Front matter (continued 3)

"I wish I could give you a special diploma, Douglas, for prescribing your physic to those who do not ask for it," observed the mild Greenwood; "you might find plenty of patients, who, not thinking 'they need a physician,' become incurable by neglect."—"Is not that your fault," asked he, smiling; "you are too tender and compassionate. The diet you prescribe of self-knowledge and self-discipline, will not do for all constitutions. Some need caustics and the probe, and with such patients will Douglas exercise his functions without interfering in your trade." The good doctor had, however, as I thought, been rather too tender of a foible of his own. His national prejudices had not been pruned. "Scotland was the genial soil of philosophy, courage, and honour." The conversation took, from some assertions of this sort, an argumentative form. Malcolm with delight listened to his father's eloquence. Stimulated by his opponents, Mr. Greenwood and the captain, and supporting Douglas's arguments, he forgot the past; and brought forth his long-concealed stories of knowledge, with an animation which marked the acuteness of his mind and the strength of his memory.

Wherefore is it, my dear Lucy, that so many are found who, in the pride of reason, appear to forget the feeble tenure on which depends their boasted privileges; their justly prized prerogatives? The pulsation of an artery more or less rapid than suits our fragile frame, may, in a moment suspend, and, for a time, annihilate those faculties that distinguish us from the brute that perishes. Are we not liable to diseases, to accidents, to sorrows, which no human skill can remedy, no human prudence can prevent, and which, in a moment, may reduce us to idiots, or render us as ferocious and dangerous as beasts of prey? Suspend, but for a moment, the agency of that Being in "whom we live and move," and what are we? Surely there needed not the awful interdiction of eternal truth, to teach us, that "Pride was not made for man." Our own weakness, our own feebleness, might have sufficed to point out the lesson! You are fortunately released from a train of thoughts more useful to myself than needful to one who "bears her faculties so meekly." I am summoned to the card-table; Lady Maclairn requested me so earnestly to make up a rubber for poor Lucretia, that I cannot refuse her. There are sceptics to be found who deny that there is constancy in love. It would save much cavilling if these ingenious people would use proper terms. No one, I presume, would contradict them in their assertion, that people cannot eat with such an appetite, or drink when not thirsty, as if they were hungry or thirsty; but leaving such to their ignorance, I will start a new subject of argument, for I will maintain that one cannot always hate. No, Lucy, irreconcilable hatred, like a raging fever, must either kill the patient or wear itself out. My cheek no longer flushes on seeing Miss Flint; nothing rises in my throat when I ask her how she passed the night. Are not these gracious signs, Lucy, that I am becoming truly your sister? You shake your dear head. Well, "Rome was not built in a day," says the proverb; and after all, can I help that people should reap that which they have sowed? Would you wish me to give to Miss Flint the tribute due to suffering virtue? and to think, with Mrs. Allen, that the wicked are more to be commiserated than the good? If you do you must give me time, and in justice commend these dawnings of virtue; for I have, in consequence of my charity, been two days writing this, instead of one. Love me, Lucy; be sure to love me with all my faults. Nothing you can do for my benefit will so soon correct them.

I am impatient to hear what you think of "My lilley of the valley!" There! it is breathed! Take the dear blessing amongst you! and, oh! that I could add: take with it your

Rachel Cowley.

CHAP. IX.

During an interval of three or four weeks, the period during which Captain Flint was on his excursion to Heathcot, no occurrences of importance to this history appear in Miss Cowley's letters to her friend. It is my duty to supply this chasm by detailing a few particulars relative to Mr. Horace Hardcastle's situation and pursuits, these being so immediately connected with the thread of the narrative as to claim attention.

The young nobleman, his friend, with whom he went abroad, continued gradually to yield to the slow, but fatal malady which had so long menaced the hopes of his family. Intervals of comparative ease, with that flow of spirits which commonly attends this disease, and which was further sustained by his patience and principles, had, from time to time, beguiled him in the course of his unprofitable search after health. He became weary of the sea, and disgusted by the confinement of a ship's cabin; and he expressed much reluctance to quitting Lisbon, where he had wintered. His friends about him strongly recommended to him a retreat from the heat of the summer, which was within their reach, and the accustomed resort of the society to which he was attached and endeared. Doctor Innes, his tutor, convinced of the inutility of the many cruises he had patiently submitted to undertake, and the necessity of amusing his mind, immediately secured, in this delightful asylum, a convenient house for his reception, to which the family repaired in the early months of the summer.

The mutual confidence which subsisted between Lord William and Horace Hardcastle, was of that nature which precludes all concealment; and the dejection of the lover's spirits was not only a subject of disquietude to Lord William, but of anxiety to Doctor Innes. He was influenced, by the account given him of the young man's difficulties, to write to his uncle, Mr. Freeman; and, stating to him his fears for his nephew's health, he with much earnestness expatiated at large on the effects of a domineering passion. "I have, my good friend," added the doctor, "said thus much of Mr. Hardcastle's inclination, because I well know it was implanted, and is nourished, by the purest affections of his nature. Opposition will never destroy it; but it checks his activity, preys on his spirits, and may blast the hopes of his family. It is time his father should know this. Some indulgence is necessary, unless he means to sacrifice his happiness to a point of honour." Alarmed by the seriousness of this application, Mr. Freeman determined to quit his beloved home, and to plead in person for the lovers; conceiving that Mr. Hardcastle would be more accessible to his remonstrances, when urged by an affection which had led him to think Horace a match for the first woman breathing, in point of merit. He was successful, or rather Doctor Innes's letter prevailed. The interdiction of writing was removed; and Horace was informed that he had only to be cheerful till Miss Cowley ceased to love; and to wait patiently for Counsellor Steadman's operations with the redoubtable Mr. Flamall. These letters, and the change of measures which Mr. Hardcastle had adopted, were carefully concealed from Miss Cowley. Horace had been mentioned as not only depressed but indisposed, and the confederacy who had jointly aided in the victory over his good father, concurred with Miss Hardcastle that it was more prudent to leave Miss Cowley in repose, and to Horace the pleasure of telling his own tale. Mr. Freeman, contented with these advantages, and encouraged by Mr. Steadman's concurrence, with whom he had an interview in London, in his way to Heathcot, returned home. Captain Flint and Miss Howard's arrival immediately followed. Some conversation, relative to her beloved brother, led Miss Hardcastle to say to her guests, that she had been very unhappy from the time he had left England; "but Heaven be praised," added she, with unguarded warmth, "we shall be happy soon!"—"Do you expect your brother home?" asked the captain. "No, but he will be more comfortable than he has been abroad," answered she, with vivacity; "and it has been his dejection as much as his absence which have been the subjects of my regret. Thank God! all goes well at present." She instantly checked herself, and changed the conversation.

The captain's return to Tarefield was followed by the letter before us.

LETTER XXV.

From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle.

Pray, Lucy, by what enchantment has it happened that Captain Flint, with the loss of his idolized niece, has also lost his care-worn face? How has it happened that in a mail-coach, and exposed to cold and fatigue, he has contrived to leave behind him his rheumatic pains and nervous head-achs? But our first interview gave me a nervous head-ach, and a nervous tremor into the bargain! for, after having, with the patience of Job himself, listened to his rhapsodies in praise of all his ravished eyes had beheld at Heathcot; giving him his full swing in the history of the concerts at Worcester, and the feasts at the baron's, and the Chudleighs, &c. I did contrive to edge in; "and what did you hear them say of Horace?"—"Mr. Hardcastle," replied he, "walks every morning in the little plantation"—he shewed me the children's oaks—"raised from acorns of your setting. His son's have got the start of yours and Miss Hardcastle's?"—"Well, I know all this," answered I pettishly; "but did his father never speak of him to you?"—"He talks of him perpetually," replied he, "as every one does, and Miss Hardcastle appears to be quite reconciled to his absence, for she assured me, that he would be happier than he had been."—"Good God!" exclaimed I, "what could she mean!" Something in my too honest face betrayed me. "Be composed, my dear Miss Cowley," said the terrified captain, "I am certain there is no cause for alarm, when Miss Hardcastle says 'all will be well:' these were her words, in speaking of her brother." Judge, Lucy, of the effect of such ambiguous information on my irritable mind. "All will be well"—yes, all will be well when I am in my grave, if I am deserted and forgotten! Write to me; write only these three words, "Horace loves you," then all will be well with

R. Cowley.

A short letter from Miss Hardcastle indicating the success of Mr. Freeman's interference, without any mention of his apprehension on the subject of Horace's health, reached Miss Cowley by return of post. The subjoined letter will, speak for itself.

LETTER XXVI.

Horace Hardcastle to his Sister.

