and spent in tears. One week passed away; but Mr. Thornhill made no efforts to restrain her nuptials. The succeeding week he was still assiduous; but not more open. On the third, he discontinued his visits entirely, and instead of my daughter testifying any impatience, as I expected, she seemed to retain a pensive tranquillity, which I looked upon as resignation. For my own part, I was now sincerely pleased with thinking that my child was going to be secured in a continuance of competence and peace, and frequently applauded her resolution, in preferring happiness to osten

tation.

It was within about four days of her intended nuptials, that my little family at night were gathered round a charming fire, telling stories of the past, and laying schemes for the future: busied in forming a thousand projects, and laughing at whatever folly came uppermost. "Well, Moses," I cried I, we shall soon, my boy, have a wedding in the family: what is your opinion of matters and things in general?"

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"My opinion, father, is, that all things go on very well; and I was just now thinking, that when sister Livy is married to Farmer Williams, we shall then have the loan of his cider-press and brewing-tubs for nothing."-"That we shall, Moses," cried I, "and he will sing us 'Death and the Lady,' to raise our spirits into the bargain.' "He has taught that song to our Dick," cried Moses; "and I think he goes through it very prettily."—" Does he so?" cried I; "then let us have it: where is little Dick? let him up with it boldly." -"My brother Dick," cried Bill, my youngest, "is just gone out with sister Livy: but Mr. Williams has taught me two songs, and I'll sing them for you, papa. Which song do you choose, 'The Dying Swan,' or the Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog?"" "The elegy, child, by all means," said I; "I never heard that yet: and Deborah, my life, grief, you know, is dry; let us have a bottle of the best gooseberry wine, to keep up our spirits. I have wept so much at all sorts of elegies of late, that without an enlivening glass I am sure this will overcome me; and Sophy, love, take your guitar, and thrum in with the boy a little.

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.

Good people all, of every sort,

Give ear unto my song,

And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,

Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran,
Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,

When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,

The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wond'ring neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,

To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light,

That show'd the rogues they lied:
The man recover'd of the bite-
The dog it was that died.

A very good boy, Bill, upon my word; and an elegy that may truly be called tragical. Come, my children, here's Bill's health, and may he one day be a bishop!"

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"With all my heart," cried my wife : and if he but preaches as well as he sings, I make no doubt of him. The most of his family, by the mother's side, could sing a good song: it was a common say. ing in our country, that the family of the Blenkinsops could never look straight before them, nor the Hugginsons blow out a candle; that there were none of the Grograms but could sing a song, or of the Marjorams but could tell a story." "However that be," cried I, the most vulgar ballad of them all generally pleases me better than the fine modern odes, and things that petrify us in a single stanza,— productions that we at once detest and praise. Put the glass to your brother, Moses. The great fault of these elegiasts is, that they are in despair for griefs that

give the sensible part of mankind very little pain. A lady loses her muff, her fan, or her lap-dog, and so the silly poet runs home to versify the disaster."

"That may be the mode," cried Moses, "in sublimer compositions: but the Ranelagh songs that come down to us are per|fectly familiar, and all cast in the same mould: Colin meets Dolly, and they hold a dialogue together; he gives her a fairing to put in her hair, and she presents him with a nosegay; and then they go together to church, where they give good advice to young nymphs and swains to get married as fast as they can."

"And very good advice too," cried I; "and I am told there is not a place in the world where advice can be given with so much propriety as there for as it persuades us to marry, it also furnishes us with a wife; and surely that must be an excellent market, my boy, where we are told what we want, and supplied with it when wanting."

"Yes, sir," returned Moses, "and I know but of two such markets for wives in Europe, -Ranelagh in England, and Fontarabia in Spain. The Spanish market is open once a year; but our English wives are saleable every night."

"You are right, my boy," cried his mother; "Old England is the only place in the world for husbands to get wives. "And for wives to manage their husbands," interrupted I. "It is a proverb abroad, that if a bridge were built across the sea, all the ladies of the Continent would come over to take pattern from ours; for there are no such wives in Europe as our own. But let us have one bottle more, Deborah, my life; and, Moses, give us a good song. What thanks do we not owe to Heaven for thus bestowing tranquillity, health, and competence! I think myself happier now than the greatest monarch upon earth. He has no such fireside, nor such pleasant faces about it. Yes, Deborah, we are now growing old; but the evening of our life is likely to be happy. We are descended from ancestors that knew no stain, and we shall leave a good and virtuous race of children behind us. While we live, they will be our support and our pleasure here; and when we die, they will transmit our honour

