me in my real charac- 
 ter.' 
 
 -'You have indeed (said she) changed our 
 hearts. It is no wonder that you have subdued 
 mine : but it is astonishing to me, that those mis- 
 taken people should so soon reverence you, and 
 bless*th&day you came hither.' ' The secret is a 
 very simple one, my. dear child (answered I :) 
 c the whole is comprised in a single precept of the 
 t gospel : t Do unto others what you would they 
 should do unto you;' and to this positive injunc- 
 tion of our divine master was superadded at a 
 very early age, a conviction in my own mind, that 
 I was only happy in proportion as I contributed 
 to the happiness of those about me. c But conti- 
 ued I) let not this conversation finish here. Let 
 me enjoy a full and complete triumph over those 
 prejudices, which have been so injudiciously, 
 though honestly infused into my Harriet's inge- 
 nuous mind, and which tended seriously to pro- 
 duce all those evils she was taught to apprehend. 
 Let me not only speak for myself, but also in fa- 
 vour of many respectable women in the same pre- 
 dicament. You had in your infancy a good and 
 tender mother. Her maternal cares, had it been 
 permitted, would have safely guided you through 
 life. But have you never heard of bad mothers ? 
 I have known spjne negligent of their offspring, 
 dissipators of their fortunes, indifferent, and even 
 careless of their improvemrnt imvirtue and piety 
 — nay, more, corrupters of that innocence it was 
 their duty to guard, by the examples they placed 
 before them. I have seen unjust, cruel and weak 
 mothers; some the rivals of their blooming- 
 daughters; some the selfish impediments to their 
 sons establishment in the world. I have seen 
 
NARRATIVE. 219 
 
 others, led by a blind and capricious partiality 
 ruin the ill-fated object of their foolish and crimi- 
 nal preference, and, by their repulsive manners, 
 condemn an unoffending child to dejection and 
 continual mortification. Yet I do not hate the 
 name of a mother. On the contrary, I reverence 
 it as the most honourable designation in human 
 life : and when I see this character supported by 
 the performance of its duties, I regard it as the 
 most important to the real interests of society, 
 and the most essential to the happiness of man. 
 Judge in future by this test: and wherever you 
 find the character of the mother sustained with 
 integrity, refuse not to acknowledge the right she 
 has to love and esteem. But my dear Harriet, 
 (pursued I) have you ever adverted to the diffi- 
 culties which meet a woman who stands in the 
 same relation with myself? What do you ima- 
 gine of the sensations which oppress the heart of 
 a w.o.man of honour and delicacy on her first en- 
 trance into a family as a mother-in-law ? eyed by 
 jealousy and suspicion ; her most prudent plans 
 undermined, and her mildest instructions brand- 
 ed with the reproach of severity and hypocrisy! 
 What think you of my bridal visits ? For many 
 months after I became your father's \Viie, my 
 dress was curiously and impertinently scrutinized, 
 in order to detect some ornament which had been 
 your mother's : you were addressed in tones of 
 pity and tenderness by those who before this event 
 took no interest, in your welfare*: your simplicity^ 
 was abused, and inquiries made [she blushed 
 crimson deep] under the colour of commisera- 
 tion, which were much more disgraceful to those 
 who made them than to me. Your father was fe- 
 licitated with irony and rude jokes on his marri- 
 age, and your brother was asked with a sneer, how 
 
£20 narrative. 
 
 he liked his new mrfmmu ? with other impertinen- 
 cies, wfiich his good sense and spirit rcjecu 
 wit^'scorn. 
 
 *• I sometimes, dear girl, smiled at this poor 
 malignity : but I do assure you, had I been a few 
 years younger, or less established in the good 
 opini the virtuous and candid, and, abov 
 
 all, in -llfct heart of my husband, its influence 
 would have been pernicious, an 4 probably would 
 have pervaded my happiness.' This conversation 
 had its effect; and Harriet felt that I was indeed 
 her mother. 
 
 '• Before we set out for Bland ford to fetch Miss 
 Madder, I prevailed on Harriet to visit the. desert- 
 ed apartments. I had taken that opportunity t« 
 
 . to them a dressing-closet, and to new-hang 
 ancl furnisn the whole. She was pleased at the 
 change, and thought they looked cheerful. No 
 ■sooner vvas Miss Madder arrived, than she led 
 her up stairs, to " l show her mamma's taste.',: In 
 a few minutes she joined me in the dining-parlour, 
 with a saddened countenance. ' 1 have been very 
 indiscreet (said she :) I should not have con- 
 ducted poor Sail* 7 info those rooms; she is 
 weeping bitterly, and begs to be left alone.' You 
 have don? nothing wrong (answered I ; she will 
 be more composed in a little time ; and as you 
 sleep there to-night, it is better that her first emo 
 lions should pass.' c Does any one dine with us 
 to-day ?' asked she reassured, and observing the 
 laid with three covers. I answered in the 
 negative. 4 What ! (said she, her eyes sparkling 
 :^y') ' will you permit Sally Madder to dine 
 wkh you:' l Most assuredly,' replied I with se- 
 4 Do you imagine that the person to 
 whom your father and myself have consigned \ 
 re improvement can Be properly pi; 
 
NARRATIVE. 221 
 
 As your friend and companion, she had 
 al way jjjf- right to a place at the same taele with 
 yourseW, and with your parents ,* and had not her 
 mother had one peculiarly apart from the family, 
 she would never have known any other in this 
 house. 
 
 " But, my dear Harriet, you are now to regard 
 Miss Madder as something more than Jijur com- 
 panion : your affection, I know, cannot increase £ 
 hut she is entitled to a deference, in consequence 
 of that trust which her conduct and talents have 
 procured her. Her claims on our kindness, high 
 as they are, and disposed as we are to admit them, 
 would not alone have warranted the preference we, 
 have shown ; but she is good and virtuous, and 
 will never mislead you. 
 
 " The fact was, that the lady under whose care 
 this amiable girl had been placed for the greater 
 part of her life, perfectly understood Her value; 
 her docility and genius produced the design df 
 qualifying her for a teacher in her school ; and 
 nothing had been omitted to render her a proper 
 ant. The death of her mother, and my pro- 
 posals, induced Mrs. C to give up her own 
 
 interest, in favour of a young person whom she 
 loved as much as if she had been h^r daughter. 
 
 " But, I have said, mv dear Mr. Palmerstone, 
 more than is necessary on this head. You have, 
 distinguished this girl's merit in tli£ faithful and 
 judicious cares which now engage her in this fa- 
 mily ; my daughter and Miss Madder having 
 never been separated since that day. 
 
 u My husband's return from Scotland, and the, 
 
 Jpirth of my little Emily., completed our domestic 
 
 felicity. The autumn closed upon us, and Mr. 
 
 D tvenport began to talk of a removal to Ber- 
 
 riers-street before the cold season should be too 
 
narrative; 
 
 far a./ for the infant's safety and mine 
 
 week succeeded week without any dec id ecbgre pa- 
 rations, we were all happy, and reluctant, to the 
 necessary steps towards a change of our abode* 
 "In this way November had nearly closed ; 
 when one morning that a hard frost covered the 
 ground, and a bright sun enlivened t\ery object, 
 Harriet^gvith her friend, on their return from a 
 ipng walk, entered my dressing-room, where I was 
 seated with my child on my knee'. l Oh, (cried 
 :.lie on entering) what a pity it is to give up such 
 delicious mornings as these to that hateful Lon- 
 don ! You have no idea, (addressing me) of the 
 beauty of this morning : how my brothers would 
 enjoy such in the holidays !' Her 'face bore evi- 
 dent marks of iis invigorating effects ; it was 
 flowing with health and animation. My husband, 
 who was reading in the room, forgot his book : lie 
 ^•azed at her with fond delight ; when, throwing 
 uside her muff, she suddenly catchtd up the infant 
 in her arms, and said, l Plead for us my cherub ! 
 tell this father of yours (carrying it towards i.'n 
 that you will climb his knee a year the sooner for 
 staying here ; tell him that we have no frightful 
 fevers here to kill and harass our dearest friends !' 
 She looked at me with sensibility. ' Persuade 
 him, (added she, smothering the babe with her 
 caresses) and I promise you a bed of roses in the 
 summeiV ' i heartily wish (said I) that she may 
 succeed.' *My husband, steadfastly looking at 
 me, said, ' Are you serious, Susan :' c Most as* 
 furedly (answered I :) what inducements can I 
 have to quit this scene of endeared comfort, be- 
 yond that of gratifying your inclinations?' * We" 
 (replied he) 1 am glad that we understand each 
 other ; for I assure you that your amusement vrAs 
 the sole object with me for engaging the house h 
 

 town ; an: ; . . I must tell you that I de- 
 
 con vers: 
 ig up the idle 
 we have-not s< 
 ■II it. 
 L> The t oung rrieivs return no . 
 
 . 
 their arrival, an 
 
 : worked ; no 
 til fringe. Ji'ie had sea; ec - 
 ■i she heard the horses 
 f. i .'.)■:■ VI-. in an instant at the hall 
 doer, with the infant in her firms. I stood at the 
 window, apprehensive not of her care, but of the 
 cokl. 4 See (cried she, before in,Cy had well dis- 
 mpjantecl) look at her ! look at little Emily !' Tjhe 
 ers eagerly advanced, and a friendly contest 
 hotrid have*the first kiss. Ah ! my 
 ..erstone ! at that moment I experienced 
 a pleasure which recompensed me for everv evil 
 in-.rny Jifc ! c There (said the lively .uirse) take 
 her between you,' resigning her to Frank : l only 
 do not devour the marmoset.' George now turned 
 to a fine youth, who had till this instant been the 
 unnoticed spectator scene. He introduced 
 
 Mr, Berry to' Harriet, who blushing!} , but not 
 ungracefully, led the way to the drawing-room, 
 where I met them, and recovered my treasure t - 
 The stranger enlivened our society ; oui 'ball? 
 were brilliant; and Miss Karnv-t had many occa- 
 sions "of seeing the moilier-in-iuiu the promoter 
 barer of the happiness of her family. 
 44 Six happy years flew on downy wings over 
 heads. Harriet became the wife' of Mr. 
 \ , and our hearts exrVUed in the prospect of 
 of our condition. I fear we were 
 
224 <► NARRATIVE* 
 
 too secure ; we forgot that misfortune could br 
 clown our fences. I lost my sweet child the year 
 after Harriet married. My health was unequal 
 to .the shock-; a nervous fever succeeded, which 
 for many months obstinately rejected every means 
 of relief. To you, my excellent friend, who so 
 nobly exhibit the goodness of that nature which 
 all have derived from the pure source of their ex- 
 istence, it will be no matter of surprise to hear 
 that I was indebted to the grateful cares of my old 
 housekeeper Dawson, for attentions which in no 
 small degree contributed to my recovery. This 
 worthy woman left her own comfortable ease, and 
 the care of her own concerns, on the first intelli- 
 gence of my illness, to watch with unremitting 
 patience by my bed-side, and to console my weak- 
 ened mind by her sootniiigs. Kad I stood in need 
 of inducements for the observance of one of the 
 most binding of the relative duties (for such I 
 will venture to call kindness and consideration to 
 domestics) I must in this instance have met with 
 them : but to such as do forget these claims I will 
 sav, i Render your servants happy, respect their 
 ease and their health, consult their interest and 
 security : If they be ungrateful, you are unfortu* 
 nate, and may be allowed to complain.' But I 
 forget myself, and my story should finish. My 
 sons are now in Scotland, at George's pau 
 jaouse, Jbr which he is probably as much indebted 
 To Mr. Davenport as to. his own father. These 
 vpung men are connected by ties which the}- take* 
 not the trouble to define; their hearts have long 
 since established them as common blessing 
 each other. One interest unites them. Their 
 social pleasures are incomplete when divided. — 
 Their characters are different : but this difference 
 forms another bond of union ; the mild and sen- 
 
NARRATIVE. 225 
 
 ►us disposition of George is happily blended with 
 the brave and careless gaiety of Frank, who, not 
 without reason, calls his friend the 4t Sage Men- 
 tor." You sec my daughter; she is the well- 
 earned praise or my life. You see my grand- 
 children fondly soliciting my love and notice. ■ 
 Vou see your worthy friend Davenport treading 
 the downhill of life with honour and peace ; and . 
 you see in me the example that the upright of 
 heart, even in this world, are blessed.'' 
 
 t;:;; west Indians. 
 
 u Vou know that I was born in Jamaica; and 
 
 that I possess in that island a consluerable estate, 
 once the property of my parent:,. My mother 
 when 1 was only six months old. I was 
 nursed and reared by a white woman, the wife of 
 one of the overseers of the plantation on which 
 we resided. This woman had been my mother's 
 housekeeper, and she continued to superintend 
 the domestic affairs of the family with fidelity ni- 
 ter her decease. Her tender care in regard to 
 me well merited the confidence which my father 
 reposed in her; for she was without reproach, 
 unless her excessive indulgence to her charge be 
 '-construed into one, by that candour which consi- 
 ders the motives that governed her ; for she I 
 .it an imputation on her affection and respect foi 
 my mother, when a tear fell from my eyes* 
 
 u My good father had not altogether the same 
 
 apology for the same weakness in regard lb- his 
 
 for he was a man of sense; vet he treated 
 
 
226 NARRATIVE. 
 
 me with fondness as pernicious as that of my 
 faithful nurse. At ten years of age it is probable 
 he discovered something of this truth ; and in 
 spite of nurse's tears, and his own reluctant heart, 
 he consigned me to the care of his friends Mr. 
 and Mrs. Delmy, in order that I might receive 
 that education in London which he despaired of 
 , obtaining for me under his own eye. Mrs. Need- 
 ham's attention and tenderness to her pupils being 
 as fully established as the reputation of her tal- 
 ents and good sense, I was accordingly placed in 
 her hands, with as many cautions as the fond 
 anxiety of Mr. Deimy could suggest. 
 
 " I had never been accustomed to contradic- •-• 
 tion....My diet had been carefully attended to.... 
 No expense would be regarded, in which my 
 comforts and gratifications were included.... No 
 attentions unnoticed. Mrs. Needham, with the 
 utmost good htfmour, engaged for all that was 
 demanded consistently with the rules of her 
 house, and the duty she imposed on herself to at- 
 tend to the health and happiness of the young 
 people under her care, as sedulously as to their 
 improvement; and with great tenderness satisfi- 
 ed Mrs. Delmy that she had nothing to fear for 
 me. This truly respectable woman did not de- 
 ceive her. My friends left me with a cargo 
 cakes and trinkets, and as much money in my. 
 purse as it pleased me to take from theirs. 
 