Cintra, Sept. 20th. MY DEAR LUCY,

My last letter informed you of our intention of remaining stationary for some months; and I have now the satisfaction of telling you, that I think Lord William has, on the whole, gained more from this climate than from any he has tried, and that hitherto we have had no reason to regret the plan we have adopted. An assured refuge from the heats of summer and the advantages hoped for from his vicinity to the sea, have not altogether failed. He has been amused, his thoughts divested from what he calls "a cowardly flight from death," and free from the inconveniences of Lisbon, he enjoys placidly, the few short days of his allotted space. We have been constant residents in this terrestrial paradise only since the first of June. Our spacious house and elevated situation at Lisbon, being perfectly adapted to our dear invalid's comforts; and to say the truth, we quitted the view of the noblest harbour in Europe, with an intire persuasion, that we might have remained with safety under its protection and the sea-breeze, which blew on our faces from every balcony. But Lord William had not then seen Cintra! He had not then seen from the Cabo de Penah, nor from Cape Roque, the sublime objects of nature which surround them. Rocks and mountains; the expanded ocean; the wide-stretching Tagus; plains rich in cultivation; impending woods; bubbling fountains, and falling cascades! Nor had he then traced the footsteps of havoc and confusion, left by the earthquake, and which the broken fragments and ponderous masses of the bare rock, mark at every approach.—But recommending to my Lucy the names of those writers who have embellished their works with a description of this favoured haunt of nature, I will proceed to place before her an adventure much more interesting to myself. Twiss, Baretti, Southby's Tours through Spain and Portugal will satisfy your curiosity, as to the spot in which I met with my good genii. You will not wonder, that your brother seeks solitude. My Curro[1], who knows his master for his friend, is no less impatient than he is, for the early dawn; about that hour he conducts me daily to some otherwise almost inaccessible haunt, and contentedly browzes the verdant paths in his way. The sun had gained upon us, whilst my Grison breakfasted on what nature made to him a luxurious repast. I conversed with an intelligent friar, one of the inmates of this singular retreat, who has been banished by the superior of his order to this place from his convent in Lisbon, to expiate the sin of loving English heretics, and English books; both of which temptations are yet too strong for him, in a spot

"Whose darksome round contains "Repentant sighs and voluntary pains; "The rugged rocks, which holy knees have worn, "The grots and caverns shagg'd with horrid thorn."

But leaving these allusions and poetical flights, let us proceed in our usual way.—Slowly winding up the steep ascent we reached the ruins of a Moorish castle, which is on one of the three highest promontories. You will imagine that the prospect from this elevation is unconfined. Alas! my Lucy, your brother saw only one! It was clouded by despair, and rendered intolerable by the certainty that I was not the only sufferer who was enveloped in its frowning aspect. "Were I alone to suffer, I would try to meet disappointment and contradiction like a man," thought I: "but to know that I am beloved, that I am as necessary to the happiness of the being whom I love, as she is to mine! To know that we might be happy, but for considerations——" I checked my murmurs then, as I suppress them now; and with my usual despondency, quitted the spot. In descending I saw, not far remote, an elegant girl, seated on a fragment of a rock; a gentleman on his knees before her, and she in evident distress. The narrow path admitted of no deviation; I was obliged to pass the supposed lovers. In so doing I perceived that the pretty creature had hurt her ankle, which the gentleman was rubbing; and the expression of her countenance, indicated that the application of his hand had not allayed the sense of pain. I stopped, and learned, that fearful of trusting herself to the sagacious animal she had rode, she had left her party at the Cork convent[2], preferring to walk. "With a shoe of this fashion," added the gentleman producing a green satin slipper, which might have rivalled Cinderella's, you will not be surprised at our disaster; the heel snapped, and here we are, with a sprained ancle! The husband, rather than the lover, appeared in this observation; and my idea was confirmed; for the pretty creature, rubbing the ancle with a hand which did not disgrace it, displayed a wedding ring; and with assumed gaiety, said, "The accident was nothing, she was certain the sprain was trifling; the pain was already subsiding, it was only numbed. If the gentleman would only have the goodness to call as he passed the Convent, and send forward the beasts, all would be well." The gentleman, as in duty bound, assisted her in mounting his own; and with the utmost caution, we proceeded down to the village. Having safely gained the more easy road, our timid charge unaffectedly thanked me for my goodness; and in reply to her companion's raillery on being such a coward, she remarked the superiority of the beast she was on, to the wretched animal they had lent her at the hotel; adding, that the satisfaction of leaving him feeding, was one motive for her preferring to walk. "I might have guessed as much," replied her companion; "but after all, my dear Margaret, you have been more charitable than fortunate. You should have kept your glass slipper for more level ground: it will be long enough before you see again a spot like this, or find a mountain to ascend."—"That may be," answered she with cheerfulness, "but I shall have time to rest on ship-board." This observation led to my being informed that she was going with her brother to Jamaica, where her husband was expecting her. "It will be a long and a tedious time before we shall meet," added she with tenderness: "and when I think of the many hours of expectation!"——"Never fear!" cried the brother, "you are a good sailor, Margaret, and with fair winds we shall go quicker than we do at present."—"God grant us them!" replied she with emotion.

We reached the hotel, and I took my leave of the strangers. The following morning on passing it, civility prompted me to enquire after the sprained ancle. The brother gave me a favourable account of the accident, adding, that Mrs. Flint, his sister, would be happy to see me again; and instantly leading the way to the next room, introduced me to his sister, and another lady whom I recollected as being the wife of a merchant resident in Lisbon. The name of Flint had visibly discomposed me; and for some moments I had only to listen to the reiterated acknowledgments of the delicate Mrs. Flint. She was still at the breakfast-table, and with the most perfect contentment she told me that her friend had not only enjoined her the penance of remaining in her bed longer, by some hours, than was her custom, but had doomed her to the sofa for the whole day; and with a sweet and amiable frankness of manner she reminded me of my little services; intreating me to assist her again, and by dining with them to make her peace with her brother, who had threatened to reduce her to a pigmy-height by obliging her to wear flat-heeled shoes. I bowed my acceptance of this invitation. The island of Jamaica and the appellation of "Mrs. Flint" had rivetted me to my seat. At length I summoned up resolution to ask her, whether she was connected with the Flints of Tarefield-hall. She coloured deeply; and the brother, without hesitation, answered, that his sister was the wife of Mr. Philip Flint, the youngest son in the family. "Then you know Miss Cowley," said I trembling with agitation, "you know she is at Tarefield with Lady Maclairn?"—"Margaret knows little of her husband's family," answered he, "having always resided in Scotland." I was silenced, and a certain air of embarrassment was dispelled from Mrs. Flint's countenance by the lady's asking her brother, whether it was still his intention to leave Lisbon on the Saturday. He replied in the affirmative, allowing for winds and tides; then turning to me, he asked me to take a ramble in the gardens of Penah Verde. I complied; but on sallying out we found the potent rays of the mid-day sun inconvenient; and allured by a fountain within two hundred paces of the hotel, we took our seats by it, under the umbrageous shelter of the cork and elm-trees.

I immediately began the conversation by apologizing for the warmth and earnestness of my interrogations relative to Tarefield; and proceeded to inform him of so much of Miss Cowley's history as was needful, in order to account for the interest I had discovered in relation to her. In the course of my little narrative, I spoke of Mr. Flamall, as having by his authority removed his ward from friends devoted to her, and to whom she was attached; and I added that, having learned from you the repugnance with which Miss Cowley had quitted her wonted asylum, I wish to know, that, with Lady Maclairn, her situation had been such as she merited. "We know none of Philip's connections," answered he, carelessly lading the limpid water with a brass bason attached by a chain to the fountain; "but if Philip's mother resembles him, she must be worthy of the guest you have described; for he is a good and an honest man. For the rest of his relations, to give you my honest opinion of them, I do not believe they would give this cup of water towards the happiness of any one. As for his precious uncle Flamall, he is a complete scoundrel."—"Then you know him!" observed I, eagerly. "Yes, yes," answered he, with warmth, "I know him, and I trust he will know Sinclair before many months elapse. He will not be the first rascal this arm has chastised!"—"Would to God," cried I, "that mine could second you!" He smiled and observed, "He would recollect my wish, and that it should strengthen his own." I now, my dear Lucy, more explicitly detailed to him Miss Cowley's connection with this villain: and if my own wretched anxieties appeared, I could not help it. He listened to me with the deepest attention, and grasping my hand, swore a solemn oath, to search to the bottom of a business so perfectly consonant to the man's character and conduct. "Hear my story, Mr. Hardcastle, and then judge whether your Miss Cowley's cause can be in better hands," added he, in an impressive tone. "I do not believe she would need a defender whilst an honest man can be found; but to me she shall be another sister, and with Margaret's injuries will I remember Miss Cowley's! My situation in life," continued he, "separated me from my mother soon after she became a widow; a maternal uncle, who lives at Boston in America, having destined me to the same pursuits in life, from which he had risen to respectable opulence. I had quitted my father's study, who was a minister of the kirk of Scotland, some time before his decease; and under the favour of my good uncle had then risen nearly to my present station, to wit, commander of one of his ships, instead of one of my own, which is at present in this port. I was fortunately not too remote from my father for his last blessing and embrace. I had also the consolation to find, that my uncle was disposed to render my mother and sister comfortable; an attention peculiarly necessary in the low condition of my father's finances. I am eight or nine years older than Margaret, and, both in principles and affection, disposed to perform the relative duties of a father and a brother. Such were my sentiments when I left her, after the events which I have mentioned, to return to America. During an absence of three years from my native home, I heard with contentment of my mother's tranquillity, and of the improvement of the poor little girl you have seen. She was, Mr. Hardcastle, my delight and pride from her cradle; and I knew that in my mother's care, her innocence was secure. This spring I had an opportunity I had long desired; and I failed not to avail myself of it to visit my mother. I was so pressed for time, and urged by impatience, that I arrived unexpectedly; and with some surprise I found that my mother had given up her house in Edinburgh, and lived near it, at a small village indicated to me. On reaching her abode, the cause of her removal was apparent in the emaciated form which poor Margaret exhibited. I was told she had been some months declining in health; and that country air had been judged more favourable to her, than that of the town. We are no adepts at hypocrisy. My mother's agitations betrayed her. On my asking whether any love disappointment had laid the foundation of the illness, she burst into tears; and unable to contain the secret, told me the sorrows of her aching heart.