untainted to posterity. Come, my son, w wait for a song: let us have a chorus. L where is my darling Olivia? that lit cherub's voice is always sweetest in the concert." Just as I spoke Dick cre running in. “O papa, papa, she is ge from us, she is gone from us; my sist Livy is gone from us for ever!"-“ Gor: child!"-"Yes, she is gone off with t gentlemen in a post-chaise, and one them kissed her, and said he would die f her: and she cried very much, and was coming back; but he persuaded her aga and she went into the chaise, and sak.! 'Oh, what will my poor papa do wher knows I am undone !'""Now, then cried I, "my children, go and be mise able; for we shall never enjoy one be more. And oh, may Heaven's everlast. fury light upon him and his !— thus tor me of my child! And sure it will, i taking back my sweet innocent that I leading up to Heaven. Such sincerity my child was possessed of! But all earthly happiness is now over! Go, E children, go and be miserable and in mous; for my heart is broken within me. -"Father," cried my son, "is this you fortitude?" 'Fortitude, child?—yes, ye shall see I have fortitude! Bring me pistols. I'll pursue the traitor-while is on earth I'll pursue him. Old as I an he shall find I can sting him yet. They lain-the perfidious villain!" I had b this time reached down my pistols, wh my poor wife, whose passions were nots strong as mine, caught me in her ar "My dearest, dearest husband!" ar she, "the Bible is the only weapon is fit for your old hands now. Ope that, my love, and read our anguish patience, for she has vilely deceived us."

the

Indeed, sir," resumed my son, after i pause, your rage is too violent and E becoming. You should be my mothe comforter, and you increase her pain. ill suited you and your reverend characte thus to curse your greatest enemy: y should not have cursed him, villain as hi is."-" I did not curse him child, did 1'.

"Indeed, sir, you did; you cursed twice."- Then may Heaven forgive and him if I did! And now, my son, see it was more than human benevolen

:

that first taught us to bless our enemies Blessed be His holy name for all the good He hath given, and for all that He hath aken away. But it is not-it is not a small listress that can wring tears from these old yes, that have not wept for so many years. My child! to undo my darling!-May conusion seize--Heaven forgive me! what im I about to say!-you may remember, ny love, how good she was, and how charming: till this vile moment all her care was to make us happy. Had she but lied! But she is gone, the honour of our amily contaminated, and I must look out for happiness in other worlds than here. But, my child, you saw them go off: perhaps he forced her away? If he orced her, she may yet be innocent.""Ah, no, sir," cried the child; "he only kissed her, and called her his angel, and he wept very much, and leaned upon his irm, and they drove off very fast."-"She's in ungrateful creature," cried my wife, who could scarcely speak for weeping, "to ise us thus. She never had the least constraint put upon her affections. The vile strumpet has basely deserted her parents without any provocation, thus to bring your gray hairs to the grave; and I must shortly follow."

In this manner that night, the first of our real misfortunes, was spent in the bitterness of complaint, and ill-supported sallies of enthusiasm. I determined, however, to find out our betrayer, wherever he was, and reproach his baseness. The next morning we missed our wretched child at breakfast, where she used to give life and cheerfulness to us all. My wife, as before, attempted to ease her heart by reproaches. "Never," cried she, "shall that vilest stain of our family again darken these harmless doors. I will never call her daughter more. No, let the strumpet live with her vile seducer: she may bring us to shame, but she shall never more deceive

may err; art may persuade, and novelty spread out its charm. The first fault is the child of simplicity, but every other, the offspring of guilt. Yes, the wretched creature shall be welcome to this heart and this house, though stained with ten thousand vices. I will again hearken to the music of her voice, again will I hang fondly on her bosom, if I find but repentance there. My son, bring hither my Bible and my staff: I will pursue her, wherever she is; and though I cannot save her from shame, I may prevent the continuance of iniquity."

CHAPTER XVIII.

The Pursuit of a Father to reclaim a Lost Child

to Virtue.

THOUGH the child could not describe the gentleman's person who handed his sister into the post-chaise, yet my suspicions fell entirely upon our young landlord, whose character for such intrigues was but too well known. I therefore directed my steps towards Thornhill Castle, resolving to upbraid him, and, if possible, to bring back my daughter: but before I had reached his seat, I was met by one of my parishioners, who said he saw a young lady resembling my daughter in a post-chaise with a gentleman, whom by the description I could only guess to be Mr. Burchell, and that they drove very fast. This information, however, did by no means satisfy me. I therefore went to the young Squire's, and, though it was yet early, insisted upon seeing him immediately. He soon appeared with the most open familiar air, and seemed perfectly amazed at my daughter's elopement, protesting, upon his honour, that he was quite a stranger to it. I now therefore condemned my former suspicions, and could turn them only on Mr. Burchell, who, I recollected, had of late several private conferences with her; but the appearance of another witness left me no room to doubt his villany, who averred, that he and my daughter were actually gone towards the Wells, about thirty miles off, where there was a great deal of company. Being driven to that state of mind in which we all are more ready to act precipitately than to reason right, I never debated with myself whether these accounts might not