pation of the pleasures which that period should produce.

In the mean time, they took something from the pain of absence by a punctual correspondence. These letters I have seen: they describe things little in themselves; to Bolton and Lucy they were no trifles, but by others their importance would not be understood. One recital only I have ventured to extract for the perusal of the reader; because I observe, that it strongly affected them, who, in this instance, were interested no more than any to whom the feelings it addresses are known; and some of my readers, probably, have the advantage of not being altogether unacquainted with the persons of whom it speaks.

CHAP. V.

An Adventure of Miss Sindall's at Bilswood.

To assume her semblance, is a tribute which vice must often pay to virtue. There are popular qualities which the world looks for, because it is aware, that it may be sometimes benefited by their exertion. Generosity is an excellence, by the apparent possession of which I have known many worthless characters buoyed up from their infamy; though with them it was, indeed, but thoughtless profusion; and, on the other hand, I have seen amiable men marked out with a sneer by the million, from a temperance or reservedness of disposition, which shuns the glare of public, and the pleasures of convivial life, and gives to modesty and gentle manners the appearance of parsimony and meanness of spirit.

The imputation of merit with mankind, Sindall knew to be a necessary appendage to his character; he was careful, therefore, to omit no opportunity of stepping forth to their notice as a man of generosity. There was not a gentleman's servant in the county, who did not talk of the knight's munificence in the article of vails; and a park-keeper was thought a happy man, whom his master sent with a haunch of venison to Sir Thomas. Once a-year too he feasted his tenants, and, indeed, the whole neighbourhood, on the large lawn in the front of his house, where the strong-beer ran cascade-wise from the mouth of a leaden Triton.

But there were objects of compassion, whose relief would not have figured in the eye of the public, on whom he was not so remarkable for bestowing his liberality. The beggars, he complained, were perpetually stealing his fruit, and destroying his shubbery; he, therefore, kept a wolf-dog to give them their answer at the gate; and some poor families in the village on his estate had been brought to beggary by prosecu tions for poaching, an offence which every country gentleman is bound, in honour, to punish

with the utmost severity of the law; and cannot, therefore, without a breach of that honour, alleviate by a weak and ill-judged exercise of benevolence.

Miss Lucy, however, as she could not so strongly feel the offence, would sometimes contribute to lessen the rigour of its punishment, by making small presents to the wives and children of the delinquents. Passing, one evening, by the door of a cottage, where one of those pensioners on her bounty lived, she observed, standing before it, a very beautiful lap-dog, with a collar and bell, ornamented much beyond the trappings of any animal that could belong to the house. From this circumstance her curiosity was excited to enter, when she was not a little surprised to find a young lady in a most elegant undress, sitting on a joint-stool by the fire, with one of the children of the family on her lap. The ladies expressed mutual astonishment in their countenances at this meeting, when the good woman of the house running up to them, and clasping a hand of each in her's, "Blessings," said she," thousands of blessings on you both! a lovelier couple, or a better, my eyes never looked on."-The infant clapped its hands as if instinctively." Dear heart!" continued its mother, "look, if my Tommy be not thanking you too! well may he clap his hands; if it had not been for your gracious selves, by this time his hands would have been cold clay! (mumbling his fingers in her mouth, and bathing his arms with her tears.) When you strictly. forbade me to tell mortal of your favours, oh! how I longed to let each of you know, that there was another lady in the world as good as herself."

The stranger had now recovered herself enough to tell Miss Lucy, how much it delighted her to find, that a young lady, of her figure, did not disdain to visit affliction, even amongst the poor and the lowly. "That reflection," answered the other, "applies more strongly to the lady who makes it, than to her who is the occasion of its being made. I have not, madam, the honour of your acquaintance; but methinks, pardon my boldness, that I feel as if we were not strangers; at least, I am sure that I should reckon it a piece of singular good fortune, if this interview could entitle me to call you stranger no longer." Their landlady cried and laughed by turns; and her two guests were so much pleased with this meeting, that they appointed a renewal of it, at an hour somewhat earlier of the subsequent evening.

Lucy came a few minutes before the time of appointment; when she learned, that the stranger was the daughter of a neighbouring gentleman, whom a difference of disposition from that of Sir Thomas Sindall, arising at last to a par➡ ticular coolness, had entirely estranged for many years from the Baronet, and prevented all inter course between the families.