"My sister had for a playmate and friend an amiable girl, somewhat older than herself, of the name of Montrose. They were near neighbours, and their parents were in the habits of familiar and friendly intercourse. On the death of Mr. Montrose, his widow, unwilling to give up her house, received, but with extreme circumspection, boarders. Philip Flint was recommended to her by her usual adviser, an old friend of her husband and a professor in the college. The young man was particularly committed to his care, and as peculiarly formed for the suitable inmate of a house remarkably sober and well regulated. Young Montrose was a pupil of the same gentleman, and had already distinguished himself for talents and application. I will abridge my romance, by telling you at once the result of his love advances to Margaret. Their measures were wonderfully prudent, when you take into the account the age of the lovers, who could only reckon eight or nine and thirty years between them; and those of their faithful and zealous confidants, who, in their calculation might have a right to four or five more. With the assistance of Montrose, they were married, and with the consummate prudence of an old civilian this young man saw, that the marriage was duly and legally valid, according to the laws of Scotland, his friend being anxiously solicitous on this point; pleading his dread of his despotical uncle, and the influence he maintained over every branch of his family. A few short weeks of perfect happiness were the prelude to Margaret's cares. The fond husband took all the blame on himself like an honest fellow; and at my mother's feet made a confession which subdued her; for it finished by imploring her pity and consideration of his wife's condition; urging her to permit the marriage ceremony to be renewed in her presence, if she were dissatisfied with the proofs which her daughter could produce of the legality of those vows which had united them. 'My own marriage was not more binding,' added my dear mother, 'and what could I do, Henry?' 'Exactly that which you have done,' answered I. 'Proceed.' 'Nothing could be more amiable than his conduct was to Margaret and myself,' continued my mother, 'nor more prudent. He explained his situation to us over and over again: said he was certain he should have a friend in his mother, and that his sister Lucretia would make him independent the day he was of age; for that she hated to see him controuled by a man so tyrannical as Mr. Flamall.' A letter from this sister, broke in upon our comforts: it was affectionate and tender in the extreme; it contained bank notes to the amount of a hundred and twenty pounds, and a letter from Mr. Oliver Flint, his eldest brother, with an invitation to come over to him to Jamaica. My mother then mentioned Philip's being a posthumous child, with those particulars which you know relative to his father's second marriage, and extraordinary will, continued Mr. Sinclair, which particulars I pass over. Miss Flint urged him, in this letter, to avail himself of his brother's good intentions. 'You will,' added she, 'by this means shake off the yoke, which now oppresses you more than it serves you. You will soon be independent of your mother's family; and I think you ought to lose no time. The bills enclosed are for your use. Say nothing of them to your uncle. You may have incurred some little debts, which although not disgraceful to a young man, he will call profusion, and tease me, and torment you for months with lectures, should they be brought to his accounts. For once in his life, at least, during the term of years, he has concurred in your mother's and my opinion relative to you. Lose no time in coming hither. We must enjoy your society a little while before you commence your voyage. Your absence has already been tedious to your affectionate—Lucretia Flint.'

"In a postscript she again added her caution: respecting the bills informing him that she had got the start of his uncle by a post or two, who was then writing to his father! 'The doctor,' adds Miss Flint, 'is to settle every thing of a pecuniary sort, and to supply you with cash for your journey. I have insisted on your not travelling in the stage-coach; you will therefore on your part be prepared for his intentions on this point.'

"'This letter,' continued my mother, 'occasioned all the distress that it was calculated to produce on the mind of your sister. Her husband consoled her with sanguine hopes, arising from his prospects in this cruel separation. His brother Oliver was very rich, had buried all his children, and had promised to provide amply for him, on condition he paid him a visit. He would be a mediator he stood in need of with his uncle; and his sister Lucretia's letter was brought forwards in proof of her affection. He also exulted in his prudence. 'I have not,' said he, 'a single debt that I fear leaving to my tutor's examination. My wife will have a little supply, and Providence has rendered my best friend useful to my first of earthly blessings.' He quitted us, leaving his sister's remittance with his wife. His letters from the hall and till he embarked were cordials to Margaret. In his last from London, was inclosed another bill of a hundred pounds, and in this he suggested the expediency of our retiring into the country. We had already determined on so doing. Your sister advanced in her pregnancy, and concealment was becoming daily necessary. From this time we have not heard from Mr. Flint. During the course of these events,' pursued my mother, 'poor Mrs. Montrose was suddenly removed by an apoplectic fit. Her family was broken up. Charles went to the south; and Miss Montrose took a situation as governess in a family at Leith. I shall only say,' continued she weeping, 'that during these trials Fanny Montrose was our consolation. She also is removed from us! A Mr. Lindsey, the head clerk in Mr. Maclin's office, married her; and they removed to London, with advantageous views of his going abroad as supercargo to the West Indies in a ship of Mr. Maclin's. Poor Margaret, who had not recovered from her lying-in, and the shock of losing her little boy, whom grief had prepared for a speedy grave, sunk under the loss of her affectionate Fanny, and the doubts which distracted her: she will soon quit this world of sorrow!'

"It is needless to mention to you, Mr. Hardcastle," added Sinclair, "the inducements I had for suppressing those resolutions from appearing, which, as a man, and as the guardian and only prop of an injured sister, it became me to adopt. To comfort and to sooth was my business whilst I remained with her; and her spirits relieved from the oppressive secret with me, became more composed. In the third week of the four which I was permitted to be absent from my vessel, then undergoing some necessary repairs, we were one morning surprised into a state of more imminent danger to Margaret's life than any she had hitherto sustained. A double letter was delivered to my mother by the servant-maid, in my sister's presence. She saw the address, and uttering a faint scream, instantly fainted. The contents of Philip's letter will better please you, than a description of the alarm which it produced," added Sinclair smiling. "To my mother he recommends the utmost caution in the delivery of the one enclosed 'to his beloved wife, to his long lost and only blessing.' To Margaret he writes with incoherent joy. His brother Oliver was stiled 'his saving angel,' 'his more than father:' 'Providence in rescuing him from the blackest treachery, had in its mercy, he confidently trusted, preserved her. She could not, it was not possible that she could have believed him a faithless villain, unless the same wickedness which had been employed to destroy him, had reached her.' This letter concluded with ample instructions, to repair immediately to London; where his brother's agent would receive her, and provide for her immediate passage to him. An unlimited credit on this gentleman, with a draft for two hundred pounds on a banker at Edinburgh, were inclosed, with a positive injunction written by the good old man, to take care of herself as well as of the dear infant: to bring with her a female servant, qualified to be useful to her, as well as the nurse; and to be heedful about fashions, he having promised some of the girls, who had been unsuccessfully employed in setting their caps at Philip, the pattern of the one which had gained his heart. Poor Margaret on reading this passage forgot for a time her joy; but the hurry of the moment and my presence, checked her useless lamentations. My duty was prescribed. I was resolved never to lose sight of her till she was in her husband's arms. When in London I made some inquiries respecting this Flamall. From what I could collect from Margaret relative to her husband's opinion of this worthy uncle, I made no doubt of his having been the cause of all the mischief. The character he bears in London justifies me in this suspicion; for I was informed, that he had the talents of a swindler, and the impudence to face any danger but the frown of an honest man. I shall put this to the test whenever we meet."—"You would do much, better," observed I, "to turn him over to those as well disposed as yourself to rid the world of a rascal; and who have not your impediments in their way. Remember that your sister's worthy husband is his nephew; and beware of breaking into the happiness which now invites her to Jamaica."—"We shall see," answered he rising, "much will depend on my knowing the particulars of this story. I am no Drawcansir; but by G-d he shall find me a Sinclair!"—We returned to the ladies; and after dining with my new friends, and drinking to the health of Philip Flint, with the utmost sincerity of heart, I escaped from Sinclair's toasts of Miss Cowley, with a head still sufficiently cool to detail my adventure to his lordship. He has done what he never fails to do; he has entered with the most lively interest into my concerns. Sinclair has letters from him to the governor of Jamaica and some others of his father's connections. He dined with Mrs. Flint; and was charmed by her sweet and modest manners. She is one of the prettiest women I ever saw. The perfect symmetry of her form and features is wonderful! and with an expression of innocent vivacity and an infantile simplicity, she appears the beautiful school-girl, rather than the wife. She wants not solidity; for with some address she entered on the subject of her past troubles; and with a direct application to mine, bade me never despair, for that virtue would always attain its recompence. "You will have friends in Jamaica," added she affectionately, "who, in their own happiness, will not forget yours nor Miss Cowley's interest. Be assured of this, and contrive to inform the young lady that my husband will vigilantly watch his uncle. Philip is, Mr. Hardcastle, the most amiable and worthy of the human race! I was always convinced that he could not desert me; and I am certain he will serve Miss Cowley if he can."

