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the next room, has had the power to arrest its fight; her voice has penetrated through the darkness of the night, and kept my languid pulse still beating."
A voice now issued from the apartment; for the partition was so thin, and its apertures so numerous, that every word was distinctly heard. "Whoever you are," said the voice, “come and receive my sad tale, while I have breath to utter'it; in a few moments my lips will close for ever.”
This was articulated in a tone so faint, that there could be no doubt that the person who uttered it was indeed expiring; and the two friends, in awful silence, entered her room.
A curtain prevented the fair mourner's seeing them. Sir Robert gently touched it, to inform her that they were present, and it was immediately opened. But the young Lord, who thought he had quite enough of dying faces for one morning, turned from the bed, and endeavoured to find more agreeable ones in the street, into which the solitary window looked.
The young woman found herself addressed in the softest accents; and every argument of consolation was poured forth before her.— "Alas!" said she," it is all, all too late; and the only comfort I can now taste, is the certainty that I cannot live to profit by your goodness. But, burden your memory with my woes; that if, in your journey through life, you should meet with the author of them, he may know the fate of the female who once was the arbiter of his.
“I am by birth an American; the only child of parents far advanced in life; consequently I was the blessing of their existence. My father was a planter, respected for his riches, and beloved for his goodness. How unworthy have I been of such a parent! My youth was passed beneath his eye, during which period I was instructed in all the accomplishments which add force to beauty. Of beauty, too, I had my share; and was an object of envy to some of my own sex, whose charms I could not help thinking were superior to my own.
"At the age of seventeen, my father gave me in marriage to a young gentleman of amiable manners, who loved me to distraction. I, alas! was not sensible of passion in the degree in which my husband felt it; but I loved no other man, and my innocence made me believe I felt for him all the tenderness I was capable of feeling. Oh! why was I ever awakened from the happy error!
"My father and my husband were both of the loyalists' party, and consequently the British Officers were treated in their houses with
particular attention. A few mouths after our marriage, towards the close of the war, a young soldier, who was said to be of fashion and of great fortune in Englaud, found admittance to our table. His manuers were so engaging, that after a few visits, my husband requested him to reside entirely with us. The invitation was gratefully accepted, and he became one of our family. Oh! how did the hours glide in his society! Without, all was anarchy, distress, and war; but within our walls, all was elegance, taste, and pleasure. My husband was never weary of praising his guest; and my heart, unconscious of its error, fluttered with delight at hearing those praises.
"Alas, Sir! how shall I tell the rest? By degrees that heart became sensible of its sitnation, and knew it loved, knew that it madly loved. My husband was often absent; at those times, our guest never. It cannot be expected I should enumerate all the particnlars of the seduction and guilt that followed, it is sufficient that I own I became abandoned to my lover."
Here tears and groans interrupted the dying penitent; at length, with many breaks, she continued :
"Think not that at once I became dead to honour, and to every consideration of duty! Slow, though sure, was my progress in the road to iniquity. Manifold were my self-upbraidings, numberless my resolutions, but at last the voice of duty was no longer heard, and love reigned in my heart a decided conqueror. I had retired one afternoon to a summer-house in the farthest part of the gar- · den: my lover unexpectedly appeared there. The suddenness of his approach, and the joy that accompanied my surprise, made me neglectful of every thing but him. I abandoned myself to the ardour of his caresses; and, whilst I was reclining on his bosom, encircled by his arms, my injured husband entered.
"A cry of horror was the first intimation of his presence. He viewed us without speaking, whilst we remained absolutely motionless on the spot where he first bebeld us. His first action was towards his sword; but pausing and surveying us awhile with mingled rage and grief, he uttered another cry, aud fled through ⠀⠀ the garden with incredible swiftness. This was the last moment I ever saw my husband.
"We remained long in the fatal summerhouse, not knowing what steps to take. The sense of my guilt overpowered me, and I felt that happiness was fled from me for ever.
"At length I ventured to return to the house. I asked the servants, with my eyes, what was become of their master, but with my
lips I dared not articulate his name. The servants did not seem to be conscious that any extraordinary event had happened, and all things appeared in their usual state of quiet. ⠀ Thus the night passed, and three succeeding days and nights, in all which time I heard neither of my husband nor of the man who had usurped his rights. This frightful calm was at length broken by a tempest.
"On the fourth morning, my father, my dear father, eutered my apartment, with a countenance expressive of unusual sorrow. He took my hand, however, with the utmost tenderness; and, by the softness of his tones, removed the terror which bad seized me on his appearance. He told me he had a deep atiliction to prepare me for; and tried to fortify my mind with every argument of religion aud submission before he revealed it. In this dreadful suspense I uttered not a word, y mind was ou the rack with horrid expectation.⠀ "At length the mill-stone crushed me. He informed me that, three days before, my husband had joined the rebel army, and that he was amongst the first victims of the battle. The effect which this intelligence had on me, was little short of madness. I did not weep, but I grew furious. I called myself my hus baud's murderer, demanded justice on myself,⠀⠀ and talked of circumstances which, though true, passed on those about me as the effects of sudden frenzy: Those violent perturbations ended in a fever, from which it was my punishment to recover.
