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her. Certainly, from the moment my father's rest was undisturbed, and that he got all his medicines, ne recovered rapidly.

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However, to return to the point, of myself upbraiding.-On my arrival, this vile woman retired to my father's dressing-room, where I most unexpectedly encountered her. My indignation, at there beholding the destroyer of my mother's happiness, almost amounted to frensy: I ordered her instantly to quit the castle; nor "dare to contaminate the air I breathed, with her polluted breath." Her eyes flashed fire: but I suppose the fire which flashed from mine was more tremendous; for she obeyed me, without uttering a syllable: but never shall I forget the look of deadly, implacable vengeance, she darted at me. It struck the chill of terror to my heart, and made my coward frame shake with direful apprehension.'.....

This long narrative, of lady Theodosia's, was told without a single audible comment from our heroine; for her ladyship, feeling that to remark upon the circumstances she recited must be painfully unpleasant to her young companion, delicately contrived to avoid any pause that might seem to demand a reply. But though Julia spoke not, her heart was too full of sensibility, too feelingly alive to every right propensity, not to be struck most forcibly with many and varied emotions, during this distressing narration; which (whilst it inspired much tender solicitude, sympathising sorrow, highly awakened admiration, the extreme of indignation, contempt, and horror) drew the resistless tear of pity from her eyes.

Her ladyship's communications had seen the close of evening out; and, by moon-light, they had paced many a turns upon the terrace, an earnest speaker and an attentive

hearer; and, so deeply were they both engaged, they heard not the supper-bell, nor thought of returning until the old butler came, him self, to seek them.

'O Heavens!' exclaimed lady Theodosia, how heedless of time I have been! I have made you shed so many tears, that, your eyes, and my own, will awaken suspicion of the conversation of our walk.'

Her ladyship, and Julia, now contrived, by the aid of a watering-pot, to get some water from an adjacent lake, on which the moon-beams brightly played, and bathed their eyes, until they believed every trace of tears was removed. This little hurry and exertion, by abstracting their thoughts from the subjects that before so much saddened them, gave to their spirits something like cheering exhilaration, and led them back to the castle totally devoid of every appearance of dejection, which, to the penetrating eyes of lady Selina, might have betrayed them.

The same party assembled at supper, which formed their dinner circle. Ladies Delamore and Selina entertained the two gentlemen with town news, and anecdotes of several persons and occurrences, they had heard and met with during their long absence; until lord Delamore suddenly said Emily, did you remember to bring me the medal?'

Her ladyship instantly drew from her pocket a case, which she thought contained a medal, and handed it to her husband; but in a moment, aware of her mistake, she, in great trepidation, reached out the medal, demanding her own case-but it was too late; lord Delamore had opened it; and the checks of lady Delamore were blanched with apprehensive terror. His lordship started, locked for a moment, and then exclaimed-Oh! how speaking is this invaluable likeness to my

boy!'-After a few moments more, spent in earnest gaze upon it, he returned the portrait to the trembling lady Delamore, into whose eyes the sudden tears of joyful surprise had been called, by the words invaluable likeness to my boy;' but discretion arrested the fall of those happy tears.

Spirited conversation was now at an end the incident of the portrait, for different reasons, unhinged the parents and their daughters; and all full of obtruding thoughtfulness, no one was longer able to bear a connected part in discourse. After a few unsuccessful efforts, by Mr. Temple and Julia, to restore converse, all sunk into silence; and lady Delamore, at length, aware of the universal gloom, broke up the dumb party, and they separated for the night.

A NIGHT WALK

IN AUGUST.

By J. M. L.

The bird of Eve began her tune, The chilly night-dew slowly rose, Whilst in the East appear'd the Moon, As Nature sank to sweet repose.'

Author's Manuscript Poems.

THE day had been a West-Indian day for heat, and each toiling harvester had literally earned a hard day's labour by the sweat of his brow.' Much of the corn was already carried, and a few days promised to see the whole safely got in. Evening's placid hours' had called the labourers home, and the mild summons had been gladly obeyed by them all; for fatigue had made the thought of home doubly dear. Thus

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might they exclaim with Bloomfield

Still twilight, welcome! Rest, how sweet art thou!'

I sought not the fields till the chilly night-dew' began to smoke along the surface of the neighbouring stream. When my last Night Walk was taken, every appearance portended a coming storm; and the portents were not deceitful: the storm came, and it was an awful one! I have heard many men boast that they were never alarmed at a tempest, let its violence be ever so great: I am myself not at all timid during a storm, but it is at all times awe-inspiring; and when the pealing thunder, preceded by streams of liquid fire, seems to roll in tremendous majesty just above our heads, I envy not that man's mind who can coldly and apathetically listen to its terrific tones, and say it inspires him with no sentiment of awe, with no feeling of fear. I freely confess I have felt both, and in the most terrifying moment of a tempest have been ready to exclaim

Where How's the trifler? where the child of pride?