I have seen my friends depart from this port. The ship sailed on Sunday evening. Sinclair will write to me immediately on reaching Jamaica.—My father will expect to hear something of my health and pursuits. I have no inducements to wish the former of these articles better than it is: the latter are such as will not disgrace him or myself. To any nearer inquiry I cannot reply to his satisfaction, without deviating from that sincerity and truth, which he has taught me to respect even with more veneration than himself. I wish I were able to deceive myself in regard to my dear friend Lord William. Alas, Lucy, he must die! Nothing can save him from the ravages of the cruel though insidious destroyer. He knows this; and it is his concealed wish to die any where rather than at home. "My absence," said he to me the other evening, "has prepared my mother for the more final separation. She will not see my last struggle, nor hear my last sigh. Her home will not be a perpetual remembrance of my funeral obsequies. I will winter at the Madeiras, Hardcastle, in order to be more remote from her." Poor fellow! amiable as thou art, what can lessen the sorrow which thou art doomed to inflict, long before that period, on all who know thee? I think he cannot live two months!

Yours, affectionately, Horace Hardcastle.

Here also is found a break of a few weeks in the correspondence between the friends. Letters, however, regularly passed from and to Lisbon, and the animated Miss Cowley, with renewed health and gaiety, thus continues her correspondence to Heathcot.

FOOTNOTES:

CHAP. X.

LETTER XXVII.

Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle.

December the 29th.

I Shall leave to Alice's descriptive powers Mrs. Wilson's triumph on Christmas-day. With all her mild and sympathizing qualities she would nevertheless have been an object of terror, had a poor Hindoo heard her tale of the slaughtered poultry, and her secret of making them fat and fair. Such is opinion, Lucy! But leaving this disquisition to wiser heads than my own, and honestly confessing myself implicated in the crime of conniving at the shedding of innocent blood, I will proceed to inform you that I am deserted for a plum-cake, which will not be eaten till Twelfth-day at Durham, and which Mrs. Heartley and her train annually assist to cut up. I am, however, proof against all discontents. The Bay of Biscay continues open notwithstanding a Dutchman with skaits might go from hence to you in a strait line, in an hour or two. The weather has been celestial here during the frost. It gives to me aerial lightness, and I defy the intense coldness of the atmosphere. Wisely, however, reflecting that I had not the sylph's wing, I attired myself in my habit yesterday morning, and with my snow-shoes and India-shawl, I scudded away to the village, in order to see dame Dobs's fire-side. A bright sun, and the wind at my heels, sent me forward with a blithsome heart. I found her hearth blazing, and the good old woman so cottoned up with Mary's comforts, that even the rheumatism is kept in check. She was quite amazed how I could "brave such deadly cold weather; and yet I looked like a full-blown rose, and so cheerful! But that did not amaze her, for in warming other people's hearts my own would always be gay." On leaving her cottage the whim took me to visit some friends of my own; and cheered by a few benedictions, and as many welcomes, I resolved to return home, by taking the circuit of the mill. Now, knowing that the finest description of a frost-piece that the most poetical imagination ever composed, would not please Mary, at least so well as one of my long stories, I will spare myself the disgrace of being censured as the dullest of mortals in this art; and the shame of feeling, that this is probably one reason for my yawning over descriptive subjects, except with a crayon at my fingers' ends. But we have all our several gifts; holding forth is, unquestionably, mine, and I will begin my story by an exordium for Mary's edification. My text is drawn from my recollection of one of Quarles's emblems. You may, if your less retentive memory need it, still borrow the book from Deborah; and with the pictures recall the days when the restless Rachel stood for hours quietly listening to her expounding histories of them. One of these ingenious devices, if I be not mistaken, exhibits a youth borne on the wing of Hope, Fancy, and Desire, to an elevation remote from his safe abode. Careless of the approaching storm he still advances in his heedless career, till nature, exhausted, prompts him to pause. He does so, and with terror and amasement beholds the blackened sky, and hears the threatening thunder roll over his defenceless head. Now for the application. Thus did your heedless friend press on, although the friendly sun, from time to time warned her, by his retiring brightness, that he had something else to do besides gladdening her path. At length I took the alarm, and on looking towards his late refulgent road, saw him covered with a black curtain, which, from time to time, he put aside, to see whether the heedless wanderer had wisdom and was seeking a refuge. I had the wisdom to speed as fast as I could to the miller's house, which was the nearest; but, like my emblem, I had not learned to know, that sailing with a fair wind, and an adverse one, made some difference in the course of the ship. I had now a north-easter in my teeth; and as if in return for my temerity, he rattled with his rude blast a shower of hailstones about my ears, which, though they did not subdue my courage, greatly discomfited me. The gracious luminary once more peeped through his veil and smiled on me. I had gained the last field between me and my retreat when I took advantage of the hedge in order to adjust my shawl more about my face, which smarted with the keen blasts, and to recover my panting breath for renewed buffettings. At this providential moment I heard a child, concealed from my view by some hurdles, crying most lamentably, and repeatedly saying, "Get up, Johnny! pray get up! let us go home! I will go without you!" I removed the hurdle, and perceived the mourner in the hollow path. He was a stout boy of about nine years old, and was endeavouring to raise from the ground one of about seven, who appeared insensible. The danger was apparent; I flew to the children. "Where is your home?" asked I. "At the mill," answered the shivering boy. "Pray wake brother Johnny, he does not mind me; and my granny will scold me if leave him, because I took him out without leave." Unmindful of this petition, with the sturdy boy's help, I wrapped the torpid child in my shawl, which, as you know, is of the largest size, and I hastened to the house, with the offending and terrified culprit. He complained that he was weary and must rest; whilst I, with an air of authority, dragged him on till I became nearly exhausted myself, though remote from his danger; for I did not even feel it was cold, so great was my terror respecting the poor child I had left behind me, and the dread of seeing the one with me refuse to advance; for he hung back from time to time, saying that I hurt him, that he would sit down a while, and bade me go on without him.

From this terrible dilemma I was relieved by meeting with a servant of the house, who was looking for the vagrants. He called to another, and I was soon relieved from my burden, who had conquered me, and had composedly laid down on the ground. I followed the person who bore the child in his arms to the house, and the other man went forwards to the succour of the poor abandoned boy.