 " The assistant ladies, by Mrs. Needham's di- 
 rection I presume, left me two or three days to|, 
 myself, in order, I suppose, that I might be re- 
 conciled to my new situation, and become ac- 
 quainted with my companions. I was perfectly 
 satisfied with the one and the other. The pro- 
 fuseness, or, if you will, the generosity of my 
 temper soon gained me an interest with the girls 
 
 *i 
 
NARRATIVE. .. 227 
 
 ior I distributed, as' I received, without discre- 
 tion ; and being as I realty was, good-humoured, 
 the teachers treated me with smiles and affability. 
 I waseonducted with much consideration to the 
 business of the school, and masters in their dif- 
 ferent branches engaged to admit me as a pti, ■;! ; 
 but a very weeks sufficed to convince those * 
 geci wth my instruction, that they were employ- 
 ing their time fruitlessly. A supine carelessness 
 baffied all their honest endeavours, and defeated 
 every attempt towards my reformation. Good- 
 humoured and gay, I was content with all around 
 me whilst left to the enjoyment of myself. A 
 slattern in my appearance, notwithstanding all the 
 attention' that was given to me ; perfectly indiffer- 
 ent to the expensive distinctions Mrs. Delmy r s 
 fondness contrived to give to my dress ; 1 onlr 
 regretted the labour annexed to every additional 
 ribband. I never shall forget the sufferings I en- 
 dured, on first being in this house, and condemn- 
 ed to put on my own shoes and stockings you 
 
 may laugh if you please— but I do assure you, 
 that could I havjs effected my purpose, I should 
 have slept in them. I regarded the time allotted 
 me for getting my lessons as destined for my re- 
 pose, and every exhortation to diligence as con- 
 taining nothing more serious, than as it obliged 
 me to stand on my legs. I was a clumsy girl, al- 
 though tall for my age ; inert in all my move- 
 ments, and inexpressibly fatigued by the most 
 -moderate exercise. The forbearance of the 
 teachers and masters was exhausted — it is proba- 
 ble they had no authority to compel me to dili- 
 gence by severe means, at least none were used — 
 Hhej became careless of a pupil from whom no- 
 thing was to be expected. Lounging on a form, 
 or squatted on my knees, I was the life and spir- 
 
228 N-AURA'i : 
 
 it of the little circle ; and often have 1 triumpl 
 in drawing reluctant smiles' from the grave mas- 
 ters and teachers. 
 
 u In this way passed the first six months of my 
 noviciate — I believe I may say, beloved by all, 
 and despised byL all, however paradoxical it. may 
 sn.'in.l. The vacation returned me to my friends 
 the Defrays, where I was only questioned rela- 
 rively to my comforts and indulgences. As I 
 had no complaints 10 make, and had, in the full 
 enjoyment of my ease, forgotten every former 
 invasion of it, I spoke with pleasure of my gov- 
 erness and her family. Mrs. Delmy was delight- 
 ed and grateful. On my return to school, the 
 carriage* was furnished with elegant little presents 
 for the 'good ladies who superintend in Mrs. 
 Needham's house ; and even the assistant cook 
 had reason to remember the West India yottitg 
 lady. ^ 
 
 ^ Upon distributing my gilts, on the day fol 
 lowing my arrival, I found that one of the teach- 
 crs had given place to a new one. She was a 
 very elegant young woman, with whose p- 
 and manners I was immediately struck. 1 6l 
 ed her, with my usual eagerness, the present 
 which had been destined for her predecessor. — 
 She declined it with sweetness and politeness, tel- 
 ling me, ' Mrs. Needham could with ease convey 
 it to the laxly for whom it had been intended ; and 
 such a remembrance from- you now,' added she, 
 
 will be doubly grateful.' I felt she was righq^ 
 and loved her for a generosity, which somehow 
 had appeared to me less general than I had been 
 accustomed to think it. 1 soon disco- .red that I 
 was in a particular manner unci in- 
 
 spection. 1 also rem; 
 chalence.. that mv . 
 
NARRATIVE. 229 
 
 lessons* Day succeeded day, and I was left to 
 my own pleasure. If I worked at my frame, it 
 was.well: if I netted it was the same. No pri- 
 vations, no lectures followed. No one disturbed 
 my repose ; and although the slave of sloth, I 
 began to be weary of an idleness which admitted 
 of no variety. I asked Miss Courtney, the new 
 teacher, why she om tted me in her assignment of 
 tasks to the young ladies ? 4 It is," replied she 
 with a serious air, ^because we presume that you 
 are not sent hither in order to be instructed !' — 
 4 Why,' answered I, * for what other purpose do 
 you imagine that I am here ?' ' To eat, and to 
 drink, and to sleep,' returned she. An acute 
 sensation of shame passed my mind. I endea- 
 voured to conceal it, and, with assumed gaiety, 
 exclaimed, 4 What can be more pleasant ?' 'True,' 
 answered she : l to hunger and labour they are 
 indeed gratifications; but methinks that, in order 
 for your enjoyment of these blessings of nature, 
 there was no necessity for your crossing the At- 
 1 mtic' I was haltering from her to hide a vex- 
 ation, which in spite of me rose to my eyes ; 
 when she said mildly, v The young ladies are all 
 engaged : you will only interrupt them : do 
 me the favour to stay with me. Mrs. Needham 
 has kindly given me this morning for the purpose 
 of arranging my books and clothes. If I dared, I 
 would request your assistance : all these trunks 
 must be emptied before I shall feel myself at 
 home. — ' Oh !' cried I, joyfully squatting down 
 by the side, of one of them, ' I will help you 
 with the greatest pleasure' ■ There are some 
 new shelves,' observed Miss Courtney: I doubt 
 not I owe them to Mrs. Necdham's attention. 
 You shall take out the books and I will place 
 them.' This was an employment quite in mv 
 17 
 
130 NARRATIVE. f, 
 
 way. I drew without exertion the books from 
 the box, and placed them on the floor around me. 
 The two-fold duty of Miss Courtney, to pick 
 them up and place them properly, cost her more 
 time and labour ; whilst I, sitting at my ease, ex- 
 amined the lettered volumes about me. Mrs. 
 Chapone's works elegantly bound, attracted my 
 curiosity — on the blank page was beautifully writ- 
 ten, " Prize Book, Miss Courtney.' A neat rose- 
 wood Norway drawing stand, a box of Reeve's co- 
 lours, a set of historical medals, and several 
 other books in French and Italian, passed my 
 hand with the same designation. 
 
 " Had you a yearly lottery at your school ?' de- 
 manded I. — c No,' answered she 'nothing was 
 allowed there to chance : application and industry 
 were the only means of profit permitted by the 
 lady who presided in it : these she encouraged 
 by donations which were distributed every six 
 months ; a fund being established by the parents 
 of the young ladies for the purpose, and to which 
 she liberally subscribed. I have often reflected 
 on that wisdom and address with which she ex- 
 cited emulation and restrained envy, by an impar- 
 tiality so measured as to leave no room for dis- 
 content : nor can I forget the value she set on 
 good nature* for which the first prize was always 
 destined and the candidate judged by her compa- 
 nions; ' These little evidences of my indu 
 continued she, sitting down and turning one in 
 
 hand, ^ are now. my treasure. They serve 
 me as powerful stimulativts to those exer 
 
 that activity they once rewarded. You i an 
 hardly imagine how much they have contributed 
 to produce in my mind those habits of patience 
 fine', perseverance, without which it is impo< 
 to attain to any thing valuable. To say the truth. 
 
ATIVE. 231 
 
 they have done more ; for they have introduced 
 such a love of employment, that with me time 
 unoccupied is burthensome ; and I should prefer 
 the rudest labour to idleness.^ 
 
 " I saw her design, and I also felt it. ' I doubt 
 not,' said I sorrowfully, * the truth of what you 
 say ; but I dare say that you had a good mother 
 to instruct you before you went to school. I had 
 none to guide me.' She turned pale. I also 
 lost mine,' replied she sighing, i at a very early 
 age; but that loss made me acquainted with a 
 friend not less valuable. But we are becoming 
 grave,' said she, rising, ' and you will be weary. 
 I can with ease finish the rest by leaving my bed 
 an hour earlier than ordinary to morrow morning. 
 She now displayed to me her drawings; and a 
 port folio of botanical plants beautifully preserv- 
 ed and arranged, and with the most sweet and 
 fascinating manners engaged my attention and ad- 
 miration. The first dinner-bell surprised us. * Is 
 it possible V cried I. It cannot be so late !'— - c Oh 5 
 yes,' replied Miss Courtney, ' it certainly is : I 
 ask myself the same question very often. Em- 
 ployment gives wings to time,' added she, affqg- 
 tionately pressing my hand, ' but in its rapid 
 flight it leaves memorials not less honourable 
 than salutary.' On quitting her for my hasty 
 toilet, I asked her whether I might come to help 
 her in the morning.' She laughed, 4 You!' said 
 she,' with an ironical tone: ' why I shall rise at 
 six o'clock! Do you consider such conditions 
 as these? <* Yes,' answered I piqued, l and why 
 should I not be able to rise at the same hour . ? 
 4 Nay/ replied she in the same gay tone, ' now 
 indeed you puzzle me. Shall we put it to the 
 the test ? I shall be obliged to you for your 
 company. 5 
 
232 NARRATIVE. 
 
 
 " The spring of my watch being broken, I had 
 no other means than to apply to the house clock. 
 There was no danger of my not hearing it strike, 
 yet I was uneasy .and restless : all the latent 
 powers of my mind seemed roused; and the re- 
 flection that I should not long be Miss Courtney's 
 favourite was actually oppressive to me. Some- 
 thing very much like selfcondemnation haunted my 
 spirits : I calculated again and again my acquire- 
 ments, with those it was probable Miss Court- 
 ney possessed at my age, and I experienced a 
 shame and regret, into which glided a sentiment 
 altogether unknown to me before ; that is to say y 
 the disappointed expectations of my father. I 
 shed, my dear Mrs. Palmerstone, tears of real 
 contrition. The result of my cogitations was a 
 resolution to imitate Miss Courtney with all possi- 
 ble diligence. My watchfulness preceded the 
 time, and, mistaking the hour, I rose at five 
 o'clock. Impenetrable darkness surrounded me : 
 but no ways dismayed by a situation so new to 
 me, I took my bundle of clothes, which I had 
 used the precaution to collect together, and step- 
 ped across the passage that led to Miss Courtney's 
 room. She was asleep when I entered the apart- 
 ment, and I believe she would not have been sor- 
 ry had I been so likewise. It was dreadfully cold, 
 and her first care was to recommend to me dis- 
 patch in dressing : she then with much cheerful- 
 ness congratulated me on my victory, and instant- 
 ly arose. The fire was replenished, and the R 
 lamp gave place to two candles ; all took an air 
 of comfort ; but I thought her immeasureably 
 long in her dressing and attendant duties. 
 
 u To say the truth, these included attentions 
 which I seldom thought of when left to myself. 
 \tlast miss Courtney placed herself by me With 
 
NARRATIVE* »3 
 
 all the graces of neatness and simplicity. We 
 proceeded to our business, and I was disposed to 
 be very alert : but my curiosity was so often in 
 action, that I believe I was a more importunate 
 questioner than useful assistant. Sometimes ar- 
 tificial flowers came in the way — then a set of 
 dressing-boxes in filigree — now a worked gown, 
 and now miniatures of ladies. These I exam- 
 ined with attention, and asked her ' whether the 
 friend she had mentioned was amongst them ? 
 though,' added I, * they all appear too young, ex- 
 cept this,' directing her eyes to one I held in my 
 hand. ' That,' replied she, c is the picture of my 
 good governess. But you say truly : the friend 
 I alluded to has lineaments very different from a~ 
 ny you see at present ; she has neither the smiles 
 and graces of youth, nor the sobered sweetness 
 of maturity. You will find them however, pret- 
 ty faithfully delineated in this packet,' giving me 
 one sealed up ; c put it in your pocket for the 
 present, we have no time to snare.' I obeyed, 
 and took up several bundles neatly tied up and 
 ticketed. One was muslin — v a frock for Emily/ 
 — another, l dimity for Charles'— -estch bore their 
 several destinations, You have then,' said I, 
 brothers and sisters ? You are more fortuna^ 
 than I am.' — ' Those/ replied she, ' whom affec- 
 tion has bestowed upon me, and allows me to con- 
 sider as such : but nature has denied me that 
 blessing. The trifles you see are intended for 
 the use of a friend in the country : she has a, 
 young family, and accepts with kindness the of- 
 firings of gratitude.: her ingenuity and industry 
 give a -value to tjiese half-worn clothes, which 
 spare her husband expenses that woufd otherwise 
 j on his limited income,'— 4 1 wish,' cried ,1 
 
234 NARRATIVE, j 
 
 ' she had some of my things ! Do, my^dear Miss 
 Courtney, manage to put in some of my frocks 
 
 —Mrs. Delmy will be so pleased !'- Oh !' 
 
 said she involuntarily, ' that I may but succeed !* 
 1 — 4 Do not doubt it,' cried I gaily, misconceiving 
 her meaning. Mrs, Delmy will send you- plenty 
 of things !' She kissed me with tenderness, and 
 an emotion that I ascribed solely to pleasure : my 
 contentment was complete, and my vivacity un- 
 restrained. 
 
 " On our leaving the room, she said to me 
 with a significant smile, ' My dear miss Weni- 
 worth, as you are not always employed, it may 
 be you will not be displeased to visit this apart- 
 ment sometimes : when I am in it, you will al- 
 ways be a welcome guest ; and in my absence,' 
 added she, looking-at her book-case, 4 my friends 
 will be yours.' I thanked her with real gratitude, 
 and the same day availed myself of this permis- 
 sion, in order to examine at my ease the impor- 
 tant packet, which I conceived contained some 
 very interesting secret. 
 
 M On entering the room I was struck by the 
 neat arrangement of it, which a cheerful fire no 
 ways disgraced. Some beautiful landscapes 
 were hung round it — in the middle of the room 
 stood a table and reading-desk, inimitably exe- 
 cuted, so as to resemble the finest marble — and 
 near the fire a frame of embroidery, which Miss 
 Courtney had just left : in a word I conceived I 
 was in the temple of taste ; a view -of my own 
 negligent person, reflected from the opposite mir- 
 ror, convinced me that I was an unfit inhabitant 
 of it ; and for the first time in my life I tried to 
 settle my hair into some order. I now with 
 much circumspection broke the seal of my pack- 
 et 
 
NARRATIVE. ~Jj 
 
 MY DEAii Miss WE NT VV.OF, MI, 
 
 u You will perhaps find some difficulty in 
 conceiving that a similarity of' condition has ever 
 subsisted between \ ourself and me, opbosed, as it 
 is at present, by my situation in life ; for it is on- 
 ly from our own experince that we are effectualle 
 taught to admit the full conviction of the insta- 
 bility of human prosperity. Yet I, like yourself 
 was the only daughter cf a rich West- India 
 planter, I, like yourself, was the fond hope cf* 
 my parents : I was yet more favoured by Pro- 
 vidence than yourself; for I had a mother's love, 
 a mother's fostering care. Like yourself, I was 
 sent to this country for the purpose of instruc- 
 tion ; my mothers modest worth yielding to the 
 wishes cf my father who judged his child enti- 
 tled to the most elaborate education. Like you, 
 under the protection of friends, did I reach Lon- 
 don ; and like vou was I consigned into the 
 hands of those who my fond parents believed 
 would supply to me their watchful tenderness. 
 Here all similarity between us ends. I found no 
 Mr. and Mrs. Delmy's cordial looks and kind 
 greetings ; I was conveyed from the ship to a 
 large and comfortless house, by the friends who 
 had taken charge of me on the voyage, and who 
 very exactly calculated that this care finished the 
 moment we set our feet on shore. 
 