"My failing spirits," said the poor narrator, "will not permit me to continue in a regular thread; I must pass over many events to tell you that this friend prevailed ou me to accom. pang her to England. Her husband was a loyalist, mine had been one, and the rebels made this a pretext to rob me of all my posses sions too light a punishment for crimes so deep! I left America without daring to men. tion such a design to my father; I could not bear to stab him with the intelligence: and I could still less bear to remain on a spot where every object kept my dishonour and wretchedness alive: yet I wrote to him from the first port, and confessed all my criminality, with a view to make his mind yield to the propriety of my absence, and to lessen his regret for the loss of a child whom he could no longer think worthy of his love.
"With shame I acknowledge, that as my health returned, my passion revived. I now considered myself at liberty, and had no doubt but my tender, passionate lover, panted for the hour in which he could throw himself at my ⚫ feet and make amends for my sufferings by uniting himself to me. Days and weeks glided away, and he appeared not. At first I considered him as sacrificing to decorum ; but at the end of two mouths I could no longer resist enquiring of a lady who visited me, when she had seen the object of all my thoughts. She answered with great unconcern, that he had hardly been seen at all for the last month, for that he was so much attached to a lady whose husband was then in England, that he never spent an hour out of her house; that he boasted every where of his passion, and of his hap-ments, it must be under some other roof.
"On my arrival in England, my friends
piness; and had told his friends he doated on "His roof I instantly quitted, though a
her into silence. She had discernment, and
"How long my frien might have continued this interesting detail I know not, had not my suddenly falling senseless at her feet shocked
was every hour exposed to the danger of his
"Yes, thy woes are over," said the young Lord, who now turned from the window; "thy woes are over! But, oh! Caroline, where will end the anguish which now seizes my soul! Behold the author of all thy afflictions, thy husband's murderer, thy murderer, and the murderer of thy father!"
The lady started from her father's corpse, she fixed her eyes on him with the most horcible expression, and tried to speak, but death had already rendered rigid the organs of speech; his chill band was on her heart, she struggled a few moments, and then, without having uttered a sound, sunk dead on her pillow.
"Damned unfeeling wretch!" exclaimed the youth at the window, who till now seemed attentive only to what passed in the street, though the restlessness of his motions, and now and then a heavy sigh, gave friend room to suspect him of more tenderness than belonged to his character.
Pause here and behold the two friends! Both young, both equally the favourites of health and of fortune. They had arisen in the morning fresh as the sun, when through the portals of the east he first glances his golden beams. The day was before them, their actions were to be chosen. One of them passed its opening hours in indolence, in folly, in vahispidity and expence; the hour of noon beholds
The sudden force of this execration had a visible effect on the dying lady, but neither she nor the gentleman who had been listening to her melancholy tale had time to notice it; for the door directly opened, and disclosed the nurse tottering under the weight of the venerable patient whom they had first visited. With ghastful eyes he surveyed the lovely creature, already on the threshold of death. He stretched his arm towards her, uttered a deep cry, and falling on the bed expired.
him a conscious murderer, an accumulator of crimes, a wretch bowed down with the sense of his own iniquities. The other began his day like a favourite son of heaven; his heart was filled with benevolence; wherever he went his steps, like the steps of the spring, gave hope, joy, and consolation. Having feasted his mind with his own beneficence, he retires from the woes he had contributed to lessen; he is prepared to taste the pleasures which lay before him, to refine them, and to possess them with a zest of which the pallid libertine can form no idea; he is indeed an epicure, a voluptuary of the first order!--Ye sons of pleasure copy the portrait!
My father, my father!" exclaimed the lady, clasping her hands with a wild air, and bending over the corpse; "but I shall join thee, my woes are at an end!"
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF MISS SEWARD.
THE liberal attainments of this lady, and getic language. The animation of her counte her devotion to poetry, have long rendered hernance, and the brilliant lustre of her cye, gave name celebrated in the lettered world; whilst her amiable manners, hospitality, and highly cultivated conversation, caused her to be uni versally sought after, and respected. Perhaps no person ever possessed in a greater degree the colloquial power of pleasing than Miss Se-accessible to all; and no one ever parted from ward. To a minute and accurate acquaintance with the English classics, she added an inexhaustible fund of local and literary anecdote. Naturally eloquent, she communicated
a most forcible expression of feeling and intelligence to her words and actions. Conscious of her ability, she freely displayed herself in a nanner equally remote from arrogance and affectation. Her mind and information were
her dissatisfied with himself, or without the desire to renew his visit. In familiar conversation she greatly excelled; and in reading, more particularly poetry, she was uncommonly
her knowledge in the choicest, and must ener-spirited and correct. fier doors were at all
been fondly attached from her childhood, and
times open with liberal hospitality, and to
Such, divested of the fulsome praise which
tion of sterling metal. In her remarks upon
Among those persons were Mr. Day,
friends, she was fond of displaying much acute
WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD,
THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimm'ring landscapes on the sight
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight, And drowsy tiuklings lull the distaut folds; Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r, Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-trees shade, [heap, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw built shed,
The cock s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care: Nor children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield;
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their teams afield; How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke.
Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur bear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple anuals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow`r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await, alike, th' inevitable hour;
The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise. Where thro' the long-drawn isle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Continued from No. 43.]-No. XLIV.
Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forhade: nor circumscrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd,
Forbade to wade thro' slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride
With incense kiudled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life,
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet ev❜n these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.