A neat and genteel-looking woman met us in the yard, whom, from her terror and grief, I supposed to be their mother. I tried to allay her fears, but finding that was not possible, contented myself with supplying her duty. She carried the boy to the kitchen fire, and, weeping bitterly, began to chafe his hands. My authoritative voice was at length heard, and in spite of his outcries he was put to bed in the blankets. Happily the village farrier was present, and supported me in my opinion. He said he had read some published cases of the Humane Society, and that he would answer for the other child if they would trust to him. The child appeared, and my shawl having been useful, he was judged to be in no danger by the doctor, who began his operations by rubbing him with snow. The children being considered as safe, I was next thought of. With many excuses the young woman led me through a large brick-floored parlour to a neat staircase, which conducted us to a very pretty snug room, in which was quietly seated an old lady knitting; and who had, as it appeared, escaped the general horror of the family in the kitchen, by being somewhat deaf and lame. She looked surprised by my intrusion, but instantly enquired whether the children were returned. The daughter, with more self-command than I expected, replied in the affirmative, adding that I had been so good as to lead them home. Her face betrayed, however, in part, the disaster, and I assured the grandmother that the danger was past and both children doing well. Her thanks for my services were followed by her "being certain I wanted some refreshment." She was not mistaken, for I was faint with hunger. Her little dinner was just ready, and she thought something warm and comfortable better for me than wine. I was entirely of the same opinion. Susan was dispatched to hasten matters below stairs; whilst with officious zeal I was placed in her own white dimity easy chair, and the hearth was replenished with fuel. The neatness of the apartment, the order which presided at the dining-table, the delicacy of my napkin, and the china in which was served a boiled fowl with vegetables and bacon, and a bread-pudding, excited in my mind a curiosity to know something more of my courteous hosts, concluding that these relics of former opulence did not belong to the miller's lady. I had no sooner obeyed the calls of my famished stomach, than I thought of my friends at the hall, and dispatched a note to Mrs. Allen, informing her simply, that, finding the air too sharp for me, I had stopped at the mill till the coach came for me. I added a verbal commission to the note, and desired that the person who was to carry it, might be cautioned to say nothing of the cause of my delay. The old lady heard more of this message than I intended. She turned pale, and with much emotion said, she was sure the truth had been kept from her: she would see her children, and if they could not come to her she would be carried to them. A more particular detail of the disaster followed; and her daughter assured her both her boys were in a fine perspiration, and the apothecary had no doubt but they would be fit to truant again on the morrow. The grandmother still looked incredulous. "My dear Madam," observed I, "you see their mother composed, and satisfied that the children are doing well: why should you now doubt of their safety?"—"Poor creature," replied she, "she has with myself to thank God's providence and you, for their preservation. She would have lost her senses had they perished, though she is not their mother; but these poor babes have no parents, nor any friends to love them but ourselves." She wept. "However," added she, "their aunt is father and mother to them." Susan mentioned as a sort of apology for her carelessness, that the eldest boy had persuaded Johnny to leave the mill-chamber where they were playing, to go and slide with some boys of the parish. It appeared that he enjoyed for some time his pastime with these children; but Johnny cried, and complained of the cold, and his chilblains, and said he would go home. Frank, his brother, soothed him from time to time, bidding him sit down on his coat, which the vigorous boy gave him. The hailstones sent the boys to their cottages which were at hand, and the truants began their walk, till Johnny would rest, saying he was sleepy, and would "stay a bit where he was."—"You know the sequel," added the grateful Susan addressing her mother, "and what we owe to this young lady."—"Would it be credited," observed the good woman, with visible thankfulness to Heaven, "that a creature so delicate and seemingly feeble, should have been the chosen instrument of a work of such mercy! But he who destined her for the work, will recompense her! Thousands more equal to the trial of strength would have turned aside!"—"I cannot think so," returned I. "Ah, my dear young lady!" answered she mournfully, "I have lived to see that what was every one's business was no one's business. Their poor grandfather might have been saved, had there been one with a heart like yours, amongst fifty, who saw him sink." To divert her from the silence which ensued, I praised her abode, observing that I could not have supposed the house so commodious from the road. "Why, in fact," replied she, "this wing can hardly be said to belong to the miller's house. It is quite separate, except by the back stairs you came up. In summer we enter by the garden, which is our own, we have our little kitchen and parlour below stairs, and four chambers. This wing was built for her own use, by the friend who left us the estate, and is not included in the lease of the farm. I also kept it for my own use. But my good tenants," added she, "not contented with having us for their next door neighbours a part of every summer, persuaded us to pass our Christmas holidays here; and what with the severe cold, and the rheumatism in my hip, they are likely to have me on their own hands some time; for Susan must mind her business, and the boys will be safer at school than here; for Frank is the copy of his dear father, always in harm's way, with the spirit of a lion, and the heart of a dove!" She wiped her eyes again, and knitted with astonishing quickness. "What business does your daughter follow?" asked I. "She was a milliner and mantua-maker; had a shop at Bishops-Auckland; clear-starched and mended lace; nothing came amiss to her hand; for she was industry itself, and the best of daughters."—"You have been fortunate," observed I, smiling, "in keeping to yourself this comfort: she is a very pretty woman."—"She was pretty at twenty," answered she, "but more than fifteen years may be added to that reckoning; and the troubles we have had have greatly changed her. She had once in her cheeks a colour like a rose; but like yours, my dear young lady, it could not stand all attacks. But you are not so pale as you were an hour since; I hope you feel warm. How you contrived to keep yourself from perishing is astonishing. I wonder how you kept your feet, or had courage to face such an air." She stirred the cheerful fire, and begged me to draw my chair closer to it. I smilingly told her that she gave me credit for more courage than I had, for that on sallying out I had turned my back on the enemy, forgetting that he would not turn his on me on my return home. But he shall not intimidate me, added I; "for I will come again and see you, in spite even of hail storms. She looked pleased, and said the sight of me would do her good as long as she lived.'You look healthy,' observed I.—'Pretty well for my years,' replied she,'but within sight of four-score one must expect infirmities. Thank God, I have not outlived my memory, and that reminds me of him, who from the hour I was an infant at my mother's breast, has watched over me, and whose arm of mercy will support me to my grave. Here is another instance of his loving kindness to those who lean on him!'—She renewed her tears. Susan now entered to say that the carriage was in sight, and I instantly took my leave of the good woman, whose spirits did not appear quite composed enough to receive more guests; and as I perceived Mrs. Allen and Sir Murdock in the coach, I tripped down stairs to them. My ruddy face and gay air, somewhat surprised them; for notwithstanding my prohibition and the fidelity of my messenger, the story had reached them; the farrier having related his share of the miracle in the stables at the hall whilst doctoring his patients there. The frost-bitten Miss Cowley was received with greetings and endearments which might have warmed her had she been congealed; and during the first enthusiasm of humanity, no one thought of chiding her for her folly in leaving a warm covert for a freezing walk. But, alas! who is perfect? Mrs. Allen, even our Mrs. Allen is mortal. Before night her philanthropy cooled. My colour offended her: I was, (she insisted it should be so,) feverish: and she gave the most solid reasons in the world for the partinacity of her opinion: 'it was impossible I should be otherwise.' As my stiff joints and aching head were rather too stubborn evidences in her favour; and, being moreover too sleepy for a debate, I passively suffered her to make me up like a bale of flannel; and drinking with docility a treacle posset, to her great contentment I fell asleep; when, lo and behold! the fever had disappeared, and I had lost eight hours of my existence; for not a dream had found access to my fancy in all those dormant hours. The dear and too tender Allen is now only anxious for my complexion. Peeling lips are however within her diploma: and with a face more crimsoned than my own, she has now brought me some lip-salve. Who can help loving her? I am sometimes afraid I shall love her too much. She wishes me not to write any longer. The second dose of treacle posset is preparing, and my flannels are at the fire. I never felt more comfortable in my life; but no matter, she is gratified. Good night. The frost could not find the heart of your R. Cowley; that was in another latitude secure from its influence."

Dec. 30th.

P.S. I would not seal my letter last night, lest I should have boasted too soon of my triumph over the northern blasts; but this morning finding even my complexion not the worse for its malice, I no longer hesitate to say, that Eolus resembles his stern-faced sister Adversity, only oppose each in their own way: he may be fearlessly encountered, and she softened down to a friendly aspect. Activity and firmness are the only guards against both. With this armour within and without, we shall neither shrink from the storm of the elements, nor faint at the visitation of the angel who is sent to purify our hearts with an efficacy not less salutary than that agent of mercy, which directs the whirlwinds in their desolating career to sweep away plagues, pestilence, and death, from the air we breathe. I have just now made my dear Mrs. Allen look grave. I had forgotten my wrappers this morning, in crossing the passage to Lady Maclairn's apartment. She appealed to Lady Maclairn, and again, it was "impossible" my blood could be in a state to resist cold. I had just finished my last moral inference, and I could not at once be made to tremble at the tempered breeze of a covered passage. I argued in favour of my own theory; she maintained that I had more confidence in my strength than was prudent. "Alas!" replied I, "how many wretches, more feeble than myself, bide the pelting of the pitiless storm!"

"Poor naked wretches, with houseless heads and unfed sides who protects them from cold, my dear friend?" "Who indeed!" replied she, with the glow of pity we have so often remarked, "who but that Being whose providential care is with many a subject of speculation, with some a doubt, and with multitudes neither remembered nor acknowledged."

Do you know I begin to suspect that Mrs. Allen has taken an unfair advantage of me; for seeing since the arrival of the Lisbon packet that my charity is enlarged to "good will to all men," she fancies it admits of no limitation, and that Miss Flint stands a chance of coming in for a share. She has therefore trepanned me into her room so often of late under some pretence or other, that my harp is nearly stationary in her apartment; and if I am to credit Mrs. Allen, it has something of the powers of David's, and from time to time lulls into temporary repose a spirit not less perturbed than poor Saul's. I am not yet an entire convert to Mrs. Allen's creed in favour of repenting sinners, although I can pity them. I cannot exactly think with her, that they deserve our peculiar commiseration and tenderness, still adhering to the maxim of, "as you sow, so must you reap." But I am becoming more placable, and more worthy of you; and I am going to read to Miss Flint an hour or two; for to tell you the truth, I do relent when I behold her writhing with pain. The total loss of the limb she hurt, would be nothing to the exquisite pain she suffers in the means used for its cure. Mary will think this a penalty sufficiently severe for the discipline she gave to her niece, and I may as well confess, that I am of the same opinion. Heaven bless you, and remember in your prayers your

Rachel Cowley.

CHAP XI.

LETTER XXVIII.

From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle.