 •' A plain sturdy-looking man received me in 
 what I found was his accompting room. Several 
 men were at their desks, and he instantly dis- 
 patched one of them to see after * miss's luggage.' 
 His words to me were few, but civil : he said he 
 would conduct me to his wife, who would be ve- 
 ry glad to see me, and would take care- of me, 
 
■2S& NARRATIVE* 
 
 This wife I found dressing in an apartment 
 •\hicb appeared tome suffocating and gloomy, al- 
 though very fine. My introduction was brief : 
 for he said c Here is Miss Courtney safe and 
 .sound,' and immediately disappeared. The lady 
 of the mansion asked me a few questions relative 
 to my voyage, but I could only answer by mono- 
 syllables. My spirits were depressed, and my sit- 
 uation did not encourage me : it was apparent I 
 was in her way \ and after a pause of some mo- 
 ments she said, perhaps Miss Courtney, you will 
 be amused with my young folks. I will conduct 
 you to them.' She led the way, and I followed to 
 the attic story. In a large nursery were two 
 boys and two girls : the oldest of them appeared 
 to be eight or nine years of age; I was twelve, 
 and had long ceased to consider myself as a suit- 
 able companion for infants. Mrs. Brown thought 
 otherwise, and I became from that hour the daily 
 inhabitant of the nursery, till I was placed in a 
 school. My rude and noisy associates were lit- 
 tle calculated to reconcile me to my prison, or to 
 banish those regrets that pressed on my heart at 
 the recollection of my parents, and of the para- 
 dise I had quitted. Mrs. Brown's consolations 
 on seeing, as she might have done very frequent- 
 ly, my eyes red with weeping, were not of the 
 most soothing kind ; for they commonly finished 
 by asking me, 4 what I was to do at school, if I 
 could not make myself easy with her. 
 
 u The time for this experiment was now fixed ; 
 and notwithstanding the implied discouragement 
 contained in Mrs. Brown's interrogation, I rejoic- 
 ed at the prospect of a change in my situation. 
 I saw with curiosity and surprise the preparations 
 which were made for my appearance at school ; 
 and my introduction into one of the first semina- 
 
NARRATIVE. <23T 
 
 ties in town appeared to me no less extraordina- 
 ry ; for Mrs. Brown announced me as a young- 
 lady of immense fortune, to whom every conside- 
 ration was due — the child of Mr. Brown's most 
 intimate friend — and one whom they both esteem- 
 ed very highly.' The lady, to whom she address- 
 ed her discourse of my riches and importance, 
 appeared, however, very much at her ease, and 
 contented herself with saying, 4 she hoped we 
 should be satisfied with each other.' Indeed her 
 house and family were well calculated to make 
 me forget the attic story on Dowgate Hill. The 
 comforts with which the former abounded, and 
 the unaffected kindness and politeness of the lat- 
 ter, soon restored me to my native gaiety. I only 
 wanted news from Jamaica to complete my hap- 
 piness. The packet was hourly expected. It 
 arrived. You will easily recall to your memory 
 those dreadful hurricanes and tremendous thun- 
 der-storms which so frequently appal the firmest 
 minds during the heat of our summers : but few 
 indeed, have been the examples of an overwhelm- 
 ing destruction like that which In the space of a 
 few hours swept with unpitying fury over my 
 dearest hopes. Parents, domestics, the very earth 
 on which my infant feet first trod, all were buried 
 in one sad desolation. The habitation of peace, 
 and the residence of the mild virtues of benevo- 
 lence and humanity, served them for a grave. 
 The smiling face of nature around suddenly- 
 changed, and horror reigned with all the signs of 
 woe and ruin. Judge, my dear Miss Wentworth, 
 by this catastrophe, of the ( terrific aspect which 
 adversity can assume, under the all-controuling 
 power of the great and Almighty Arbiter of 
 events. 
 
258 NARRATIVE. 
 
 " I was too young to meet her awful form with 
 those arms which religion furnishes ; I was also 
 happily too young to feel the full force of her ch?s- 
 tening hand. My grief was the sorrow of a 
 child, and I sunk into a bed of sickness, and a 
 temporary forgetfulness of the cause which had 
 conducted me to it. My life was despaired of 
 for some days : but I gradually recovered to 
 symptoms of as alarming a kind ; for the physi- 
 cians pronounced me in a "consumption. I was 
 now removed from the tender care of my govern- 
 ess, who, for reasons long since apparent to me, 
 had charged herself with the care of me during 
 my violent illness, and had, under various preten- 
 ces, prevented my removal to Dowgate-Hill, un- 
 til she learned that I was to accompany Mrs. 
 Brown and her young family into Hampshire, 
 where they usually resided in the Summer. She 
 then yielded to an authority, which she had no 
 right to dispute, and I quitted her with a reluc- 
 tance no ways favourable to my dejected mind. 
 
 a I had wept solely for the loss of my parents. 
 The change in my condition had been communi- 
 cated to me by Mrs. — *— , with a tenderness that 
 rendered it an evil so light, compared with the 
 object of my sad regrets, that I scarcely thought 
 it one : yet inexperienced and unprepared as I 
 was, I felt the difference between the impoverish- 
 ed orphan, and the great fortune Miss Courtney* 
 
 " The usual time of the vacation had now elaps- 
 ed some weeks, and I heard nothing of my re- 
 turn to my school, and to a friend whom I re- 
 vered and loved. Rendered timid by Mrs. 
 Brown's indifference, I did not dare to enquire 
 into a matter so much the object of my solicitude. 
 I knew the school was an expensive one, and I 
 knew also that I was become poor. The expla- 
 
NARRATIVE. 239 
 
 nation, however, came at length in Mrs. Brown's 
 way. She informed me that her husband was 
 corning down, and th.it then I riouid be disposed 
 of, suitably to my unfortunate chan^r of circum- 
 stances : l For,' added she, ' you must be sensible 
 that the school you have quitted will noc do now: 
 a different education must now be adopted.' I 
 made no reply : my spirits rose at the prospect 
 of leaving a family in which I clearly perceived 
 my poverty was more considered than my com- 
 fort. 
 
 " Shortly after Mr. Brown's arrival, we set out 
 for the destined school. On our little journey, 
 m> conductor talked to me with kindness, said 
 4 I should want nothing — that the gentlewoman 
 with whom I was going to live, was as worthv a 
 lady as any in the country, and would, he was 
 certain treat me with great kindness' 
 
 " The reception I met with from my new r go- 
 verness was an additional evidence of Mr. 
 Brown's care of my interest, and he left me con- 
 tented and grateful. I was highly gratified by 
 finding myself included in all the lessons or the 
 masters : and judging this a favour I owed to the 
 generosity of Mr. Brown, I assiduously studied 
 to profit from it bv an appll.tion which would 
 best mark my gratitude. During a year I was 
 under this persuasion, and diligently improved 
 every hour I could spare,. in French and drawing; 
 whilst;, from my natural taste for music, I made 
 such a proficiency in it as flattered my instruc- 
 tor. 
 
 " The ensuing summer I was again the guest 
 of Mrs, Brown for the holidays. She w r as, or 
 affected to be, surprised at my attainments, which 
 had been called out bv some company She had-in 
 the house. She learned that I had received fes- 
 
£4$ NARRATIVE. 
 
 sons which, with a face glowing with anger, she 
 told me were quite useless to me, and that Mr. 
 Brown had imposed upon her, for no such need' 
 less charges were included in my year's bill of 
 expense, although it was heavy enough. Mr. 
 Brown, I imagine, satisfied his lady; but it re- 
 mained an enigma to me, which Mrs. Ward only 
 could unravel. She had, from the first hour I 
 entered her house, shown me a marked protec- 
 tion, which could only be accounted for from the 
 general and leading traits of her character. An 
 ardent good will and the most active benevolence 
 directed all her actions. Prompt to assist, she 
 proportioned her services, rather to the wants of 
 others, than to her own means, which, though not 
 scanty, were yet not abundant. I was unfortu- 
 nate, young, helpless and innocent ; and no con- 
 dition of prosperity could have given me such 
 powerful claims on her heart ; and from this ge- 
 nerous compassion sprang the tenderness of a 
 mother, and the zeal and activity of the most up- 
 right guardian. 
 
 Four happy vears was I sheltered under her 
 maternal roof, unnoticed by Mrs. Brown, al- 
 though within twenty miles of her. Her hus- 
 band occasionally called in his way to and from 
 London, and, as I concluded, settled for my main- 
 tenance w r ith Mrs. Ward, to whose discretion I 
 was apparently consigned. In one of these vi- 
 ^ sits he gave me to understand that I was expect- 
 ed to pass the ensuing vacation at his house, and 
 desired me to be prepared for his calling to take 
 me thither. I felt that this invitation included 
 | in it more privations, not to sa;> mortifications, 
 v* than even gratitude could reconcile me to; and I 
 ventured to say something respecting engage- 
 ments which Mrs. Ward had permitted me to 
 
NARRATIVE* 241 
 
 make,, with several of the young ladies who lived 
 very near us. But no appeal was regarded ; and 
 he talked of the pleasure I should have in run- 
 ning about the garden, With his children, as if I 
 had but just then quitted my leading-strings. 
 
 " Mrs. Brown, on seeing me as tall as I now 
 am, thought me, I presume, rather too old fofra 
 constant inmate of the nursery; but she did v me 
 ample justice in conceiving that I might be useful 
 to the regulation of it. The boys had been 
 emancipated ir>m it ; they had been placed in a 
 country school near their grandfather, with whom - 
 they passed their vacations: the two girls were 
 yet taught to regard it as a favour to quit it for 
 their mother's society. They were line children, 
 but neglected ; and Mrs. Brown, with something 
 between a compliment and a command, desired 
 me to teach them the use of their needle, and to 
 read. 4 You will find amusement, I hope,' added 
 she, ' in this application of your leisure time, 
 *tkiririg my absence. At dinner this unlooked-for 
 absence was explained to the new curate and his 
 wife, who had the honour of being her guests. I 
 was introduced to these worthy people, as her 
 dear l Miss Courtney,'. who had the goodness to 
 supply to her little girls, * her care and tender- 
 ness,' during her excursion to Lyme? where she 
 was" going to bathe; and ' with such a substitute 
 she could frame no excuse for refusing this atten- 
 tion to her health.' I was silent, till Mr. and Mrs. 
 Wilson with frankness and politeness, offered me 
 every amusement in their power, during the ab- 
 sence of my friend : they finished, by observing, 
 that the young ladies might not be displeased at- 
 finding society of their own age to welcome them. 
 
 Mrs. Brown's departure was a matter of no 
 regret to me. I was mistress of my time ; my 
 
 w 
 
242 NARRATIVE. 
 
 pupils, who began ,to be attached to me, were not 
 indocile, and the parsonage became our daily re- 
 sort. This was a very handsome house, which 
 fflfrector included, in default of another, in the 
 salary he annexed to doing duty in two parishes, 
 with the condition of keeping in good order a 
 large and not inelegant garden. 
 
 Vw Our intimacy produced ease and confidence, 
 mid I soon discovered that their income required 
 the economy which was so wisely and unremit- 
 tingly attended to. Mrs. Wilson made all her 
 children's clothes, and her industry quickened 
 mine. I assisted her in her needle-work, and in 
 return she tawght me the most necessary use of 
 the needle. Our united labours had been profit- 
 able to the girls, who exhibited, at chureli, nexu 
 frocks made of half-worn materials, and new bon- 
 nets which had .passed under a summer's sun. It 
 may be that my taste had given an air of smart- 
 ness to these articles of dress, which Mrs. Wil- 
 son, remote- as she was from fashion, would not 
 have so well succeeded in. It so happened, how- 
 ever, that Mrs. Brown, on her return home, dis- 
 covered this talent in me ; and she profited so as- 
 siduously from it, that ihad scarcely time to eat 
 or to sleep. Mrs. Ward began at length to be 
 impatient for my return : several weeks had elaps- 
 ed since the school commenced, ' and she longed 
 to embrace her dear child.' I expressed as much 
 of this as I had courage to do to Mrs. Brown, 
 who coldly replied, 'she believed, her husband 
 
 had no intention that I should return to S 
 
 You are now old enough,' added she, ' to be use- 
 ful to others. You must not expect to pass your 
 life in a school.' The following, week fully ex- 
 plained Mr. Brown's views relative to me. Pie 
 informed me ' that he and his family were 'on the 
 
NARRATIVE. 
 
 1 
 
 iat of sailing for Jaraajctf; where be intended 
 in future to reside,- and that, with Mrs. Brown's 
 consent, he meant to take me with them, asgo- 
 
 rness to his girls.' My hear: sunk within^ie 
 at this proposal. He perceived, my emotion, and 
 talked of my getting a rich husband, and recover- 
 
 • something from the plantation, w which,'* ad- 
 
 ■ I 'ne, fc is now only waste ground.' 1 hurst into 
 tears c Well, well,' cried he : L you will consi- 
 der of my offer, and I am certain you will see all 
 the kindness of it.' I wrote instantly to Mrs. 
 Ward, and then consulted my Oracle, Mr. Wil- 
 son. To my inexpressible comfort, I was warm- 
 ly counselled to refuse with steadiness the propo- 
 sed plan ; and Mrs. Ward charged me, on 
 
 ■ duty of a child, to return to her, and leave 
 every care behind me. 
 
 u I lost no time in signifying ray resolution to 
 Mrs. Brown, who received my refusal with much 
 
 iger. Her husband, not dissatisfied with the 
 arguments I used, although much so with my re- 
 jection of his offer, said with an air which indi- 
 cated more of concern than resentment, c if this 
 be your determination, I must yield* I have no 
 legal authority to compel ycu to go. I must how- 
 ever place before you your resources in a world 
 which you are so foolish as to encounter unpro- 
 tected. Your father remitted with yon a thou- 
 sand pounds, in order to answer the expenses of 
 your education ; and at the same time signified 
 "his orders that it should be placed in* the hands of 
 Mr. D. — — the banker for your use. This was 
 done. On hearing of the melancholy disaster 
 
 which, so soon followed, Mr. D proposed buy- 
 
 mg stock in your name with the residue of the 
 
 sum in his hands. This likewise has been done. 
 
 has all the necessary documents, and he 
 
244 NARRATIVE. 
 
 i 
 
 will remit you the interest of seven hundred 
 pounds. Your first establishment at school be- 
 ing fortunately defrayed by money in my hands', 
 notntng of that in Mr. B ? s was expended be- 
 yond the charges occasioned by your illness, and 
 your subsequent demands. ' 1 thanked him with 
 Teal gratitude, for intelligence so welcome and 
 unexpected. My friends were not less surprised 
 than myself at this account of my wealth. Mr. 
 
 JD ,s letter on the subject was.satisfactory, and 
 
 contained the most polite and friendly assurances 
 of attention to my little fortune. 
 