These are the moments when the heart is try'd!

Nor lives the man with conscience e'er sø clear,

But feels a solemn, reverential fear;
Feels too a joy relieve his aching breast,
When the spent storm hath howl'd itself to
rest.
BLOOMFIELD,

Hurdis, too, is very impressive on this subject. He says,

There let me sit to see the low'ring storm Collect its dusky horrors, and advance To bellow sternly in the ear of night; Making the clouds his chariot. Who can To see th' Almighty electrician come,

stand

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Fear not; for if a life of innocence,

And that which we deem virtue here below,
Can hold the forky bolt, ye may presume
To look, and live. Yet be not bold, but
shew

Some pious dread, some grave astonishment:
For all our worthy deeds are nothing worth;
And if the solemn tempest cut us short
In our best hour, we are in debt to heav'n.'
VILLAGE CURATE.

On this night all was peace; the stars shone above, in radiant beauty; the planetary star of eve most conspicuous amongst them. I gazed on them with mingled wonder and admiration, The thought that every fixed star was a sun, similar to that which enlightens our own earth, and round each of which revolves a planetary system, whose orbs are all too far removed for mortal eyes to behold, led the contemplating mind to the Omniscient hand that created and regulates the whole of so stupendous a system. True indeed it is, that,

Stars teach as well as shine. At Nature's birth

Thus their commission ran-Be kind to Man!'

Where art thou, poor benighted traveller? The stars will light thee, though the moon should fail.

Where art thou, more benighted! more astray!

In ways immoral? The stars call thee back, And, if obey'd their counsel, set thee right!' YOUNG.

Strange it is, but no more strange

than true, that there are men weak enough, mad enough (I hardly know what name to call it by), to believe, or at least to endeavour to believe, that there is no God, no almighty Being, whose sole-creating hand formed the wondrous world we live in, the wondrous worlds that surround us; when even every leaf, every blade of grass attest his power, without extending a glance to the To immensities of the universe. such a lost being it should be said,

Come hither, fool, who vainly think'st
Thine only is the art to plumb the depth
Of truth and wisdom. 'Tis a friend who
calls,

And has some honest pity left for thee.
Oh! thoughtless stubborn sceptic.

abroad,

Look

And tell me, shall we to blind chance ascribe The scene so wonderful, so fair, and good? Shall we no farther search than sense will lead,

To find the glorious cause which so delights The eye and ear, and scatters ev'ry where Ambrosial perfumes? Is there not a hand Which operates unseen, and regulates

The vast machine we tread on? Yes, there is

Who first created the great world, a work
Of deep construction, complicately wrought,
Wheel within wheel; tho' all in vain we

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No more can we behold the busy soul
Which animates ourselves. Man to himself
Is all a miracle. I cannot see

The latent cause, yet such I know there is,
Which gives the body motion, nor can tell
Performs the purposes of 'will. How ther
By what strange impulse the so ready limb
Shall thou or I, who cannot span ourselves,
In this our narrow vessel, comprehend
The being of a God? Go to the shore,
Cast in thy slender angle, and draw out
The huge leviathan. Compress the deep,
And shut it up within the hollow round
Of the small hazel nut. Or freight the she
Of snail or cockle, with the glorious sun,
And all the worlds that live upon his beams,
The goodly apparatus that rides round
The glowing axie-tree of heaven.

come

Then

And I will grant 'tis thine to scale the height
Of wisdom infinite, and comprehend
Secrets incomprehensible; to know
There is no God, and what the potent cause

Which the revolving universe upholds,
And not requires a Deity at hand.

Persuade me not, insulting disputant,
That I shall die, the wick of life consum'd,
And spite of all my hopes sink to the grave,
Never to rise again. Will the great God,
Who thus by annual miracle restores
The perish'd year, and youth and beauty
gives

By resurrection strange, where none was
ask'd,

Leave only man to be the scorn of time
And sport of death? Shall only he one
Spring,

One hasty Summer, and one Autumn see,
And then to Winter irredeemable

Be doom'd, cast out, rejected, and despis'd?
Tell me not so, or by thyself enjoy
The melancholy thought. Am I deceiv'd?
Be my mistake eternal. If I err,
It is an error sweet and lucrative.

For should not Heaven a farther course
intend

Than the short race of life, I am at least
Thrice happier than thou, ill-boding fool,
Who striv'st in vain the awful doom to fly
Which I not fear. But I shall live again,
And still on that sweet hope shall my soul
feed:

A medicine it is, which with a touch

Heals all the pains of life; a precious balm,
Which makes the tooth of sorrow venomless,
And of her hornet-sting so keen disarms
Cruel Adversity.'

HURDIS. Proceeding on my way, I passed the humble church of a small village.

Mean structure, where no bones of
heroes lie!

The rude inelegance of poverty
Reigns here alone: else why that roof of
straw?