"Six mails due from Lisbon! and yet Rachel Cowley talks with contentment of the celestial weather!" To be sure she does, my dear Miss Hardcastle, and for the simplest reason on earth. If I be disappointed, Horace is not; and I can subsist upon his happiness, and be thankful. Besides, it is something in my favour to reflect, that the very elements can be obstinate as well as myself. You tell me, that it is begun to be suspected, that my rejection of my Jamaica pretender, with my refusal of Sir George's reiterated and generous offers, arise from some engagement of a tender kind between Horace and myself. Be so good as to inform the good people who so carefully qualify their words, that I am engaged, that I make no secret of my engagement, and that in defiance of Lady Coldstream's lecture to me at ten years old, I still love, passionately love, Horace Hardcastle, and almond biscuits. I remember perfectly the solemnity of her face when she observed that "young ladies were to love nothing passionately." It may therefore be as well to inform her, that I only love obstinately; if such it must be thought, to prefer that virtue which has rendered me virtuous. If to cherish an affection resulting from the best gifts of nature, and sanctioned by my reason and principles, be to be culpable, I am of all women most to be censured and condemned; for I glory in my shame, and rejoice at my defeat. But you will say, that even Horace Hardcastle must fall short of that elevation to which my fond imagination has raised him. You are deceived; I neither expect, nor even wish for absolute perfection in a husband. My eyes are human, too strong a light would but dazzle and confound them. But I love Horace even in his foibles; twelve years acquaintance with them have made them my own, as well as his virtues. But to be serious, tell me to whose influence was your dear mother indebted for a docility on my part which she did not even expect from the untamed rebel to all constraint. To whom am I indebted for patience, and forbearance now? What moral attainment, what acquired knowledge do I possess, that has not been encouraged by Horace's example? I never was, nor ever shall be, one of your sentimental misses who can at pleasure decorate any man with the trappings of a hero in romance. I think, if I can judge of myself, that I am ungentle by nature, and so fond of freedom, as to love but little the shackles which some so eagerly seek. I am confident however, that I have one ingredient necessary for perfect love: for I fear, and I always have feared Horace. How often has his reproving eye recalled me to obedience and submission! What has been the delight, when by my little exertions, and petty triumphs over my turbulent spirit, I have seen his face glowing with pleasure, and heard his joy expressed by his saying, "Rachel Cowley will be as gentle and amiable as my mother!" I am persuaded that Heaven has destined Horace Hardcastle to be my guide and my protector. I should faint and tire in the road of duty with a companion whose paths I had to chuse and point out. But with Horace Hardcastle I shall be safe, for he will neither loiter himself, nor permit me to relax in search of that virtue which leads to peace. I would rather live to feed monkeys and nurse cats and kittens, than to be the wife of a man no wiser than myself. Negative virtues will not satisfy me, I must be the wife of a man whose understanding and whose conduct will preserve active the emulation my mind requires. In a word, I must esteem, respect, and even fear a little the man, whom it will be my duty to obey. Now have the charity to point out to me a man better qualified to direct my mutinous spirit than your brother? You cannot. Be then perfectly indifferent to the nonsense you hear from empty heads and cold hearts. I leave such without malice to their opinions of happiness; if they be satisfied it is well. It is not my business to investigate the solidity of those principles from which their opinions originate; but whilst I feel that my own correspond with all that is worthy of a reasonable and responsible being, I will adhere to them, and laugh at the advice I know to be no better than folly in a grave dress. You will perceive I am not in one of my gentle moods. I should not have been so guarded, had I met my kind friend Lady V——. She is a simpleton. Her son behaved properly, and Rachel Cowley's rejection of his hand has neither lessened his merit, nor his consequence. Adieu my dear girl, and believe me always yours,

R. Cowley.

LETTER XXIX.

From the same to the same.

Some benevolent fairy, my dear Lucy, who presided at your birth, on finding nature had done so much for you, that her intended and usual donations would be but kindness thrown away, has graciously reserved her gifts for me, foreseeing the hard destiny to which I was subjected. Being condemned, like the sleeping beauty of the wood, to a hundred years nap, it is presumable she would, had her power been equal to her benevolent wishes, have bestowed perpetual youth on me, and a face that in any night-cap would have been worthy of a lover at the expiration of my captivity. But as this effort was beyond the power of her magical wand, she has been contented with gaining permission for me to walk in my sleep, and to seek adventures for your entertainment, and my own relief from despair. But to my tale, lest you should fancy it a dream, and that, far inferior to Prince Rufus's enchanted palace, cooks, turnspits, fidlers, and beaux and belles, awakened to eat, drink, and be merry.