 " Mrs. Ward received me with pleasure which 
 she took no pains to conceal. 4 I know not,' said 
 she, * how it happens, but I feel, my dear Marys 
 as if you had escaped a danger. I do not like 
 this Mr. Brown : 1, bless God! you have done 
 with him and his silly wife. I suspect that nei- 
 ther the one nor the other possesses a grain of 
 generosity. When Mr. Brown called on me to 
 know the terms of my school, he informed me of 
 the dreadful event which had clouded your pros- 
 pects in life. He mentioned without any refer- 
 ence to rhe little provision which now appears, 
 your forlorn situation, objected to thirty pounds a 
 year, and proposed you as a half boarder. ' Did 
 you know, sir, asked I, c the unfortunate father 
 of this young lady ?' — ' Oh, yes,' replied he : ' we 
 were many years intimate when young men. Poor 
 Courtney did not forget me : his consignments 
 were very considerable indeed ! I have lost a 
 good correspondent by his death.' c Has the poor 
 young lady no relations in this country ?' asked I. 
 4 No,' answered he, 4 she had an uncle ; but he 
 settled at Hamburg, and is I believe dead; for I 
 have not heard of him for several years : and as 
 to her mother, she was an orphan, and Courtney 
 
NARRATIVE.. 245 
 
 married her for love. He had strange notions, 
 Mrs. Ward!: but a man v/ho is rich may do anv 
 thing; but he did not live to see difficulties. Poor 
 fellow ! he was as thoughtless and generous as a 
 prince.' 4 I heard this man with indignation,"' 
 continued Mrs. Ward, c and finally desired he 
 would send you to me on any terms, on condition 
 thc\- should be secret ones,' and that I should be at 
 liberty to act, relatively to your situation with my 
 pupils, as I judged proper. He eagerlv closed 
 with this offer, and proposed -twenty pounds a 
 year for your board and dress.' I attempted to 
 speak. * Stop,' cried she, 4 I have. not finished : 
 I should not have been thus explicit without 
 design. I am not so disinterested as your now- 
 palpitating heart conceives, though J do not deny 
 the motives of my first interference in your fa- 
 vour; for the Being, whom it is my duty*and 
 my glory to imitate, will not, I trust, reject them. 
 I saw you ; and, in a very short time, I discover- 
 ed that I had made an excellent bargain, which, 
 by the way oftener happens, in the traffic of bene- 
 volence, than some very prudent people think pos- 
 sible. I calculated by Mr. Brown's arithmetical 
 tables, and found that I gained by you ; for vour 
 place at my table did no: cost me a petihy,"*aticl 
 your abundant wardrobe has presented nearly" 
 every want of a supply. Your needlework 
 answered to every trifling contingency; and your 
 twenty pounds have annually paid your diffei n1 
 masters. Thus balanced, you perceive that I have 
 pocketed all your dutiful and affectionate services, 
 besides the credit of being generous, with a heart 
 that has not yet learned to limit its' grateful effu- 
 sions.' She smiled benignantly at the tears which 
 fell from my eyes. c But now, my dear Mary,' 
 continued she, * come and forward my own sel- 
 w 2 
 
246 NARRATIVE. 
 
 fish purposes; for, believe me, I have not for- 
 gotten them. Miss Carrington is going to be 
 married. , Will you supply her place on the same 
 terms of twenty pounds a year, and make me 
 happy ? I grasped her hand. ' Your situation, 
 my child, will not be splendid,' resumed she : 
 ! but it will be safe; and that Providence which 
 now opens to you an asylum for your youth and 
 ^experience, will continue to protect you by its 
 power, whilst with virtue, humility, and persever- 
 mg industry, you merit its never-failing interpo- 
 sition. l Oh ! cried I, falling on my knees, c let 
 me here blessmid praise its merciful, its gracious, 
 ,ts unmerited favour f 
 
 " The excellent Mrs. Ward wept with tender 
 sympathy; and as I trust, had> in that moment, 
 3 foretaste of the recompense which will, in ano- 
 \her*and better life, crown her benevolence. I 
 was shortly after installed in my ^office ; in which 
 jf I did not succeed, at least I exerted all the pow- 
 ers of my mind, with the unabating wish of so 
 doing. In the peaceable exercise of my duty, 
 in the confidence and approbation of my benefac- 
 tress, I remained till I had reached my twenty- 
 second year. Mrs. Ward was suddenly seized 
 with an apoplectic fit. I was with her at the 
 moment, and thought I saw her expire, and with 
 her my own happiness. Fortunately, the means 
 promptly applied were efficacious : She gradually 
 recovered her mental faculties, and some degree 
 of bodily strength; but one side was rendered ir- 
 recoverably useless. Her good and affectionate 
 daughter, who had married and settled in Devon- 
 shire, and had, on the first notice of her mother's 
 danger, attended her in person, used such argu- 
 ments as induced Mrs. Ward to give up her 
 • school. |Ier extreme feebleness enforced this 
 
NARRATIVE, 
 
 measure, and hastened its execution. I was left 
 by my friend as a precious deposit with Mrs. 
 Wilson, and with a special charge to leave 'my fu- 
 ture destination entirely to her care, and on no ac- 
 count to quit my new asylum without her concur- 
 rence. 
 
 i( With Mr. and Mrs. Wilson I had only those 
 regrets which they could not remove, but which 
 the improving state of my mother, for so I am 
 permitted to call Mrs. Ward, greatly alleviated, 
 Mr, Wilson was assiduously engaged in teaching 
 his sons latin. My leisure induced a desire of 
 learning it, and 1 became his pupil also. In my 
 progress I found it of so much advantage to my 
 knowledge of general grammar, and to those lan- 
 guages in which I had already made some profi- 
 ciency, that I went further into it than I had at 
 first thought of doing. My instructor was able, 
 and I was diligent ; and that which at the com- 
 mencement was a dry task, became an inexhaust- 
 able source of rational pleasure. 
 
 u Mrs. Ward, after two years' patience, saw 
 her views for me successful. She placed me 
 with a lady who had been the friend of her youth 
 and whose attachment had resisted all the influ- 
 ence of time anuV circumstances. In an elevated 
 situation, her heart had constantly acknowledged 
 the less prosperous Mrs. Ward ; and she resign- 
 ed to. her judgment the first objects of her cares» 
 She had two daughters ; and to these young la- 
 dies I became governess, with an interest in the 
 family that no merit of which I can with justice 
 boast could have procured me. In this eligible 
 situation I have remained till within these few 
 weeks. The mother of my pupils is now at Nice; 
 *her health requiring the air of a milder sky than 
 >;ours. I was over-ruled in mv intention of ac». 
 
£48 NARRATIVE 
 
 companying the family, by Mrs. Ward, who had, 
 'jointly with her friend, prepared the mind of Mrs- 
 .Needharn for an adoption of their kindness and 
 confidence m respect to me. Thave passed the 
 holydays with her; and without detracting- from 
 that sentiment of gratitude which I owe. to her 
 hospitality and flattering good will, I think I 
 know the motive which has principally governed 
 her conduct, and influenced my friend's advice 
 that I should remain in England. Yes my dear 
 Miss Wentvvorth I do know it, and it is time that 
 you also should know it, I'oiir interest, your hap- 
 piness, suggested the measure, and urged the 
 means. Mrs. Needham lost no time in placing 
 before me her difficulties in regard to you : with 
 those impediments which had frustrated every 
 benevolent purpose of your improvement. 
 
 " Miss Wentworth," said she to me, f pos- 
 sesses all those powers of understanding, all 
 those qualities of mind, which the most 
 enlightened parent would covet for a child. 
 But indolence, depress the one, and threat- 
 en to lay waste and corrupt the other. No inte- 
 rest impels me to charge myself with a pupil, 
 from whom I can expect nothing but vexation and 
 disgrace, unless a speedy reformation can be ef- 
 fected : but I know the extreme and mistaken 
 fondness of "her guardians, %ad I dread her fal- 
 ling into the hands of thosefor whose integrity I 
 cannot be so responsible as for my own. This 
 child is no common subject ; nature has destined 
 her to'act a part both honourable and useful, and 
 her deviations will be attended with evils propor- 
 tioned to those faculties which she neglects or 
 abuses. I have sometimes been disposed to con- 
 sider this singular aversion to every species of ac- 
 
NARRATIVE. 2-i9 
 
 tivity, as arising, in part, from the climate in 
 which she was born, and in which she has lived 
 till within these two years : but this opinion yields 
 before the conviction which daily presses upon 
 me the true cause that has so powerfully operated 
 upon her constitution both mental and corporeal ; 
 and from which all the evils which threaten her 
 mav be with certainty deduced. These are, the 
 early habits of her infancy, and the unrestrained 
 indulgence which since that period has not only 
 permitted but encouraged them. Her friends. 
 seem to have sought for no other gratification thari' 
 that of seeing her grow up to maturity in supine 
 negligence and unthinking ease. Sheltered by 
 the care of others, surrounded by wealth and un- 
 limited abundance, they have appeared to regard 
 her as one exempted from the duties of a rational 
 and the usefulness of a social being ; and solici- 
 tous not only to supply her wants, but even to 
 prevent her wishes, they think they perform that 
 duty which is at once the object of their anxious 
 care and benevolent purpose. But my dear Miss 
 Courtney, they do not understand this young 
 creature, nor calculate the dangers they are pre- 
 pajjbg for her. I, have studied her with all the 
 attention and exne'i 
 
 and experience I possess. I am certain 
 that there may yet be found a remedy for these 
 evils. Nature by no means concurs with this ap- 
 parent slothfulness ; nothing can be more remote 
 from her natural character ; for there all is active 
 and ardent. She is endowed with a vigorous 
 mind, a high spirit, and a quick sensibility; she 
 is generous even to profusion ; steady in her at- 
 tachments, and formed to communicate happi- 
 ness : this principle is so innate in her, that it ha;^ 
 resisted even the prevailing influence of laziness 
 in a variety of instances, and I have sec 
 
NARRATIVE. 
 
 tive for another, when nothing personal v 
 have tempted her to walk across the room. She 
 would indignantly and obstinately meet severity ; 
 nor does it enter into my code of laws ; neither 
 will my duty permit me to attend exclusively to 
 ihis interesting, unfortunate child. You app< 
 lo me to be a proper agent to supply this inability 7 
 on my part 5 and my opinion has been ai 
 sanctioned, not only by my friend Mrs. Warch, 
 but by the testimony of ycur virtue and talents, 
 
 which lady N left behind her. I have used 
 
 every argument to induce Mr. and Mrs. Delmy 
 'to engage you as a private governess' to Miss 
 V/entworth. They are too wise arid too p;ood to 
 oppose truth, and they ingenuously acknowledged 
 the necessity of changing their plans in respect to 
 this favourite child ; but Mrs- Delmy with I 
 confessed that it could never be effected under 
 her roof. They then urged me to the adoption 
 of the course I now propose for vour acceptance,, 
 promising that your conditions will never reach 
 their generosity. Miss Wentworth at her return is 
 to be a parlour-boarder, and entirely under your 
 direction and instructions. I have already secu- 
 red another lady to supply .M.iss Paget's j 
 and now only wait your decision Shall 1 con- 
 fess to you, my dear young lady, that I was by no 
 means flattered by a distinction to whichj&ecunia- 
 ry advantage and comparative ease were annex- 
 ed ? It is however true. I was even troubled 
 and dismayed by the apprehension that the duty 
 was beyond my abilities. Mrs. Needham per- 
 suaded me.- : and my mother seconded her. You 
 appeared, and I yielded. 
 
 " Every measure since pursued has been at 
 discretion ; and it now depends on you to avail 
 yourself of the wishes and purposes 
 
NARRATIVE. 2o l 
 
 friends. You have talents, if you choose to cul-. 
 tivate them ; you have powers and endowments 
 of mind, if it he your pleasure to employ them : 
 you have health and strength, spirits and youth. 
 What inestimable treasures !— rVVill you abuse 
 them? You have* instruction, precept, example, 
 and patient kindness. Will you reject them ^ 
 Choose, and speedily, whether "these invaluable 
 gifts, are to be honourably' cultivated and 
 employed or sunk in sloth and ignorance. 
 Be not deceived by the smiling and betraying 
 face of your prosperous fortune in your adoption 
 of the part you are called upon to take. Be as- 
 sured that to the- most elevated condition of hu- 
 man life are annexed duties which demand all 
 our active powers ; and be assured likewise, thai, 
 the most ,elevated condition cannot insure you 
 from the wretched state of an enfeebled mind 
 and body ; for the victim of sloth is exposed to 
 danger from foes too contemptible to be feared 
 by any who are sensible of their own powers, and 
 
 fyienas, 
 
 of their impotence. We have met asfrienas, and 
 as friend? we \^U1 continue — or part ; for without, 
 giving up my claims to that modesty, which with 
 
 me is the test of a well ordered mind and a culti- 
 vated understanding, I will telf you frankly, that 
 I rate my abilities, and value my time, too high- 
 ly, to lavish either one or the other on incorrigi- 
 ble idleness, or stubborn indocility. With a 
 Word, you will find your piano-forte in my apart- 
 ment, which is destined for our. sole use: with a 
 word, your different masters will return to a duty 
 which they will engage in with pleasure, whilst 
 they find their time something better than a mere 
 exchange for your money. I will give you my 
 word, that in one years application you may yet 
 )ur or five which you have suffered to es- 
 
25'4 NARRATIVE* 
 
 cape you. Read this letter with attention : it will 
 teach you to estimate your present condition pro- 
 perly. It will shew you how' insecure, how un- 
 stable your present resources are. It will point 
 out to you those on which you may rely with more 
 permanent hope and better grounded expectation ; 
 y .but it will fail altogether m its purpose., if it do 
 not open your heart to the important and just re- 
 proof'directed to the unprofitable servant who. '■ hid 
 his lord's money in the earth.' 
 
 a I remain, &c. &c. 
 
 " MARY COURTNEY." 
 
 It only remains for me to say, that this affec- 
 tionate appeal, aided by the conduct of this ex- 
 emplary woman acted upon my mind with an in- 
 fluence which might almost be called magical. 
 To resemble Miss Courtney, to do what JYIiss 
 Courtney did, was the governing principle of eve- 
 ry part of my conduct; and always disposed to 
 extremes, I carried my assiduity to a pitch that 
 nothing less than her friendship would have tole- 
 rated. Victorious over myself,^! now began to 
 taste the recompence of my application. My 
 drawings decorated Mrs. X>elmy's dressing- 
 room ; I was called out with fond delight to sing 
 and play to her friends ; and Mr. . Delmy cm 
 tiptoe, his venerable face beaming with pride and 
 pleasure, would listen to my idle prattle ht 
 French, with a native of that country who was 
 intimate in the family. No incitements were like 
 these precious ones : my father's approbation ac- 
 companied them : he now began to look ft 
 to his re-union with a child, who he had been 
 taught to hope would satisfy his fondest wishes.. 
 
AN 
 
 ABSTRACT 
 
 OF 
 
 HEATHEN MYTHOLOGY. 
 
 Jupiter, the supreme deity of the heathen world. 
 
 Juno, wife of Jupiter, and queen of heaven. 
 
 Apollo, god of music, poetry, and the sciences. 
 
 Minerva, or Pallas, daughter of Jupiter, and god- 
 dess of wisdom* 
 
 Mercury, the god of eloquence, and messenger of 
 the gods. ^ 
 
 iEolus, god of the winds. 
 
 Bacchus, god of wine. 
 
 Mars, god of war. 
 
 Diana, goddess of hunting, chastity and manage. 
 
 Esculapius, god of physic. 
 
 Venus, goddess of beauty, love, and marriage. 
 
 Aurora, goddess of the morning. 
 
 Cupid, son of Venus, and god of love. 
 
 Saturn, god of time. 
 
 Astraea, goddess of justice, 
 
 Autumnus, god of fruits. 
 
 Ate, goddess of revenge. 
 
 Bapta, goddess of shame. 
 
 Bellona, goddess of war, and sister to Mars. 
 
 Boreas, god of the north wind. 
 
 Agenoria, goddess of industry. 
 
 Angerona, goddess 'of silence. 
 
 Ceres, goddess of agriculture. 
 
 Collina, goddess of hills. 
 
 Cornus, god-of laughter and mirth, 
 x 
 
254 HEATHEN MYTHOLOGY. 
 
 Concordia, goddess of peace. 
 
 Cybele, wife of the god Saturn, and mother of the 
 
 earth. 
 Discordia, the goddess of contention. 
 Eurymone, an infernal deity who gnawed the 
 dead to the bones, and was always grinding 
 her teeth. 
 Fama, or Fame, the goddess of report. 
 Flora, the goddess of flowers. 
 Fortune, the goddess of happiness and misery ; 
 
 said to be blind. 
 Harpocrates, the god of silence. 
 Hebe, goddess ol youth. 
 Historia, goddess of history. 
 Hygeia, goddess of health. 
 Hymen, god of marriage. 
 
 Janus, god of the year ; he was said to be en- 
 dowed with the lRiowledge of the past and 
 the future. 
 Lares, household gods, among the Romans ; they 
 
 were also called Penates. 
 Mnemosyne, goddess of memory. 
 Momus, god of raillery. 
 Mors, goddess of death. 
 Nox, the most ancient of all the deities. 
 Pan, the god of shepherds. 
 Pitho, goddess of eTRffctence. 
 Pluto, god of hell. 
 