Those narrow windows with the frequent
flaw?

O'er whose low cells the dock and mallow
spread,

And rampant nettles lift the spiry head.'
BLOOMFIELD.

Turning now out of the lane I had been walking along, I entered a field, where the beams of the full orb'd Moon' shewed in long lines of succession the sheaves of ripened wheat, which another day would in all probability see safely housed; while perhaps another week would enable the farmer to ejaculate with fervent thankfulness,

Now ev'ry barn is fill'd, and harvest done.”

I almost lamented it was night, for it prevented me from contemplating a picture like the following.

Now o'er his corn the sturdy farmer
looks,

And swells with satisfaction, to behold
The plenteous harvest which repays his toil
We too are gratified, and feel a joy
Inferior but to his, partakers all

Of the rich bounty Providence has strew'd
In plentiful profusion o'er the field.
What to the eye more cheerful, to the heart
More satisfactive, than to look abroad,
And from the window see the reaper strip,
Look round, and put his sickle to the wheat?
Or hear the early mower whet his scythe,
And see where he has cut his sounding way,
E'en to the utmost edge of the brown field
Of oats or barley? What delights us more,
Than studiously to trace the vast effects
Of unabated labour? to observe

How soon the golden field abounds with
sheaves?

How soon the oat and bearded barley fall,
In frequent lines before the keen-edged
scythe?

The clatt'ring team then comes, the swarthy
hind

Leaps down and doffs his frock alert, and plies

The shining fork. Down to the stubble's edge

turns

The easy wain descends half-built, then
And labours up again. From pile to pile
With rustling step the swain proceeds, and

still

Bears to the groaning load the well-pois'd
sheaf.

The gleaner follows, and with studious eye
And bended shoulders traverses the field
To cull the scatter'd ear, the perquisite
By Heaven's decree assign'd to them whe

need,

And neither sow nor reap. Ye who have

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And stay the progress of the falling year, And let the cheerful valley laugh and sing, Crown'd with perpetual August. Never faint,

Nor ever let us hear the hearty shout
Sent up to Heaven, your annual work com-
plete,

And harvest ended. It may seem to you
The sound of joy, but not of joy to us.
We grieve to think how soon your efforts

cease,

How soon the plenteous year resigns her fruits,

And waits the mute approach of surly Winter.' HURDIS.

I now pointed my steps towards. home, recollecting these lines of my favourite poet, Hurdis.

'Let us not borrow from the hours of rest,
For we must steal from morning to repay;
And who would lose the animated smile
Of dawning day, for th' austere frown of
night?

I grant her well accoutred in her suit
Of dripping sable, powder'd thick with stars,
And much applaud her as she passes by
With a replenish'd horn on either brow:
But more I love to see awaking day
Rise with a fluster'd cheek; a careful maid,
Who fears she has outslept the 'custom'd
hour,

And leaves her chamber blushing.'

VILLAGE CURATE.

THE STROLLER.

By D. T.

No youth did I in education waste, For happily I had a strolling taste. Nature's my guide; all pendantry I scorn; Pains I abhor, I was a stroller born!'

THUS sung a few years since a noted snob, whose name I need not bere mention-he has made too much noise in the world to be a stranger: and I find he was a stroller too, and I'll venture to say the cobbling stool of bold crispin served for a desk; but what of that? he can now afford a good table-and what's better, can well furnish that table.

A strolling crew from various callings sprung,

Som of you have been gypsies, others sailors; come drays have whistling driven, or carts of dung,

And others mighty barbers been and taylors!

This Mr. Mend-sole we find was fond of reading and strolling, and so am I; and we read of greater men equally as fond: for instance-Petrach was thrown into a fever, by being deprived of his reading three days; Pliny (the younger) always read when it was possible, whether sitting, riding, or walking; and Pliny the elder had always some person to read to him during his meals: Brutus, while serving in the army under Pompey, employed every moment he could spare in reading; Alexander was also fond of reading, and amidst his conquests felt unhappy for want of books; and Plu tarch informs us he intirely lived on history: To be sure I now and then give a peep into the newspapers, and sometimes a book, but I do assure you I do not exist by reading.

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Every one as they like,

As the old woman said when she kiss'd her cow.'

And so say I-and as silence gives consent (as they say, I presume you, my dear sweet and angclic fair readers, consent to my strolling; and as that is the case, I must by way of compliment give a little return, in the way of flattery, which (allow the expression) the generality of your lovely sex have a partiality to. And to begin with the truth, it is praiseworthy now to find the ladies in their dress are great economists, yet fashionable.

Permit me to say, however, that fashions are like quack medicines, what becomes one lady may be fatal to the charms of another; prevalence of fashion, however, is equally applicable to both sexes. But this is a digression from my subject. Allow me just to add, that if a person who had been absent from this country ten years were now to return and see our ladies in their scull-caps, pellices, waistcoats, shirts, gaiters, cravats,

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