Finding I began to be weary of my good friend Eolus (for one may be tired of what is good, by having too much of it,) I determined, in order to vary the scene, to pay a morning visit to my new friends at the mill. "I should like," said I, "to see these boys now warmed into life by a pinch of snuff and snow water." The whole junto took the alarm. The roads were impassable; I should get my death of cold. I only laughed at their prognostics, and persisted in my intention, urging that the thaw, which has began here, had moderated the severity of the air. Lady Maclairn, always ready at an expedient, recollected that the coach-wheels wanted some repair, and her cook some corn to be ground for the fowls; and that at all events it was better for me to ride than to walk in the dirt. I readily conceded to this opinion, and, being wrapped up in pelisses and shawls, to the exact resemblance of the bag of corn, I departed. I found the little family one of those who, according to Deborah, "go as they would be met, and sit as they would be seen." Wisdom is wisdom with me, Lucy, "whether," as my darling Sancho says, "it is in a silk purse or in a sow's ear." There is nothing, in my opinion, more indicative of good sense than a habit of order. But let us go on. The old lady was giving the boys their reading-lesson when I entered, in a bible which was before them. Susan was making a muslin gown. My entrance interrupted them; and my notice of the children was followed by their being dismissed, but not before the grandmother, with unaffected anxiety, dictated to them their speech of gratitude to the dear good young lady who had saved their lives. This ceremony performed, they with glowing cheeks retired to enjoy, unconstrainedly, their existence. My observations were next directed to the beautiful muslin robe Susan was trimming with very fine edging: it was made with taste, in the Circassian stile, as the fashion has named it. "It is intended for a bride who lives in this neighbourhood," observed Susan, with a suppressed smile; "perhaps you may have seen the young lady: she rides frequently on horseback." Finding this insufficient for my information, she proceeded to tell me that it was Miss Gubbins she meant, who was going to be married to a young farmer. "Her father," added she, "knows what is to be done in that line of business by experience: he has got a good fortune by the plow." I instantly recollected having met this Miss Gubbins on her road; and the idea of her singularly short and corpulent person, in a Circassian robe, was too ludicrous for my gravity. "Dear me!" observed the old lady, who had joined in my laugh with great glee, "what would you say to many of my daughter's best customers! I am sure they divert me, though they make me stare. Young women whom I remember with a flowered-cotton short cloak, now buy what they call patent lace, and the straw or black silk bonnet is supplied by velvet, flowers, and feathers. It was only yesterday that a dairy-maid was here to get Susan to shorten the waist of her Sunday-gown, and to make it draw round the neck with a frill like the ladies'."—"My mother makes very free with my customers, Madam," observed Susan, smiling; "she forgets that those who keep a stall in vanity fair live by the folly of those who buy; and to say the truth, so do I sometimes, for it is amazing to see the money now expended by a class of people who, a few years since were in the habits of frugality. This gown, for example," added she, "is one of four I have made for Miss Gubbins; and you will laugh again when I tell you that her best dress has tassels and loops of silver." Susan folded up the robe, and made her apology for quitting me. She was going to her shop with Miss Gubbins in the gig, which was in sight, and she left us. I mentioned my intention of employing her to the good old lady, and engaged to speak to the ladies of the hall, not doubting but we should want Circassian robes with the rest of our neighbours. "You are very kind," answered Mrs. Crofts, slightly bowing, "but pray, Madam, is it true that Miss Howard is gone to London to serve in a milliner's shop?" I replied in the negative, expressing my surprise at her question. "Why to be sure," answered she, knitting with amazing rapidity, "one can hardly believe her aunt to be so unfeeling as to suffer such a young creature to be thrown into the wide world in such a way. But after what has lately happened, and what I know of Miss Flint, nothing of her cruelty would surprise me! Yet I did imagine her uncle would not permit Miss Mary to leave him for such a situation." She dropped some stitches and turned from me to repair them, wiping her eyes at the same instant. I now consoled her by briefly mentioning Mary's precise situation with you; said I would read to her a part of Miss Howard's last letter to me, and I immediately read to her Mary's account of Lucy Hardcastle's mode of treatment. "May the Almighty shower his blessings on her and hers for generations to come!" exclaimed the good woman in an extasy. "May the orphan she shelters be to her a blessing! and may her cruel aunt live to see Howard's child in no want of her protection!"—"Miss Flint has suffered much, I fear," observed I, "from the violence of her temper, and also from the misrepresentations of her conduct to you as well as to others. She is truly blamable on some points, but I am persuaded she never meant to place her niece in a situation of danger to her innocence. I think she has feeling; I am certain she is sorry for the late instance of her want of self-command."—"Ah, my dear young lady!" replied Mrs. Crofts, shaking her head, "you judge by the goodness of your nature; I have heard of Miss Cowley. My children are not the only objects of her benevolence! But I cannot think charitably of Miss Flint. The friend who left me this estate knew her better than you do. Poor soul! she suffered enough by knowing her! and I have had many a heart-ach in hearing Miss Flint's degeneracy from the angel, her mother! If I thought it would not tire you, I would tell you by what means I have gained a knowledge of the family, and a competency so far beyond my expectations; for when the first Mrs. Flint saw me, I was poor and wretched. It was the day or two after I had seen my husband a corpse, that she came to succour me. Susan was then at my breast, and I had a boy and a girl besides her to support. My poor husband," continued she, brushing away a tear, "was well known at Chelsea; he was a boatman, and always called 'honest Frank' by the gentry; for he was sober, diligent, and civil. He lost his precious life in endeavouring to save a man from drowning who was intoxicated, and could do nothing for himself. A subscription was raised for my relief. But it was Mrs. Flint who poured the oil into my wounds. She it was who raised my eyes to God, and bade me trust to the never-failing friend of the widow and the fatherless. She found I was expert at needle-work, and she furnished me with plenty of it, besides assisting me with money, for my rent and coals. I got on with comfort like this. When my daughter Jenny was fourteen, she fixed her with an old lady, a widow, with whom she went to live at Newcastle. Jane was a clever, active girl, and could read and write well. Her lady became so fond of her that she made her, as one may say, her favoured child, and when she died left her all her clothes and linen with three hundred pounds. She was too well trained to forget her mother in her prosperity; and on her marrying a farmer, to whom she had been sometime engaged, I removed, and settled at Newcastle, Jane being fixed near that town. Thus I lost sight of Mrs. Flint, and escaped, in part, the sorrow of her death, which happened soon after. But I shall never forget her! No, nor the angel who used to accompany her to see us, with her pockets filled with cakes for Frank, who was nearly of her own age. I think I now see her putting on Susan's new shoes, and exulting over her, because she could step alone! But she was formed for the heaven she is in! and surely never was there beheld so perfect a beauty! I do not think Miss Howard altogether so beautiful as her mother; for Mrs. Howard had height, and more vivacity; but if she is as good, it will be well for her that she has lived in this world of trial! Well, my dear young lady, time went on with me, sometimes sunshine, sometimes cloudy; but the widow's friend was always near me! My Susan was an apprentice to a milliner and mantua-maker. Mr. Webster, my son-in-law, grew wealthy every day; and acted by me like a child. Frank gave us some sorrow; he was discontented with living at the farm, and wished to be a sailor. I had suffered enough from water! and I could not be brought to consent. Besides, his brother loved him, and had promised to make a man of him, if he would continue to be diligent and sober; and this Frank was, to his dying-day!" She dropped a tear, and proceeded. "I had just settled myself and Susan in a well accustomed shop, when Frank secretly left us, and for a time my sorrows were renewed. At last I received a letter from him, and I found he had not forgotten his poor mother, nor his gratitude to her benefactress and his own. He was actually groom at the hall under another name, whilst I thought him exposed to the dangers of the sea. The account he gave me of Mrs. Howard's (then Miss Mary Flint) distressful situation, in her father's house, and left as it were to the mercy of the merciless, quite overpowered me. I went with Frank's letter to my daughter Webster's; and she declared, that Frank was sent by the Almighty for the purpose of delivering this innocent lamb, who had a hundred times been kind to him, and whose dear mother had saved us from ruin. So we continued, Madam, with the blessing of God, and the worthy Mr. Greenwood's assistance, to rescue Miss Mary from her cruel sister's power; and Mr. Webster, who went for her, conducted her in safety to his house, where for some days she was very ill. A month's good nursing, and our love, set her up again; and then, following Mr. Greenwood's instructions, I accompanied her to Berwick, where Mr. Howard met us. I was not surprised, when I saw the lover, at her preference of him; nor that Miss Flint should want to marry him, for he was one of the handsomest men I ever set my eyes on; but beauty was the least of Mr. Howard's advantages! You have heard how much he was respected here, Madam, and to this hour his name is reverenced. Well, my business was finished at Berwick and I witnessed a marriage, which, with all its difficulties, united two hearts and two creatures who were gazed at as being made for each other's happiness. Mr. Howard returned to Tarefield with his wife; and I neither repented then, nor have I since, of the part I had in bringing them together. Let those who blasted their comforts answer for the mischief!"—Her hands trembled, and she put aside her work to wipe away the falling tear.—"Frank, finding that he could be no farther serviceable to Miss Mary, returned home; but we soon after lost sight of him again, though with contentment. He married a very good girl, and went into partnership with her father, who was a wheelwright, and lived many miles from us. They were, however, comfortable, till a dreadful fever swept them away."—She paused.—"I had yet a child with me. Susan was my anchor of hope, and again I took heart. She refused several suitors for my sake, Madam; and her industry and good behaviour gained her many friends. To ease the rest of a house, which suited her increasing business, we let the first floor; and my son's attorney, a very worthy gentleman of the name of Lloyd, knowing it to be vacant, and that we only received one lady, recommended to us a Mrs. Barnes, a client of his, who had recently lived near London, as a suitable lodger for us; being a very quiet retired lady, and having no connections in the town but his family. Little did I suspect, when she arrived, that I was taking under my roof the wretch who had so barbarously treated Mrs. Howard! nor could I have conceived that time and repentance could have produced such a change in any one; for a more quiet and obliging woman could not be found than my lodger. She was satisfied with every thing; and we were so pleased with her, that at last we agreed to her request, that we should provide her table for her; and for which she paid so handsomely, that I was enabled to keep a maid-servant. She was, in the mean time, evidently a sickly and melancholy woman, but never, with us, a discontented one; and when, in the evening, we were with her, in her apartment, she took delight in helping Susan in her work, at which she was not less expert than herself. She never quitted her room, but to go to morning prayers, and sometimes to Mr. Lloyd's; but these visits were rare. Thus passed three years, and her increasing fondness for Susan was returned by every endeavour on our part to make her comfortable. But it was clear to us that she was a declining woman, and broken down by grief. Soon after this period, she told us one morning, as she passed through the shop, that she should go from chapel to Mr. Lloyd's, and meant to dine with him. We both remarked, when she returned, that she was more chatty than usual, and we renewed our usual exhortations, to induce her to use more exercise, and try to amuse herself: her answers were as they had always been, desponding; and we changed the subject. That very day week, she went again to the attorney's, and again we fancied that she returned home more cheerful. Some few days after she went again, telling us that we should think her a gossip; but that she should drink tea at home. We consequently waited some little time for her; but concluding her friends had detained her, were just set down, when she arrived in a sedan chair, and as we thought, in a dying condition. The people who attended her, kept a snuff-shop; and they informed me that she had been seized with a fit in the shop, whilst waiting for some snuff. You may suppose we did all that could be done; and in less than an hour, she was in bed, with a doctor and a nurse to attend her, both of whom Mrs. Lloyd sent us. I was, however, too much concerned for her, to leave her that night with a stranger. She was hurried and confused till near morning, when she slept, and awoke composed. We had soon the satisfaction of seeing her better; but her melancholy was more apparent than ever; and from that time she never left her room.—On her sending me one day to Mr. Lloyd's on business, soon after her recovery, I asked her why she would not take my arm and try to go herself, the morning being so pleasant. 'No, no!' answered she with great uneasiness, 'I will never expose myself to such another shock as I have had, I have enough on my mind without such terrors.' On my questioning her, she owned that the sight of Mr. Flamall had occasioned her fit. He entered into the snuff-shop with his nephew Mr. Philip Flint, as it appeared, and she was overpowered by seeing them. I was nearly being so, Madam, continued the good woman, when I discovered by her discourse whom I had harboured in my house; but I concealed my surprise; for I said to myself, assuredly God has created in her a new heart; and it is not for me to judge her. She wept most grievously; and from what I could gather, I thought she had been seduced by Mr. Flamall when a young woman, and had thus become subservient to Miss Flint's cruel purposes. She perceived my suspicions, and redoubling her tears, told me that I was quite wide of the mark; for that she had been always too homely for his pleasures, though not so for purposes more base and wicked than I suspected. 'But,' added she, with a look of despair, and wringing her poor hands, 'for God's sake, do not question me farther. I cannot shew the villain without bringing destruction on the heads of the innocent: and that I will never do! Besides, I cannot prove the fact. All I know for certain is, that he has ruined my poor soul!' From this time she frequently talked of the Tarefield family; and in such a way, that I persuaded her to open her mind to a clergyman; but she always said, that God would bring the truth to light in his own time; she would not be the ruin of more of her dear lady's children. She even solicited the visits of the minister notwithstanding this; but always chose that either myself or Susan should be present, and he was struck by her piety and submission. She never got the better of the surprise of meeting with Flamall. The doctor said, she died of a consumption; but I know it was of a troubled conscience, and a broken heart; although a penitent one. I was with her the last night she breathed in this world. I shall never forget her! Such a dying-bed, Madam! She raved continually of Miss Flint, of Mrs. Howard, of Mr. Flamall; then looking piteously in my face, she would ask me twenty times 'who told me the secret.' Weary with hearing her, I at length said, 'What secret?' 'The coffin! put me in! put me in, they will not find me there!' said she. Another time, she called on Mr. Philip Flint. 'Oh, do not let him hang me!' said she, struggling and tearing off the cap on her head, 'I nursed you; I was faithful to you; I loved you as the child of my own body! Poor child! you could not help it!' 'Help what!' asked I. 'That Mrs. Howard died for want of bread,' answered she. Then followed another struggle for breath. Then she knew me, and said, 'Pray for me, I am dying. All is over with me!' So, I soothed her; and she pressed my hand, and held it so fast I could not get it from her. Then she whispered so low, I could understand only these words:—'They told me it was a deed!' In this manner she continued till five o'clock in the morning. When, poor, poor soul! she sunk into her last sleep, trying to spell the word Philip; which she never could do: at nine her sufferings closed.