 Proserpine, wife to Pluto, and queen of the in- 
 fernal regions. 
 Plutus, god of riches. 
 Pomona, goddess of fruits and autumn. 
 Proteus, a sea-god, said to have the power of 
 changing himself into any shape he pleased. 
 Psyche, goddess of pleasure. 
 Sylvanus, god of the woods. 
 Terminus; god of boundaries. -* 
 
HEATHEN MYTHOLOGY. 255 
 
 Neptune, god of the sea. 
 
 Vacuna, goddess of idle persons, 
 
 Vertumniis, god of the spring. 
 
 Vesta, goddess of fire. 
 
 Morpheus, god of dreams. 
 
 Soranus, god of sleep. 
 
 Vulcan, god of subterraneous fires, and husband 
 of .Venus, famed for his deformity. 
 
 Fates, three sisters, entrusted with the lives of 
 mortals; their names were Clotho, Lachesis, 
 and Atropos. 
 
 Furies, three sisters, armed with snakes, and 
 lighted torches ; their names were Alecfo, 
 Megaera, and Tisiphone. 
 
 Graces, three sisters, daughters of Jupiter, and 
 attendants upon Venus and the Muses ; their 
 names were Aglaia, Thalia, and Euphrosyne. 
 
 Gorgons, three hideous women, who had but one 
 
 I eye in the middle of their foreheads ; their 
 
 names were Euryale, Medusa, and Stheno. 
 
 Muses, the nine daughters of Jupiter, and the 
 goddess of memory; they presided over the 
 sciences, and were called Calliope, Clio, 
 Erato, Euterpe, Melpomene, Pqlyhymnia, 
 Terpsichore, Thalia, and Urania. Calliope, 
 was" the muse of eloquence, and heroic poe- 
 try ; Clio, of history ; Erato* of amorous 
 poetry; Euterpe of music; Melpomene, of 
 tradegy ; Polyhymnia," of rhetoric ; Terp- 
 sichore, of dancing ; Thalia, of comedy, and 
 lyric poetry ; and Urania, of astronomy. 
 Harpies, three monsters, with the faces of women, 
 the bodies of vultures, and hands armed 
 with claws : their names were Aelo, Ocypete, 
 and Gelceno. 
 Hesperides, three sisters, who kept golden apples 
 in a garden, guarded by a dragon ; Hercules 
 slew the dragon, and carried off the apples. 
 
2o6 HEATHEN MYTHOLOGY. 
 
 Acco, an old woman, remarkable for talking to 
 
 herself at the glass, and refusing what she 
 
 most wished for. 
 Acheron, a river in hell. 
 Achilles, a Grecian, who signalized himself at 
 
 the siege of Troy : and is said to have been 
 
 dipped by his mother in the river Styx, 
 
 which rendered him invulnerable m every 
 
 part, except his right heel, by which she held 
 
 him. 
 Action, a famous hunter, changed by Diana into 
 
 a stag, for disturbing her while bathing. 
 Adonis, a youth said to be extremely beautiful, 
 
 and beloved by Venus. 
 iEacus, one of the judges of hell. 
 a£gis, the shield of Minerva, formerly one of the 
 
 Gorgons, whom Pallas killed, and made that 
 
 use of her skin. 
 Ambrosia, the food of gods. 'K 
 
 iEgeria, a beautiful nymph, worshipped, by the 
 
 ftomans. 
 Arachne, a woman turned into a spider, for con- 
 
 tending with Minerva at spinning. 
 Argus, a man said to have had an hundred eyes, 
 
 changed by Juno into a peacock. 
 Atalanta, a woman remarkable for her swift run- 
 ning. 
 Atlas, the son of Jupiter, said to have supported 
 
 the heavens, on his shoulders ; afterwards 
 
 turned into a mountain. 
 Avernus, a lake on the borders of hell. 
 JBriareus, a giant, said to have had fifty heads, 
 
 and one hundred hands. 
 Caduceus, the rod which Mercury carried, and 
 
 the emblem of peace. 
 Castalides, a en me given to the Muses. 
 
HEATHEN MYTHOLOGY. 257 
 
 ■ 
 
 Centaurs, creatures half men, half horses, said to 
 have inhabited Thee-: 
 
 Castor and Pollux, two brother?, who had immor- 
 tality conferred upon them alternately, by 
 Jupiter; they make that constellation in the 
 heavens called Gemini. 
 
 Cerberus, a dog with three heads, which kept the 
 gates of hell. 
 
 Charon, the ferry-man of hell. 
 
 Chanties, a name for the Graces. 
 
 Chiron, a centaur, who taught Esculapius physic ; 
 Hercules, astronomy ; and was afterwards 
 made the constellation Sagittarius. 
 
 Circe, a famous enchantress. 
 
 Cocytus, a river in hell, flowing from the river 
 Styx. 
 
 Cyclops, the workmen of Vulcan, who had only 
 one eye in the middle of their foreheads. 
 
 Delos, the island where Apollo was born, and had 
 a celebrated oracle. 
 
 Dryades, nymphs of the woods. 
 
 Daphne, a beautiful woman, changed into a lau- 
 rel tree as she fled from Apoilo. 
 
 Elysium, the paradise of the heathens. 
 
 Erebus, a river in hell, famed for its blackness. 
 
 Ganymede, a beautiful boy, made cup-be%rer to 
 Jupiter. | 
 
 Genii, guardian angels; there were good and 
 evil. 
 
 Gordius, a king of Phrygia, who was famed for 
 fastening a knot of cords, on which the em- 
 pile of Asia depended, in so intricate a man- 
 lier, that Alexander the Great, not being able 
 to untie it, cut if asunder. 
 
 Gyges, a shepherd, who possessed a ring which 
 rendered him invisible when he turned the 
 stone towards his bod v. 
 x2 ' 
 
258 HEATHEK MYTHOLOGY. 
 
 Hamadryades, nymphs^said to have lived in oak 
 trees. 
 
 Hermes, a name for Mercury. 
 
 Hecate, Diana^s name in hell. 
 
 Helicon, a famous mountain in Bceotia, sacred to 
 Apollo and the Muses. 
 
 Hercules, the son of Jupiter, famed for his great 
 strength, and numerous exploits. 
 
 Hesperus, or Vesper, the poetical name for the 
 evening star. 
 
 Hydra, a serpent with seven heads, kilied by Her- 
 cules. 
 
 Ida, a famous mountain near Troy. 
 
 Ixion, a man who killed his own sister, and was 
 ♦ fastened in hell to a wheel perpetually turn- 
 ing round. 
 
 Iris, the messenger of Juno, changed by her into 
 the rainbow. 
 
 Lethe, a river in hell, whose waters had the pow- 
 er of causing forgetfulness. 
 
 Lucifer, the poetical name for the morning star. 
 
 Latona, a nymph loved by Jupiter; she was the 
 mother of Apollo and Diana. 
 
 Medea, a famous sorceress. 
 
 Midas % a king of Phrygia, who had the power 
 given him by Bacchus, of turning whatever 
 he touched into gold. 
 
 Minos, one of the judges of hell, famed for his 
 justice; he was king of Crete. 
 
 Nereides, sea nymphs ; they were fifty of them. 
 
 N-iiadesj. nymphs of rivers and fountains. 
 
 Niobe, a woman said to have wept herself into a 
 statue, for the loss of her fourteen children. 
 
 Nectar, the beverage of the gods. 
 
 Olympus, a famous mountain in Thessaly, the re- 
 sort of the gods. 
 
 Orpheus, the son of Jupiter and Calliope ; his 
 
heathen Mythology. 
 
 musical powers were so great, that lie is said 
 to have char ned rocks, trees, and stbncs, by 
 the sound of his lyre. 
 
 Pandora, a woman made by Vulcan, endowed 
 with gifts by all the gods and goddesses ishe 
 had a box given her containing all kinds of 
 evils, with hope at the bottom, 
 
 Pegasus, a winged horse, belonging to Apollo and 
 the Muses. 
 
 Phaeton, the son of Apollo, who asked the gui- 
 dance of his father's chariot, as proof of his 
 divine descent, but managed it so ill that he 
 set the world on lire. 
 
 Phlegethon, a boiling river in hell. 
 
 Prometheus, a man who, assisted by Minerva,. 
 stole fire from heaven, with which he is said 
 to have animated a figure formed of clay t 
 Jupiter, as a punishment for his audacity , A 
 condemned him to be chained to Mount 
 Caucasus, with a vulture perpetually gnaw- 
 ing his iiver, 
 
 Pigmies,- a people only a span high, born in Lybia. 
 
 Python, a serpent which Apollo killed ; and, in 
 memory of it, instituted Pythian games. 
 
 Pyramus and Thisbe, two fond lovers, who killed' 
 themselves with the same sword, and turned 
 the berries of the mulberry-tree, under which 
 they died, from white to brown. 
 
 Pindus, a mountain in Thessaly, sacred to the 
 Muses. 
 
 Ph demon and Baucis, a .poor old man and woman, 
 / who entertained Jupiter and Mercury in their 
 travels through Phrygia. 
 
 £olyphemus, the son of Neptune, a cruel monster, 
 whom Ulysses destroyed. 
 
 Radamanthus, one of the judges of hell. 
 
 Saturnalia, feasts sacred to Saturn. 
 
260 HEATHEN MYTHOLOGY. 
 
 fc 
 
 Satyrs, priests of Bacchus, half men, half goats. 
 
 Stentor,*a precian, whose, voice was as strong and 
 "loud as that of fifty men together. 
 
 Syrens, sea monsters, who charmed people with 
 the sweetness of their music, and then de- 
 voured them. 
 
 Sisyphus, a man doomed to .'roll a large stone, up -a 
 mountain in hell, which continually rolled 
 back, as a punishment for his perfidy, and 
 numerous robberies. 
 
 Styx, a river in hell by. which the gods swore; 
 and their oaths were then always kept sacred. 
 
 Tempe, -a beautiful vale in Thessaly, the resort 
 of the gods. 
 
 Tartarus, the abode of the wicked in hell. 
 
 Triton, Neptune's son and his trumpeter. 
 
 Trbphonius, the son of Apollo, who gave oracles 
 
 - c in a gloomy cave. j 
 
 Tantalus, the son of Jupiter, who, serving up the 
 limbs of his son Pelops, in a dish to try the 
 divinity of the gods, was plunged up to the 
 chin in a lake of hell, and doomed to perpe- 
 tual thirst, as a punishment for his barbarity. 
 
 Zephvrus, the poetical name for the west wind. 
 
 %#■ 
 
POETRY. 
 
 I^CJood poetry, is a refined, animating and musical 
 kind of' eloquence ; to our feelings, itconvej s all the 
 soft persuasive powers of numbers and harmony and 
 is a mixture of painting, music and eloquence. As 
 eloquence it speaks, proves and relates. As music, a 
 fine poem is a harmony to the soul. As painting, it 
 delineates objects and lays on colours ; it expresses 
 every beauty in nature, and seems to impress more 
 strongly on' the mind than any other kind of writ- 
 ing.] 
 
 THE NAUTILUS AND THE OYSTER ; 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 .Addressed to a sister, by a gentleman of Baltimore* 
 
 Who that has on the salt sea been 
 The nautilus has never seen 
 
 In gallant sailing trim, 
 His filmy fore-and-aft sail spread, 
 And o'er the billows shoot ahead, 
 
 ■ImpelI'd by winds abeam? 
 
 The little bark's air-freighted hull. 
 Keen prow and bend.s amidship, full. 
 Display the mermaid's povv'rs ; 
 For paint, the Sylphs their brushes stee 
 In rainbows glowing on the deep 
 Athwart retiring show'rs. 
 
 So pretty, and not vain, would be 
 
 More strange than strangest things wc sec ; 
 
!62 NAUTILUS AND THE OYSTER. 
 
 I 
 
 Near Ceylon's spicy coast 
 As one* the tiny war-d'rer steer'd 
 His^ialcyon course, he thus was heard 
 
 To make his foolish boast. 
 
 '* What tenant of the sea cr air 
 Can with the nautilus compare, 
 
 In colours gay attir'd : 
 I've seen, nor visited in vain, 
 Most counuies bord'ring on the mam 
 
 And been in all admir'd. 
 
 Secure I brave the polar gale, 
 Beneath the line 1 trim my sail, ' 
 
 In either tropic found ; 
 Where'er a ship may go I go, 
 Nor fear like her a treach'rous foe--~ 
 
 The rock, the hidden ground. 
 
 The distant canvass I descry 
 
 Of commerce hanging in the sky 
 
 That bounds th' Atlantic wave. 
 I share, with hostile fleets, who ride 
 Victorious on the subject tide, 
 
 The empire ocean gave. 
 
 Alas ! how different is the lot 
 Of that poor oyster thus forgot ; 
 
 Unpitied and unknown : 
 Is it*by chance or adverse fate, 
 Or cruel Nature's stepdame hate 
 
 He's here corwdemn'd to groan I 
 
 The splendors of the orb of day 
 Scarce visit with a twilight ray 
 
 The bed where low he lies, 
 And whence he never can remove : 
 To gayer scenes forbid to rove, 
 
 E'en here he lives and dies !' 
 
 
NAUTILUS AND THE OYSTER, 26^ 
 
 My claims, may well his envy raise, 
 Established on the genV.il praise 
 
 Besrow'd where eVr I ?;oS y 
 He ceas'd — when, 1<>! amaz'd to hear, 
 This gentle answer to his ear 
 
 Came buboling from below ! 
 
 u Your pity spare, mv gaudy friend, 
 Your eloquence I might commend 
 
 Had truth conviction lent: 
 I neither fate nor nature blame, 
 An oyster's looks produce no shame, 
 
 He lives upon content. 
 
 The pow'r to go where one may choose. 
 So much esteem'd, I would refuse : 
 
 No wish have I to rove. 
 And brilliant hues and glossy side 
 Serve but to nourish silly pride ; 
 
 Yourself this truth will prove. 
 
 How falsely do they judge, who take 
 A fair exterior when they make 
 
 Their estimate of good. 
 Know, friend, X willingly conceal 
 A pearl within this russet shell 
 
 Whose form you think so rude. 
 
 The gem by monarchs may be w r orn, 
 'Twiil beauty's polish'd brow adorn : 
 
 Nor shall its lustre fade : 
 When death has sunk, with cruel blow, 
 Thy evanescent. brightness low 
 
 'Twill glitter undecay-d," 
 
 My tale, dear S.Hla, feign'd may be ; 
 Yet may the moral found in thee 
 Convey instruction sweet ; 
 
264 MY MOTHER* 
 
 Far from unmeaning fashion's throng, 
 Through life's calm by-paths steal along 
 Thy cautious, steady feet. 
 
 No wish to change, contented thou 
 See'st others change. Thou seest how 
 
 The gay their rattles prize- — 
 Their show and their fatiguing rules, 
 'Alike the idle toil of fools 
 
 And folly of the wise.) 
 
 Thy strong and contemplative mind 
 Has felt its early pow'rs refin'd 
 
 By all the lore of truth : 
 Severely pois'd her equal scale, 
 Thou saw'si how little did avail 
 
 The fleeting charms of youth : 
 
 And giving to thy God thy heart 
 Hast chosen Mary's better part. 
 
 In this shall thou rejoice : 
 Long shall thy secret soul possess 
 That treasure which alone can bless — 
 
 The pearl of countless price. 
 
 MY MOTHER. 
 
 Originally from an American paper, 
 
 WHO fed me from her gentle breast, 
 And hush'd me in her arms to rest, ^ 
 And on my cheek sweet kisses prest ? 
 
 My mother, 
 
 When sleep forsook my open eye, 
 
 Who was it sung sweet lullaby, 
 
 And rock'dme that I should not cry ? 
 
 My mother. 
 
MY MOTHER. 26. 
 
 Who sat and watch'd my infant feead, 
 When sleeping on my cradie bed, 
 And tears of sweet affection shed ? 
 
 My mother* 
 
 When pain and sickness made me cry, 
 Who gaz'd upon my heavy eye, 
 And wept, for fear that 1 should die ? 
 
 My mother. 
 
 Who drest my doll in clothes so gay, 
 And taught me pretty how to play, 
 And minded all I had to say ? 
 
 My mother* 
 
 Who ran to help me when I fell s 
 And would some pretty story tell, 
 Or kiss the place to make it well ? 
 
 My motheh 
 
 Who taught my infant lips to pray 
 To love God's holy word and day, 
 And walk in Wisdom's pleasant way ? 
 
 My mother^ 
 
 And can I ever cease to be 
 Affectionate and kind to thee, 
 Who wast so very kind tome ? 
 
 My mother*' 
 
 no !'the thought I cannot bear, 
 And, if God please my life to spare, 
 
 1 hope I shall reward thy care, 
 
 My mother* 
 
266 POWER OF INNOCENCE. 
 
 When thou art feeble, old, and grey, 
 My healthy arm shall be thy stay. 
 And I will soothe thy pains away, 
 
 My mother. 
 
 And when I see thee hang thy head, 
 'Twill be my turn to watch thy bed. 
 p And tears of sweet affection shed,. 
 
 My mother. 
 
 For God, who lives above the skies, 
 Would look with vengeance in his eyes, 
 If I should ever dare despise, 
 
 My mo there 
 
 THE POWER OF INNOCENCE. 
 
 A TRUE STORY. 
 
 WHEN first the nuptial state we prove, 
 We live the happy life of love ; 
 But when familiar charms no more 
 Inspire the bliss they gave before, 
 Each less delighting, less is lov'd, 
 First this, then that, is disapproved ; 
 Complaisance flies, neglect succeeds, 
 Neglect, disdain and hatred breeds. 
 
 "Twas thus a pair, who long time prov'c! 
 The joys to love and be belov'd ; 
 At' length fell out for trifling things, 
 From trifles, anger chiefly springs; 
 The wish to please forsook each breast, 
 Love's throne by baseless rage possess' d : 
 Eesolved to part, they meet no more : 
 Enough the chariot's at the door 
 
P0WE& OF INNOCENCE. 267 
 
 The mansion was my lady's own ; 
 Sir John resolved to live in town; 
 Writings were drawn,, each cause agreed. 
 Both vow'd they'd ne'er recall the deed ; 
 The chariot waits, why this delay ? 
 The sequel shall the cause display. 
 
 One lovely girl the lady bore, 
 Dear pledge of joys she tastes no more ; 
 The father's, mother's darling ; she 
 Now lisp'd and prattled on each knee ; 
 Sir John, when rising to depart, 
 Turn'd to the darling of his heart ; 
 And cry'd, with ardour in his eye, 
 4 Come Betsy, bid mamma good bye ;' 
 The lady, trembling, answer'd, 4 no— 
 * Go, kiss papa, my Betsy, go ; 
 4 The child shall live with me'-— — she cry'd, 
 
 4 The child shall chuse' -Sir John reply'd; 
 
 Poor Betsy, look'd at each by turns, 
 And each the starting tear di-scerns ; 
 My lady asks, with doubt and fear, 
 'Will you not live with me, my dear? 
 4 Yes, half resolv'd reply'd the child,, 
 And half suppress'd her tears; she smifd, 
 4 Come Betsy,' cry'd Sir John, ' you'll go 
 4 And live with dear papa, I know/ 
 Yes, Betsy cry'd — — the lady then, 
 Address'd-the wond'ring child again ; 
 4 The time to live with both is o'er, 
 4 This day we part to meet no more : 
 4 Chuse then,' here, grief o'erliow'd her breast, 
 Aud tears burst oul r too long suppress'd ; 
 The child who tears and chiding join'd, 
 SuppOs'd papa, displcas'd, unkind ; 
 And try'd, with all her little skill, 
 Xo soothe his oft relenting will ; 
 
268 CRAZY KATE. 
 
 ' Do, cry'd the lisper, papa ! do, 
 * Love dear mamma ! mamma loves you ;' 
 Subdued, the source of manly pride, 
 No more his looks his heart beli'd ; 
 The tender transport forced its way, 
 *They both confcss'd each other's sway; 
 And prompted by the social smart, 
 Breast rush'd to breast, and heart to heart 
 Each clasp'd their Betsy, o'er and o'er, 
 And Tom drove empty from the door. 
 You that have passions for a tear, 
 Give nature vent, and drop it here* 
 
 CRAZY KATE. 
 
 THERE often wanders one, whom better days 
 Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimm'd 
 With lace, and hat with splendid ribband bound. 
 A serving maid was she, and fell in love * 
 With one who left her, went to sea, and died. 
 Her fancy followed him through foaming waves 
 To distant shores", and she would sit and weep 
 At what a sailor suffers. Fancy too, 
 Delusive most where warmest wishes are, 
 Would oft anticipate his glad return, 
 And dream of transports she was not to know. 
 She heard the doleful tidings of his death, 
 And never smiPd again. And now she roams 
 The dreary waste ; there spends the livelong day j 
 And there, unless when charity forbids, 
 The livelong night. A tatter'd apron hides, 
 Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown 
 More tatter'd still ; and both but ill conceal 
 A bosom heav'd with never-ceasing sighs. 
 She begs an idle pin of all she meets, 
 And hoards them in her sleeve : but needful food 
 
THE SEXES. 269 
 
 Tho* -press'd with hunger oft, or comlier clothes, 
 
 Though pinch'd "with cold, asks never Kate is 
 
 craz'd. 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 THE SEXES. 
 
 BY ARMSTRONG. 
 
 TO brave each danger, bear each toil, 
 Traverse the seas, subdue the soil ; 
 To seek the praise that learning yields. 
 Or glory win in martial fields, 
 "Was man first form'd of hardy mould, 
 Patient of toil, in danger bold : 
 Yet man, of all these powers possess'd, 
 Remained unblessing, and unbless'd, 
 Till woman made, an helpmate meet, 
 His happiness became complete. 
 'Tis his, to clime fame's rugged way, 
 His trophies at her feet to lay : 
 'Tis her's to soothe the mental strife, 
 And sweeten all the ills of life : 
 .In man, each sterner art has place, 
 In woman, each enchanting grace ; 
 Women from men protection find, 
 And men by women are refin'd. 
 Man's form'd for bus'ness and debate. 
 To govern and defend the state, 
 To shun the scenes of private rest, 
 And stand in public life confess'd. 
 Woman is loveliest when retir'd; 
 When least obtrusive, most admired* 
 In her, the accent soft and low, 
 And blushing face most graceful show ; 
 Placed in the mild domestic sphere, 
 With highest grace her charms appear ° 7 
 Y 2 ~ 
 
270 ODE TO THE GLOW-WORM, 
 
 Expos'd to the broad glare of day, 
 Each modest beauty fades away; 
 When woman would be learn'd or great 
 She seeks whats foreign to her state ; 
 ? Tis hers to know each winning way. 
 And rule, by seeming to obey. 
 
 ODE TO THE GLOW-WORM. 
 
 BY PETER PINDAR. 
 
 BRIGHT stranger, welcome to my field, 
 Here feed in safety, here thy radiance yield ; 
 
 To me, oh, nightly be thy splendor giv'n : 
 Oh ! could a wish of mine,the skies command, 
 How would I gem thy leaf, with lib'ral hand, 
 
 With every sweetest dew of heav'n ! 
 
 Say dost thou kindly light the fairy train, 
 Amidst their gambols on the stilly plain, 
 
 Hanging thy lamp upon the moisten'd blade ? 
 What lamp so fit so pure as thine, 
 Amidst the gentle elfin band to shine, 
 
 And chase the horrors of the midnight-shade ! 
 
 Oh ! may no feather'd foe disturb thy bow'r, 
 And with barbarian beak thy life devour : 
 
 Oh ! may no ruthless torrent of the sky, 
 O'erwhelming, force thee from thy dewy seat, 
 Nor tempests tear thee from thy green retreat, 
 
 And bid thee 'midst the humming myriads die* 
 
 Queenof the insect world, what leaves delight ? 
 
 Of such these willing hands a bow'r shall form, 
 To guard thee from the rushing rains of night, 
 
 And hide thee from the wild wing of the storm* 
 
TO A YOUNG LADY. 271 
 
 Sweet child of stillness, 'midst the awful calm 
 Of pausing nature, thou art pleas'd to dwell : 
 
 In happy silence to enjoy thy balm, 
 
 And shed through life a lustre round thy cell. 
 
 How diff 'rent man, the imp of noise and strife, 
 Who courts the storm that tears and darkens life : 
 
 Blest when the passions wild the soul invade ! 
 How nobler far to bid those whirlwinds cease ; 
 To taste like thee the luxury of peace, 
 
 And shine in solitude and shade. 
 
 YOUNG LADY WITH A SPINNING WHEEL 
 
 SYLVIA ! with the wheel I send, 
 Take the hints "'twas form'd to lend, 
 Emblem this of life is found, 
 While you turn it round and round. 
 All the years that roll away, 
 Are but circles of a day ; 
 Still the same, and still renew'd, 
 While some distant good's pursu'd 
 Distant, for we're never blest 
 Till the lab'ring wheel's at rest. 
 Then the various thread is spun ; 
 Then the toil of life is done. 
 Happy ! if the running twine 
 Form'd a smooth and even line ; 
 Not a foul, and tangled clue, 
 Not untimely snapt in two. 
 Then the full reward is sure ? 
 Rest that ever shall endure ; 
 Rest to happiness refin'd, 
 Bliss of body and of mind» 
 
(272) 
 ODE TO PITY. 
 
 BY WILLIAM ROSCOE, ESQ. 
 
 Hail lovely pow'r ! -whose bosom heaves the 
 sigh, 
 
 When Fancy paints the scene of deep distress : 
 Whose tears spontaneous chrystalize the eye, 
 
 W 7 hen rigid fate denies the power to bless. 
 
 Not all the sweets Arabia's gales convey 
 
 From flow'ry meads, can with that sigh com- 
 pare ; 
 
 Not dew-drops glitt'ring in the morning ray, 
 Seem half so beauteous as that falling tear. 
 
 Devoid of fear the fawns around thee play ; 
 
 Emblem of peace, the dove before thee flies ; 
 No blood-stain'd traces mark thy guiltless way, 
 
 Beneath thy feet no hapless insect dies. 
 
 Come, lovely pow'r ! and range the meads with 
 
 me, 
 
 To spring the partridge from the guileful foe ; 
 
 From strengthening snares the struggling bird to 
 
 free, 
 
 And stop the hand prepared to give the blow: 
 
 Or turn to nobler, greater tasks, thy care, 
 To me thy sympathetic gifts impart : 
 
 Teach me in friendship's grief to bear a share, 
 And justly boast, the generous, feeling heart. 
 
 Teach me to soothe the helpless orphan's grief, 
 With timely aid the widow's woes assuage ; 
 
 To misery's moving cry to yiejd relief, 
 And be the sure resource of drooping age* 
 
ODE TO PATIENCE. 273 
 
 So, when the genial spring of life shall fade, 
 And sinking nature own the dread decay, 
 
 Some soul congenial then may lend its aid, 
 And gild the close of life's eventful day. 
 
 ODE TO PATIENCE. 
 
 BV G. W. C ESQ,. OF BALTIMORE. 
 
 Nymph of ever-placed mien ! 
 With humble look and soul serene 
 
 In fortune's adverse day ; 
 Who calmly sit'st amid the storm 
 That bursts around thy angel form, 
 
 Nor murmur'st at its sway : 
 
 Oh ! now regardless of thy spell, 
 While heaves my aching bosom's swell, 
 
 Each grief, each pain reveal'd ; 
 Still trembling in the dang'rous maze 
 Where ills assail be near to raise 
 
 Thy strong protecting shield ! 
 
 Full many a heart, by sorrow tried, 
 Has felt the balm thy hand supplied 
 
 To ease its throbbing woes,— 
 As resignation lifts on high, 
 Nor vainly so, the trusting eye, 
 
 And soothes to soft repose. 
 
 Yet ah ! upon* thy steps no less 
 The m watchful fiends relentless pie 
 
 To urge their fell control : 
 How oft they point the pois'nous < 
 
274 ODE TO PATIENCE. 
 
 And aim to wound thy gentle heart, 
 And fright thy tranquil soul ! 
 
 Methinks I see thee even now, 
 
 With hands compos'd, and halcyon brow 
 
 While glaring near thee stand 
 (Undaunted thou beholds't them wait) 
 The vengeful ministers of fate, 
 
 A dreadful, xuvrn'rous band ! 
 
 There stern misfortune sullen lowers, 
 And chills the heavy passing hours, 
 
 Mad anguish writhing nigh : 
 And weeping misery and scorn, 
 And drooping poverty forlorn, 
 
 Their diff'rent efforts try i 
 
 There curst ingratitude, and lo ! 
 Sly falshood, dealing oft the blow 
 
 In friendship's specious guise ,- 
 Whose hell-born art none can avoid 
 By sad experience fully tried, 
 
 The guarded nor the wise ! 
 
 Tho' ne'er invok'd before, thy aid 
 Refuse not thou, propitious maid 
 
 This warmly votive hour : 
 A suppliant at thy shrine decreed* 
 By many a bitter wrong to bleed, 
 
 Implores thy pitying povv'r. 
 
 I 
 
 With pious Hope, thy sister-friend, 
 Oh J hither come, thy succour lend, 
 
 To quell this painful strife ; 
 And teach me how, with rising thought, 
 And breast with conscious virtue fraught, 
 
 To bear the ills of life, 
 
( 275 ) 
 *TO A MOTHER 
 
 ON 
 
 THE ABSENCE OF HER DAUGHTER. 
 
 By a Gentleman of Philadelphia. 
 
 OH ! wherefore should those trembling tears, 
 
 Successive, dim a mother's eye! 
 Oh, chase away those useless fears 
 
 Which prompt the sorrow-freighted sigh ! 
 
 Remember that the faithful dove, 
 When bidden from the ark to roam, 
 
 Was guided by a God of love 
 
 And brought the peaceful olive home 
 
 So she, whose absence now ye mourn, 
 
 By no maternal fondness pressed, 
 Shall soon with fluttering heart return, 
 
 To plant the olive in thy breast. 
 
 Then, as the new-born rainbow streamed 
 Its beauteous colour o'er the skies, 
 
 To tell the wanderers, redeemed 
 
 From floods, that floods no more should rise, 
 
 So she, when safe within thy arms, 
 
 With sweetest smiles her lips shall dress, 
 
 To quiet all thy heart's alarms 
 And bid thy tears foreyer cease ! 
 
 * These lines are from the Port Folio — they are 
 written by «r» gentleman who has made many valua- 
 ble communications to that respectable Miscellany ; 
 and he now conducts one of the most interesting and 
 useful Literary Miscellanies published in this country, 
 
( 276 ) 
 EPITAPH BY LORD PALMERSTONE^ 
 
 ON THE 
 
 DEATH OF HIS WIFE. 
 