"You will not wonder, after this account, at my opinion of Miss Flint," continued the good woman. "I am not the only one in this neighbourhood who believes she has no more right to the wealth she enjoys than I have; though but few have my reasons for this belief. However, what I think I keep to myself, not even Susan knows what I have told you; who, like an angel, have taken care to remove from this vile woman a niece whom she hated; for the wicked can never bear the sight of those whom they have defrauded. God is just, Madam, even in this world. Let Miss Flint try to purchase, with her ill-gotten wealth, one sleep like yours, when you close your eyes, thinking of the innocent lamb you have protected! Poor wretch! poor wretch!" added she, shaking her venerable head, "I pity her. But to proceed, you may guess at our surprise, when we found that Mrs. Barnes had left to us every shilling she had; and you may judge of what passed in my mind, when I found she had signed her will that very day on which she so accidentally met Mr. Flamall and his nephew. This estate was left me only for my life. Susan had her legacy, in the furniture and clothes. The dear children are my heirs. They are orphans, Miss Cowley," added she, sinking her voice to a whisper, "poor orphans! What could I do in such a strait! But I often think of the price my poor friend gave for the means of these children's future bread. How do I know that the wages of sin will prosper even in the hands of the innocent?"—"Leave that consideration," replied I, "to the Providence which directed its uses to the innocent. Forbear to consider too minutely the retributive justice of an all-wise Being; but in this instance of his mercy to you, do not forget the conduct of your worthy son."—"You encourage me," replied she, "to trust every thing that troubles me on this subject to your better reason. I have a paper or two of poor Mrs. Barnes's that do me no good at times. I found them by chance, and even Susan knows not of them. I do not like to destroy them, lest it should be improper; and yet I should be sorry to leave them for other's finding, when I am gone. You shall see them." She turned towards a bureau at her hand, and from a private drawer produced the papers. "I found them here," said she, placing them in my hand; "put them in your pocket, and at your leisure read them. Keep them, or destroy them as you think fit. I am certain you are the friend of Miss Howard, and her worthy uncle. But as I was saying," continued she, settling herself with more composure, "this unexpected legacy and my son Webster's going to America with his family, where, according to him, they pay neither tithes nor taxes, induced us to take a good-accustomed shop at Bishop's-Auckland, which has answered very well although we pay taxes and tithes; and I shrewdly suspect my son Webster has repented selling his farm in Old England, although Jane will not own it. I have told you a long story, my dear young lady," continued she, "and I think you will no longer wonder at my thinking Miss Flint 'up to any mischief.' But may I take the liberty of asking you whether it is true that she rules Lady Maclairn with a rod of iron?" I satisfied her curiosity with discretion. "I am glad to hear she is so considerate," replied she, "for Mrs. Barnes always said she was a lamb amongst wolves. But pray, how does Miss Flint bear her brother Philip's absence so long?" I mentioned his prospects, adding, that although her spirits were much depressed from the probability of his remaining in Jamaica with his elder brother, who had declared his intention of making him his heir, yet she considered his interest as something. "God be praised!" exclaimed she, "who knows what this may do! Poor Captain Flint may, at last, have his own; and Mrs. Howard's child will be secure of comfort. I do not wish to see the proverb verified," added she, "which says,'out of sight, out of mind;' because I never heard any one speak ill of young Mr. Flint; but there is money enough to make more happy than one; and whether I am right or wrong in what I think, I must say that Captain Flint is as deserving as his young brother, and has a just title to be considered. He was his dear mother's pride, and Mrs. Howard's comfort! However, rich or poor, he will be reverenced here, and happy hereafter." The carriage appeared, the corn was ground, and your Rachel Cowley took her leave.

It were time lost to follow my train of thoughts; yours will run in the same channel. But it delights my soul, Lucy, to contemplate the proofs of a Providence visibly interfering in the cause of the virtuous. Poor Frank's children! How succoured! How relieved! But I will say no more, lest you fancy me more superstitious and presumptuous than rational, in those thoughts which at this moment occupy me. I know your ascendency, and will repress my enthusiasm, till you decide, whether I have been the appointed instrument of a deserving power, in its peculiar mercy to this family; and whether, my strong affection for Mary Howard does not originate from the same efficient cause of all good. Be this as it may, I am grateful to my Maker for the pleasure he has annexed to my duty; and for a heart, which knows no gratification, that equals the sense of living to perform his will. And in what does this consist, Lucy, if not, in loving our neighbour as ourselves, and our Maker supremely. God bless you, my friend; I am oppressed, but not depressed by the reflexions of the present hour. But you know your own

Rachel Cowley.

Papers found by Mrs. Crofts, copied and sent to Miss Hardcastle by her friend Rachel Cowley.

"Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence? If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there. If I make my bed in hell, behold thou art there also. If I say, surely the darkness shall cover me; even then the night shall be light about me!"

"Will no suffering for sin be accepted, no expiation admitted, but that which would, with my ruin in this world, bring down destruction on the innocent? Thou must suffer, my soul, the penalty of thy transgressions; it would be to multiply them to declare them. No, I will be silent. God knoweth all things. In his own time that 'which is done in secret, shall be proclaimed on the house tops.' Then, and then only, will it appear that I was tempted beyond my strength, nay, even deceived! But let me pause, and curse the love of gold that made me an easy prey!"

"I was told I should be well here, that repose from labour was all I wanted. I was dismissed with kindness, and loaded with the bounty of my lady! But she could not give me what she has not, peace of mind. Yet, she can sleep! She has not dreams like mine! She can laugh at my sufferings, and tell me, that they are fancies, and proceed from fever. Was it fever that suddenly rushed into my views at the sight of Mrs. Howard's coffin? I knew for weeks that she was in a dying condition, and yet I could then sleep. Was it fever that conveyed to my astounded ears the voice of the accusing angel, whilst Mr. Flint was speaking to his sister? She could stand the shock: I was obliged to leave the room, benumbed with horror, and the weight of the whole earth resting on me! Oh! had I died then, what miseries should I have been spared!"

"I was brought up by good and pious parents. When poor and friendless, sick and an orphan, the first Mrs. Flint sheltered me. She gave me good wages, as well as kindness and consideration; told me, that the small-pox, though it had injured my face, had not lessened my good qualities or my good character; and as a proof of her opinion of my prudence, I should be the young lady's-maid. And what was my return for her humanity, her confidence, her unexampled sweetness of temper? Oh conscience, conscience, bitter are thy recollections! sharp are thy wounds!"

"I was doomed to be the author of evil to my benefactors! God abandoned me to my wicked lust of money; the object of my senseless worship! What scenes of misery, of ruin, of treachery, and imposition have been aided by me!"

"I mean to pass over the period which passed after poor Mrs. Flint married Sir Murdock Maclairn. Tarefield-hall was no less fatal to her tranquillity, than to mine. But she was the victim of usurped power; I was the willing captive of sin. I still, however, bore up against conscience. I had laid out my ill-gotten gains in the purchase of this mill and land; and Mr. Flamall advised me to rebuild, instead of repairing the south end of the house, saying I should have a nest for my old age, and be always near my good mistress. This object, for a time, filled my thoughts. It was finished, and Miss Flint's great pleasure seemed to render it comfortable. She observed, that my health declined, and with great kindness listened to my plan of quitting her service.

"I was rejoiced at this relief. In the evening my lady sent me a hamper with wine and other articles of comfort; and a box containing household linen, with a kind note. I was weary with my day's exertions, and requested the miller's wife to place the trunk of linen in my bed-room; she did so; and supported it on two chairs, in order to elevate it for my ease, when I unpacked it. I soon repaired to my bed; a glass of wine had raised my spirits. Whilst undressing myself, I felt a ray of comfort. I was my own mistress; I had a competency; and by riding a double horse, and managing myself with care, my health might return. The good woman who attended me, encouraged these hopes, and left me to enjoy them. But they were fleeting to a mind diseased like mine! Some part of my gown by chance hung over the trunk, which was in my view from the bed. The moon threw its light on the object; and my imagination gave to it the shape and appearance of a coffin. Mrs. Howard rushed into my mind, and the usual train of thought succeeded. Feverish and sleepless, I counted the hours as they passed, till four in the morning, when nature sunk to unquiet repose. I dreamed that I was with my old master, that he was struggling with me, to prevent my looking into the coffin, telling me that it was his, not Mrs. Howard's. My force prevailed, I opened it; and saw only an infant in it, whom I took to my bosom, for it was cold and naked; it uttered a piercing cry, and fell into dust. I awoke: a faint sweat bedewed my whole frame, and an oppression on my chest was for some minutes insupportable. Yet my eyelids were heavy, and again I dosed. I was now, in imagination, closed up in Mrs. Howard's coffin, and striving to put aside her mouldering bones, when a voice bade me repent and live. To this appalling admonition succeeded new terrors. I thought I was flying from my habitation, which was falling, from the convulsion of the ground, in a dreadful earthquake. I sought the hall; it was levelled to the dust. Mrs. Howard, like an angel bright in glory, stood before it. She turned towards me, and said, 'Behold! and tremble!' I started at the loudness of her voice, and the severity of her countenance. The bed trembled under me with my agitations. I dreaded to slumber again. The morning sun rose bright; all nature smiled; the birds raised to heaven their hymn of joy. I sunk on my knees: I endeavoured to send up a petition to infinite Mercy. My lips were closed and parched: my tongue heart was dumb. I wept bitterly; for my mind was contrite, and my soul was humbled before an offended God. Surely these tears reached the throne of grace! for kneeling as I was, with my bursting head supported by the bed, I slept peaceably till I heard the family moving below stairs."