 WHOE'ER like me with trembling anguish 
 
 brings, 
 His hearts' whole treasure to fair Bristol's springs.; 
 Whoe'er like me to. soothe disease and pain, 
 Sh?..ll seek these salutary springs in vain; 
 Condemn' d like me, to hear the faint reply, 
 To mark the fading cheek, the sinking eye ; 
 From the chill brow to wipe the damps of death, 
 And watch, in dumb despair, the short'ning 
 
 breath :— 
 If chance direct him to this artless line, 
 Let the sad mourner know his pangs were mine, 
 Ordain'd to lose the partner of my breast, 
 Whose virtues warn'd me, and whose beautiee 
 
 blest ; 
 Framed every tie that binds the soul, to prove 
 Her duty friendship, and her friendship love, 
 But yet remembering that the parting sigh, 
 Appoints the first to slumber, not to die, 
 The starting tear I check'd, I kiss'd the rod, 
 And not to earth resigned her, but to God. 
 
 EPITAPH 
 
 ON MRS. MASON. 
 
 TAKE holy earth' all that my soul4io!ds dear. 
 
 Take that best gift which heavenso lately gave 
 To Bristol's fount, I bore with trembling ca 
 
 Her faded form— she bow'd to taste the wave 
 
LORD LYTTLETON'S MONODY. 277 
 
 And died. Does youth, does beauty read the line, 
 
 Does sympathetic fear their breasts alarm t 
 Speak dear Maria ! breathe a strain divine ; 
 
 Ev'n from the grave thou shalt have power to 
 charm, 
 Bid them be chaste, be innocent like thee ; 
 
 Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move, 
 And if as fair, from vanity as free, 
 
 As firm in friendship, and as kind in love. 
 Tell them though 'tis an awful thing to die, 
 
 ('Twas ev'n to thee) yet the dread path once 
 trod, 
 Heaven lifts its everlasting portals high, 
 
 And bids " the pure in heart behold their God." 
 
 fcROM LORD LYTTLETON'S MONODY 
 
 TO THL 
 
 MEMORY OF HIS LADY. 
 
 YE tufted groves, ye gently falling rills, 
 
 Ye high o'er-shadowing hills, 
 Ye lawns gay-smiling with eternal green, 
 
 Oft' have you my Lucy seen ! 
 But never shall you now behold her more ; 
 
 Nor will she now with fond delight, 
 And taste refin'd your rural charms explore, 
 ClosM are those beauteous eves in endless night ! 
 
 In vain I look aix und, 
 
 O'er all the well- known ground, 
 My LucjSs wonted footsteps to descry; 
 
 Where oft we us'd to walk, 
 
 Where oft in tender talk, 
 We saw the summer sun go down the sky, 
 z 
 
27a 
 
 Nor by yon fountain's side, 
 
 Nor where its waters glide, 
 Along the valley can she now be found, 
 In all the wide-stretch'd prospect's ample bound! 
 
 No more my mourmui eye, 
 
 Can ought of her espy, 
 But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie. 
 Sweet babes, who like the iittie playful fawns, 
 Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns, 
 
 By your delighted mother's side ; 
 
 "Who now your infant steps shall guide ? 
 Ah ! where is uow the hand whose tender care, 
 To every virtue would have f'orm'd your youth, 
 And strew'd with flow'rs the thorny ways of 
 truth : 
 
 Oh ! loss beyond repair ! 
 
 Oh ! wretched father left alone, 
 To weep their dire misfortune and my own ! 
 Tell how her manners by the world refin'd, 
 Left all the taint of modish vice behind, 
 And made each charm oi poiish'd courts agree 
 
 With candid Truth's simplicity, 
 
 And uncorrupted innocence ! 
 
 Tell how to more than manly sense, 
 
 She join'd the softening influence, 
 
 Of more than female tenderness ? 
 
 A prudence undeceiving, undeceived, 
 That, nor too little, nor too much belie v'd, 
 That scorn'd unjust suspicion's coward fear, 
 And without weakness knew to be sincere. 
 
( 279 ) 
 LINES, 
 
 On the death of a Young Lady, who died 'in Nexo 
 'York, August, 1804. 
 
 Death ling'ring strikes — at his approach 
 The trembling spirits faint and die : 
 
 Pale sickness sinks upon his couch, 
 And heaves the painful, parting sigh. 
 
 In vain, for moments of delay, 
 
 Shall beauty plead with magic power ; 
 
 Relentless he selects his prey, 
 And grasps the brightest — sweetest flower. 
 
 The youthful heart, with pleasure wild, 
 Elate with mirth — with fancy gay ; 
 
 Soon by his icy touch is chill'd, 
 
 And life's bright visions fleet away. 
 
 Thus did Eliza's moments fly 
 
 On wings of joy, with prospects fair ; 
 
 While cloudless was her present sky, 
 And hope, fond hope her guiding star. 
 
 From envy's grasp, with malice arm'd, 
 Her artless smile his weapon stole ; 
 
 With transport strange the monster warm'd, 
 And wak'd to love his gloomy soul. 
 
 But why fond mem'ry — why recall 
 
 Those charms which late such pleasure gave ; 
 Since now Eliza — reft of all — 
 
 Lies cold the tenant of the grave. 
 
 Pale are those cheeks of roseate dye, 
 Their dimpling smiles forever flown : 
 
 Dim i9 the brightness of that eye 
 
 Which once with sparkling lustre shone. 
 
280 TEE HAKP Of SORROW. 
 
 Mute is that voice whose accents sweety 
 The ear of fond attention drew ? 
 
 Still is that heart which constant beat, 
 To every gentle virtue true. 
 
 Alas ! shall death forever reign 
 
 Triumphant near each scene of bliss ? 
 
 Blast young desire — turn joy to pain, 
 And riot on such spoil as this ? 
 
 Trail mortal, cease— no longer mourn 
 This vain regret — these murmurs still : 
 
 The varying change from nature learn, 
 And bow to the Almighty will. 
 
 The flower, that fair its bosom spreads, 
 
 And joys to hail the solar ray, 
 At evening fades. Yet only fades 
 
 To bloom afresh at opening day. 
 
 To woodlands, barren to the sight, 
 New foliage vernal gales shall bring : 
 
 The insect sleeps the win'try night, 
 And flutters on the breath of spring. 
 
 Thus, when death's long, long night is o'er. 
 In realms of bliss shall beauty rise ; 
 
 Array % with charms that fade no more, 
 In climes where virtue never dies. 
 
 THE HARP OF SORROW. 
 
 BY JAMES MONTGOMERY. 
 
 Author of the Wanderer of Switzerland. 
 
 I GAVE my harp to Sorrow's hand, 
 And she has ruled the chords so long 1 . 
 
 They will not speak at my command, 
 The v warble only to her soner. 
 
THE HARP OF SORROW. 281 
 
 Of dear departed hours, 
 
 Too fondly loved to last, 
 The dew, the breath, the bloom of flowers, 
 
 That died untimely in the blast; — 
 
 Of long, long years of future care 
 
 Till lingering nature yields her breath; 
 
 And endless ages of despair 
 
 Beneath the judgment day of death ; — 
 
 The weeping minstrel sings, 
 
 And while her numbers flow, 
 My spirit trembles thro 7 the strings, 
 
 And every note is full of woe. 
 
 Would gladness move a sprightlier strain, 
 And wake this wild harp's clearest tones, 
 
 The chords, impatient to complain, 
 Are dumb, or only utter moans. 
 
 And yet to soothe the mind 
 
 With luxury or grief, 
 The soul to suffering all resigned 
 
 In sorrow's music feels relief. 
 
 Thus o'er the light JEolian lyre, 
 
 The winds of dark November stray, 
 
 Touch the quick nerve of ev'ry wire 
 And on its magic pulses play ; 
 
 Till all the air around, 
 
 Mysterious murmurs fill, 
 A strange bewildering dream of sound, 
 
 Most heavenly sweet — yet mournful still > 
 
 O snatch the harp from Sorrow's hand, 
 
 Hope ! who hast been a stranger long : 
 O strike it with sublime command, 
 And be the poet's life thy son rr. ! 
 
S82 CHARACTER OF WOMEN. 
 
 Of vanish'd troubles sing, 
 
 Of fears forever fled, 
 Of flowers, that hear the voice of spring, 
 *And burst and blossom from the dead ! 
 
 Of home, contentment, health, repose, 
 Serene delights, while years increase ', 
 
 And weary life's triumphant close 
 In some calm sunset hour of peace ; 
 
 Of bliss that reigns above, 
 
 Celestial May of youth, 
 Unchanging as Jehovah's love, 
 
 And everlasting as his truth, 
 
 Sing heavenly Hope ! — and dart thy hand, 
 O'er my frail harp, untuned so long; 
 
 That harp shall breathe at thy command. 
 Immortal sweetness thro' thy song. 
 
 Ah ! then this gloom controul ; 
 
 And at thy voice will start 
 A new creation in my soul, 
 
 And a new Eden in my heart I 
 
 Sheffield, Sept. 29, 1806. 
 
 CHARACTER OF WOMEN.* 
 
 THROUGH many a land and clime a ranger, 
 With toiSome steps, I've held my way ; 
 
 A lonely, unprotected stranger, 
 To stranger's ills a constant prey. 
 
 While steering thus my course precarious, 
 My fortune ever was to find 
 
 * See page 58. 
 
THE FALLING TOWER 283 
 
 Men's hearts and dispositions various, 
 But women grateful, true and kind. 
 
 Alive to ev'ry tender feeling, 
 
 To deeds of mercy always prone, 
 The wounds of pain and sorrow healing, 
 
 With soft compassion's sweetest tone. 
 
 No proud delay, no dark suspicion, 
 Taints the free bounty of their heart, 
 
 They turn not from the sad petition, 
 But cheerful aid at once impart. 
 
 Form'd in benevolence of nature, 
 
 Obliging, modest, gay and mild, 
 Woman's the same endearing creature, 
 
 In conrtlv town, or savatre wild. 
 
 Roman's the same endearing crea 
 In courtly town, or savage wild. 
 
 When parch'd with thirst, with hunger wasted. 
 Her friendly hand refreshment gave : 
 
 How sweet the coarsest food has tasted, 
 How cordial was the simple wave ! 
 
 Her courteous looks, her words caressing, 
 Shed comfort on the fainting soul ; 
 
 Woman's the stranger's gen'ral blessing, 
 From sultry India to the Pole. 
 
 THE FALLING TOWER. 
 
 MARK ye the Tower whose lonely halls 
 Re-echo to yon falling stream ? 
 
 Mark ye its bare and crumbling walls, 
 While slowly fades the sinking beam ? 
 
23i A CHARACTER. 
 
 There, oft, when eve in silent trance, 
 
 Hears the lorn red- breast's plaintive moan 5 
 Time, casting round a cautious glance, 
 
 Heaves from its base some mould'ring stone- 
 There, tho' in time's departed day, 
 
 War wav'd his glittering banners high; 
 Tho' many a minstrel pour'd the lay, 
 
 And many a beauty tranc'd the eye ; 
 
 Yet never, midst the gorgeous scene, 
 
 Midst the proud feasts of splendid pow'r, 
 
 Shone on the pile a beam serene, 
 So bright as gilds its falling hour. 
 
 Oh ! thus when life's gay scenes shall fade ? 
 
 And pleasure lose its wonted bloom, 
 When creeping age shall bare my head, 
 
 And point to me the silent tomb ; 
 
 Then may religion's hallow'd flame 
 Shed on my mind its mildest ray; 
 
 And bid it seek in purer frame 
 One bright eternity of day. 
 
 A CHARACTER. 
 
 OF gentle manners, and of taste renVd, 
 With all the graces of a polish'd mind ; 
 Clear sense and truth still shone in all she spoke, 
 And from her lips no idle sentence broke. 
 Each nicer elegance of art she knew ; 
 Correctly fair, and regularly true. 
 Her ready fingers ply'd with equal skill 
 The pencil's task, the needle or the quill. 
 So pois'd her feelings, so compos'd her soul, 
 So subject all to reason's calm controul, 
 
THE ROSE. 2« 
 
 One only passion, strong and unconnn'd, 
 Disturb'd the balance of her even mind : 
 One passion rul'd despotic in her breast, 
 In every word, and look, and thought confest : 
 But that was love, and love delights to bless 
 The gen'rous transports of a fond excess. 
 
 MRS. BARCAULD, 
 
 THE ROSE. 
 
 BY COWPER. 
 
 THE Rose had been wash'd, lately wash'd in a 
 show'r, 
 
 Which Mary to Anna convey'd, 
 The plentiful moisture encumber' d the fiow'r, 
 
 And weigh'd down its beautiful head. 
 
 The cup was all fiU'd and the leaves were all wet, 
 
 And it seem'd to a fanciful view, 
 To weep for the buds it had left with regret, 
 
 On the flourishing bush, where it grew. 
 
 I hastily seiz'd it, unfit as it was, 
 
 For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd, 
 
 And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas ! 
 I snapp'd it, it fell to the ground. 
 
 And such, I exclaim'd is the pitiless part 
 
 Some act by the delicate mind, 
 Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart 
 
 Already to sorrow resign'd. 
 
 This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, 
 
 Might have bloom'd with its owner a while, 
 
 And the tear, that is wip'd with a little address, 
 May be folio w'd, perhaps with a smile. 
 
( 286 ) 
 PIOUS EFFUSION. 
 
 BY A LADY OF BALTIMORE. 
 
 SAVIOUR of sinners ! hear thy creature's prayeY, 
 
 And soothe a mind opprest with cv'ry care. 
 
 Oh ! let thy word sustain my bleeding breast, 
 
 And calm the tumults of my soul to rest. 
 
 May I submissive kiss the chast-'ning rod 
 
 And, tho' in agonies, auore my God. 
 
 When the world frowns, and woe to woe succeeds, 
 
 When folly triumphs, and when virtue bleeds, 
 
 Let not my soul despon J, but fixed on Thee, 
 
 Pursue the prize of blest eternity. 
 
 Firm to that view, let me superior rise 
 
 To all the ills of life, and claim the skies. 
 
 Oh ! may that gall which to my God was giv'n 
 
 Vanquish the world, and raise my soul to heav'n ; 
 
 And when death o'er me waves his potent wand* 
 
 Oh ! may I join the great celestial band, 
 
 To all eternity to sing thy praise, 
 
 And know no end of happiness or days. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 BY AKENSIDE- 
 
 THE shape alone let others prize, 
 The features of the fair ! 
 
 I look for spirit in her eyes, 
 And meaning in her air. 
 
 A damask cheek, and iv'ry arm > 
 Shall ne'er my wishes win : 
 
THE SISTERS CHOICE. 23X 
 
 Give me an animated form, 
 That speaks a mind within. 
 
 A face where awful honour shines, 
 Where sense and sweetness move, 
 
 And angel innocence refines 
 The tenderness of love. 
 
 These are the soul of beauty's frame, 
 
 Withoiit whose vital md 
 U itinkhM all her featured seem, 
 
 And 'ill U r roses dead. 
 
 But ah ! where both their charms unite, 
 
 How perfect 13 tii ■ view, 
 With every image bt delight, 
 
 With graces ever new ! 
 
 Of power to charm the greatest woe ; 
 
 The wildest rage controul; 
 Diffusing mildness o'er the brow, 
 
 And rapture thro' the soul. 
 
 Their power but faintly to express, 
 
 All language must despair; 
 But go, behold Arpasia's face, 
 
 And 4 read it perfect there. 
 
 THE SISTERS CHOICE; 
 
 OR, 
 JUDGMENT OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 NEAR Avon's banks, a cultural spot, 
 With many a turf of flow'rs adorn'd, 
 
 Was once an aged shepherd's cot, 
 
 W110 scenes of greater splendor sconVd. 
 
288 THE SISTERS CHOICE, 
 
 Three beauteous daughters blest his -bed, 
 Who made the little plat their care; 
 
 And ev'ry sweet by Flora spread, •» 
 Attentive still they planted there. 
 
 Once, when still ev'ning v;il 7 d die s*:y, 
 
 The sire walk'd for:h ai>d sought the bow'r ; 
 
 And bade the lovely maids draw" rjgh, 
 And each select some fav r rite flow >r. 
 
 The frst with radiant splendor charm'd, 
 
 A variegated Tulip chose ; 
 The next with love of beauty warm'd, 
 
 Prefer'd the sweetly-blushing Rose* 
 
 The third, who, mark'd with depth of thought, 
 How these bright flow'rs must droop away ; 
 
 An ev'ning Primrose only brought, 
 Which opens with the closing day. 
 
 The sage awhile in silence view'd 
 
 The various choice of flow'rs display'd ; 
 
 And then (with wisdom's gift endued) 
 Address'd each beauteous list'mng maid : 
 
 " Who chose the Tulip's splendid dyes, 
 Shall own, too late, when that decays ; 
 
 That vainly proud, not greatly wise, 
 She only caught a short liv'd blaze : 
 
 " The Rose, though beauteous leaves and sweet, 
 
 It's glorious vernal pride adorn, 
 Let her who chose, beware to meet 
 
 The biting sharpness of its thorn. 
 
 il But she, who to fair day-light's train, 
 The ev'ning-jlow'r more just prefeir'd; 
 
THE JOY OF GRIEF. 289 
 
 Chose real worth, nor chose in vain, 
 The one great object of regard. 
 
 a Ambitious thou, the Tulip race, 
 In all life's varied course beware ; 
 
 Nor let sweet pleasure's rosy grace, 
 With all its sharper thorns ensnare. 
 
 " Thou, prudent still, to virtue's lore 
 Attend and mark her counsels sage ; 
 
 She, like thy^c?tt>V, has charms in store. 
 To soothe the ev'ning of thine age.'' 
 
 He ceas'd — attend the moral strain, 
 
 The muse enlighten'd pours ; 
 Nor let her pencil trace in vain 
 
 The judgment of the fiow'rs. 
 
 « THE JOY OF GRIEF."— ossia: 
 
 BY MONTGOMERY. 
 
 * 
 
 SWEET the hour of tribulation, 
 When the heart can freely sigh ; 
 
 And the tear of resignation 
 Twinkles in the mournful eye. 
 
 Have you felt a kind emotion 
 
 Tremble through your troubl'd breast ; 
 ♦ Soft as evening o'er the ocean 
 
 When she charms the waves to rest ? 
 
 Have you lost a friend, or brother ? 
 
 Heard a father's parting breath ? 
 Gaz'd upon a'ii/elcss mother, 
 
 'Till she seem'd to wake from death ? 
 
^90 THE JOY OF GRIEF. 
 
 Have you felt a spouse expiring, 
 In your arms, before your view ? 
 
 Watch'd the luveiy.soul retiring, 
 From the eyes that broke on you? 
 
 Did not grief then grow romantic 
 Raving on remembtr'd bliss ? 
 
 Did you not, with fervour irantic, 
 Kiss the iips that felt no kiss ? " 
 
 Horror then your heart congealing, 
 ChilPd you with intense despair ; 
 
 Can you recollect the feeling ? 
 No ! there was no feeling there* 
 
 From that gloomy trance of sorrow, 
 When you woke to pangs unknown, 
 
 How unwelcome was the morrow, 
 For it rose on you alone I 
 
 Suuk in self-consuming anguish, 
 Can the poor heart always ache ? 
 
 No, the torturM nerve will languish, 
 Or the strings of life must break. 
 
 O'er the yielding brow of sadness, 
 One faint srnileof comfort stole ; 
 
 One soft pang of tender gladness 
 Exquisitely thrilPd your soul. 
 
 While the wounds of woe are healing, 
 While the heart is all resign'd, 
 
 5 Tis the solemn feast of feeling, 
 5 Tis the sabbath of the mind. 
 
 Pensive mem'ry then retraces 
 Scenes of bliss forever fled, 
 
 Lives in former times and places, 
 Holds communion with th* dead. 
 
THE DOVES. 291 
 
 And when night's prophetic slumbers 
 
 Rend the veil to mortal ey£s, 
 From their tombs the sainted numbers 
 
 Of your lost companions rise. 
 
 You have seen a friend, a brother, 
 
 Heard a dear dead lather speak, 
 Prov'd the fondness of a mother, 
 
 Felt her tears upon your cheek. 
 
 Dreams of love your grief beguiling, 
 You have clasp'd a consort's charms, 
 
 And received your infant smiling, 
 
 From his mother's sacred arms. A 
 
 Trembling, pale and agonizing, 
 
 While you mourn'd the vision gone, 
 
 Bright the morning star arising, 
 
 Open'd heaven, from whence it shone. 
 
 Thither all your wishes bending 
 
 Rose in extacy sublime, 
 Thither all your hopes ascending 
 
 Triumph'd over death and time. 
 
 Thus afflicted, bruised and broken, 
 Have you known such sweet relief? 
 
 Yes, my friend ! and by this token, 
 
 You have known " The Joy of Grief v 9 
 
 THE DOVES. 
 
 REASONING at every step he treads, 
 
 Man yet mistakes his way, 
 While meaner things whom instinct leads^ 
 
 Are rarely known to stray. 
 
292, THE DOVES. 
 
 One silent eve I wander'd late, 
 And heard the voice of love ; 
 
 The turtle thus address'd her mate, 
 And sooth'd the list'ning dove — 
 
 Our mutual bond of faith and truth, 
 
 No time shall disengage ; 
 Those blessings of our early youth 
 
 Shall cheer our latest age : 
 
 While innocence without disguise, 
 
 And constancy sincere, 
 Shall fill the circles of those eyes, 
 
 And mine can read them there ; 
 
 Those ills that wait on all below 
 
 Shall ne'er be felt by me, 
 Or, gently felt, and only so, 
 
 As being shar'd with thee. 
 
 When lightnings flash among the trees, 
 Or kites are hovering near, 
 
 I fear lest thee alone they seize, 
 And know no other fear. 
 
 'Tis then I feel myself a wife, 
 And press thy wedded side, 
 
 Resolv'd an union form ? d for life 
 Death never shall divide. 
 
 But oh ! if fickle and unchaste, 
 (Forgive a transient thought) 
 
 Thou couldst become unkind at last, 
 And scorn thy. present lot; 
 
 No need of lightnings from on higln 
 
 Or kites with cruel beak ; 
 Denied th J endearments of thine eye,. 
 
 This widow'd heart would break. 
 
 
MUTUAL FORBEARANCE. 293 
 
 Thus sang the sweet sequestered bird 
 
 Soft as the passing wind, 
 And I recorded what I heard — 
 
 A lesson for mankind. 
 
 MUTUAL FORBEARANCE 
 
 Necessaryto the happiness of the married state 
 
 THE lady thus address'd her spouse — 
 Wnat a mere dungeon is this house ! 
 By no means large enough ; and was. it, 
 Yet this dull room, and that dark closet — 
 Those hangings, with their worn-out graces, 
 Long beards, long noses and pale faces — 
 Are such an antiquated scene, 
 They overwhelm me with the spleen ! 
 Sir Humphrey, shooting in the dark, 
 Makes answer quite beside the mark : 
 No doubt, my dear, I bade him come, 
 Engag'd myself to be at home, 
 And shall expect him at the door, 
 Precisely when the clock strikes four. 
 
 You are so deaf, the lady cry'd, 
 (And rais'd her voice, and frown'd beside ) 
 \\,u are so sadly deaf, my dear, 
 jft.hat shall I do 10 make you hear ? 
 
 Dismiss poor Harry ! he replies ; 
 Some p< ople are more nice than wise — 
 I or ui ■- sligh'. trespass all rhis stir ? 
 What if he dm ride whip and spur, 
 5 Twas bat a mil-; — your favorite horse 
 Will never look one hair the worse. 
 a a 2 
 
294 MUTUAL FORBEARANCE. 
 
 Well, I protest, 'tis past all bearing — 
 Child ! I am rather hard of hearing — 
 Yes, truly — one must scream and bawl — ■ 
 I tell you, you can't hear at all ! 
 Then, with a voice exceeding low, 
 No matter if you hear or no. 
 
 Alas ! and is domestic strife, 
 That sorest ill of human life, 
 A plague so little to be fear'd, 
 As to be wantonly incurr'd, 
 To gratify a fretful passion, 
 On every trivial provocation ? 
 The kindest and the happiest pair 
 Will find occasion to forbear ; 
 And something, every day they live, 
 To pity, and perhaps, forgive. 
 But if infirmities that fall 
 In ccmmon to the lot of all — 
 A blemish or a sense impair' d — 
 Are crimes so little to be spar'd, 
 Then farewell ail that must create 
 The comfort of the wedded state .; 
 Instead of harmony, 'tis jar 
 And tumult, and intestine war. 
 
 The love that cheers Jife's latest stage. 
 Proof against sickness and old age, 
 Preserv'd by virtue from declension, 
 Becomes not weary of attention ; 
 But lives, when that exterior grace 
 Which first inspir'd the flame decays. 
 ? Tis gentle, delicate and kind, 
 To faults compassionate or blind, 
 And will with sympathy endure 
 Those evils it would gladly cure : 
 But angry, coarse and harsh expression 
 Shows love to be a mere profession ^ 
 
VERSES BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK. 293 
 
 Proves that the heart is none of his, 
 Or soon expels him if it is. 
 
 VERSES 
 
 Supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, dur 
 ing his solitary abode in the island of Juan Fer- 
 nandez. 
 
 I AM monarch of all I survey, 
 My right there is none to dispute ; 
 
 From the centre ail round to the sea, 
 • I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 
 
 Oh, solitude ! where are the charms 
 That saq;es have seen in thy face ? 
 
 Better dwell in the midst of alarms, 
 Than reign in this horrible place. 
 
 I am out of humanity's reach, 
 
 I must finish my journey alone, 
 Never hear the sweet music of speech ; 
 
 I start at the sound of my own. 
 The beasts, that roam over the plain. 
 
 My lorm with indifference see ; 
 They are so unacquainted with man, 
 
 Their tameness is shocking to me. 
 
 Society, friendship and love, 
 
 Divinely besiow'd upon man, 
 Oh. had I the wings of a dove, 
 
 How soon would I taste you again : 
 My sorrows 1 then might assuage 
 
 In the wavs of religion and truth, 
 Might karn from th< wisdom of age, 
 
 And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth. 
 
 Religion ! what treasure untold 
 Resides in that heavenly word ! 
 
296 VERSES BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK.: 
 
 More precious than silver or gold, 
 Or all that this earth can affordr 
 
 But the sound of the church- going bell 
 These vallies and rocks never heard, 
 
 Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell, 
 Or smil'd-when a Sabbath appear'd. 
 
 Ye winds, that have made me your sport, 
 
 Convey to this desolate shore 
 Some cordial endearing report 
 
 Of a land I shall visit no more. 
 My friends, do they now and then send 
 
 A wish or a thought after me . ? 
 O tell me I yet have a friend, 
 
 Though a friend I am never to see. 
 
 How fleet is a glance of the mind! 
 
 Compared with the speed of its flight, 
 The tempest itself lags behind, 
 
 And the swift winged arrows of light/ 
 When I think of my own native land, 
 
 In a moment I seem to be there ; 
 But alas ! recollection at hand - 
 
 Soon hurries me back to despair. 
 
 The sea- fowl is gone to her nest, 
 
 The beast is laid down in his lair, 
 Even here is a season of rest, 
 
 And I to my cabin repair. 
 There's mercy in every place ; 
 
 And mercy, encouraging thought ! 
 Gives even affliction a grace, 
 
 And reconciles man to his lot. 
 
( 297 ) 
 COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR. 
 
 AND wherefore do the poor complain? 
 
 The rich man asked of me, 
 Come walk abroad with me, I said, 
 
 And I will answer thee. «« ^. • 
 
 Twas ev'ning, and the frozen streets «> v •< 
 
 Were cheerless to behold, p " 
 
 And we were wrapt and coated well, 
 
 And yet were very cold. * ( 
 
 We met an old bare-headed man, , 
 
 His locks were few and white ; 
 I ask'd him what he did abroad 
 
 In that cold winter's night. 
 
 'Twas bitter cold, indeed, he said, 
 
 At home no fire had he, 
 And therefore he had come abroad 
 
 To ask for charity. 
 
 We met a young bare-footed child, 
 
 And she begg'd loud and bold ; 
 I asked her what she did abroad — 
 
 The wind it blew so cold. 
 
 She said her father was at home, 
 
 And he lay sick in bed, 
 And therefore was it she was sent 
 
 Abroad to beg for bread. 
 
 We saw a woman sitting down 
 
 Upon a stone to rest, 
 She had a baby at her back — 
 
 Another at her breast : 
 
298 TO A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 I ask'd her why she loiter'd there — 
 
 The wind it was so chill ? . 
 She turn'd her head and bade the chil4, 
 , That scream'd behind, be still. 
 
 She told usAhat her husband serv'd 
 
 A ^olfli'e'rnfar aVa^ 
 lAntl therefore to her- parish she 
 . Was begging hack her way* 
 
 '■ 
 I turn'd me to the rich man then. 
 
 For silently stood he, 
 You ask'd me why the poor complain^ 
 And these have answer'd thee» 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY, 
 
 With a nosegay. 
 
 THOU canst not steal the rose's bloom 
 
 To decorate thy face 
 But the sweet blush of modesty 
 
 Will lend an equal grace. 
 
 These violets scent the distant gale, 
 
 (Beneath, in lowly bed) 
 So rising worth new merit gains, 
 
 By diffidence o'erspread. 
 
 Nor wilt thou e'er that lily's white 
 
 In thy complexion find ; 
 Yet innocence may shine as fair 
 
 Within thy spotless mind. 
 
 Now, in the opening spring of life, 
 Let every flowret bloom ; 
 
BEAUTY. 299 
 
 The budding virtues in thy breast 
 Shall yield the best perfume. 
 
 soffPp 
 
 This nosegay in thy bosoHFplac'd, 
 
 A moral may convey 
 Eor soon its brightest tints 
 
 And ail its sweets decay 
 
 So short livV arc the loveT 
 
 Of Flora's transient reig 
 They bud, blow, wither, fall a: 
 
 Then turn to earth again. 
 
 And thus, my dear, must ev'ry charm, 
 Which youth is proud to share, 
 
 Alike this quick succession prove, 
 And tht same truth declare. 
 
 Sickness will change the roseate hue, 
 Which glowing health bespeaks ; 
 
 And age will wrinkle.^with its cares, 
 The smile on beauty's cheeks. 
 
 But as that fragrant myrtle wreath 
 
 Will all the rest survive, 
 So shall the mental graces still 
 
 Through endless ages live. 
 
 BEAUTY, 
 
 A MORAL REFLECTION. 
 
 " The wind passetk over it, and it is gOm" 
 
 HIGH on the splendid polish'd stem 
 
 A fragrant lilly grew ; 
 On the pure petals many a gem 
 
300 BEAUTY. 
 
 Glittered a native diadem 
 
 Of healthy morning c^w : 
 A blast of ling'ring w VBb came 
 the stem in two. 
 
 r airer than m ■» nik^early tear, 
 Or lily's snowy'bh A, 
 Shines > bau i y in its \»nal year, 
 Bright, sparkling, ia^pating, clear, 
 Gay, thou| itlesBpF its doom ! 
 ?ath breatneHWiaden poison near, 
 And sweeps it to the tomb. 
 
 FINIS. 
 

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