When this lady arrived, she brought sucli

tidings along with her, that I question, if in all the sumptuous abodes of wealth and grandeur, there was to be found so much sincerity of joy, as within the ragged and mouldering walls of the hovel which she graced with her presence. She informed the grateful mistress of it, that, by her intercession with some justices of the peace, who made part of the judicature before whom the poor woman's husband was brought, his punishment had been mitigated to a small fine, which she had undertaken to pay, and that he would very soon be on his way homewards. The joy of the poor man's family at this intelligence was such as they could not, nor shall I, attempt to express. His deliverance was indeed unexpected, because his crime was great: no less than that of having set a gin in his garden, for some cats that used to prey on a single brood of chickens, his only property; which gin had, one night, wickedly and maliciously hanged a hare, which the Baronet's game-keeper next morning discovered in it.

His wife and little ones seemed only to be restrained by the respected presence of their guests, from running out to meet a husband and a father restored to them from captivity. The ladies, observing it, encouraged them in the design; and having received the good woman's benediction on her knees, they walked out together; and leaving the happy family on the road to the prison, turned down a winding romantic walk, that followed the mazes of a rill in an opposite direction.

Lucy, whose eyes had been fixed with respectful attention on her fair companion, ever since her arrival at the cottage, now dropped a tear from each. "You will not wonder at these tears, madam," said she, "when you know that they are my common sign of joy and admiration; they thank you on behalf of myself and my sex, whose peculiar beauty consists in those gentle virtues you so eminently possess ; my heart feels not only pleasure, but pride, in an instance of female worth so exalted. Though the family in which I live, from some cause unknown to me, have not the happiness of an intercourse with yours, yet your name is familiar to my ear, and carries with it the idea of every amiable and engaging quality."—" Nor am I," returned the other, a stranger to the name, or the worth, of Miss Sindall; and I reckon myself singularly fortunate, not only to have accidentally made an acquaintance with her, but to have made it in that very style, which effectually secures the esteem her character had formerly impressed me with." "Beneficence indeed," replied Lucy, "is a virtue, of which the possession may entitle to an acquaintance with one to whom that virtue is so particularly known."-" It is no less a pleasure than a duty," rejoined her companion; "but I, Miss Sindall, have an additional incitement to the exercise of it, which perhaps, as the tongue of curiosity is at one time as busy as its ear is

attentive at another, you may ere this have heard of. That ancient building, to which the walk we are on will, in a few minutes, conduct us, was formerly in the possession of one, in whose bosom resided every gentle excellence that adorns humanity. He, Miss Sindall,-why should I blush to tell it?-in the sordid calculation of the world, his attachment was not enviable; the remembrance of it, though it wrings my heart with sorrow, is yet my pride and my delight! your feelings, Miss Lucy, will understand this -the dear youth left me executrix of that philanthropy which death alone could stop in its course. To discharge this trust, is the business of my life; for I hold myself bound to discharge it."

They had now reached the end of the walk, where it opened into a little circle surrounded with trees, and fenced by a rail, in front of an antique-looking house, the gate of which was ornamented with a rudely sculptured crest, cyphered round with the initials of some name, which time had rendered illegible; but a few paces before it, was placed a small urn, of modern workmanship, and on a tablet beneath, was written,

To the Memory of

William Parley.

Lucy stepped up to read this inscription; "Harley!" said she;"how I blush to think, that I have scarcely ever heard of the name!”—“Alas!" said Miss Walton, "his actions were not of a kind that is loudly talked of: but what is the fame of the world? by him its voice could not now be heard !"-There was an ardent earnestness in her look, even amidst the melancholy with which her countenance was impressed. "There is a blank at the bottom of the tablet," said Lucy. Her companion smiled gloomily at the observation, and, leaning on the urn in a pensive attitude, replied, "that it should one day be filled up."

They now heard the tread of feet approaching the place: Lucy was somewhat alarined at the sound; but her fears were removed, when she discovered it to proceed from a venerable old man, who, advancing towards them, accosted Miss Walton by her name, who, in her turn, pronounced the word Peter! in the tone of surprise. She stretched out her hand, which he clasped in his, and looked in her face with a certain piteous wistfulness, while a tear was swelling in his eye. "My dear lady," said he, "I have travelled many a mile since I saw your ladyship last: by God's blessing I have succeeded very well in the business your ladyship helped me to set up; and, having some dealings with a tradesman in London, I have been as far as that city and back again; and, said I to myself,

if I could venture on such a journey for the sake of gain, may I not take a shorter for the sake of thanking my benefactress, and seeing my old friends in the country? and I had a sort of yearning to be here, to remember good Mrs Margery, and my dear young master.-God forgive me for weeping, for he was too good for this world!" -The tears of Miss Walton and Lucy accompanied his." Alack-a-day!" continued Peter, to think how things will come to pass! that there tree was planted by his own sweet hand! -I remember it well, he was then but a boy; I stood behind him, holding the plants in my apron thus:- Peter,' said he, as he took one to stick it in the ground, perhaps I shall not live to see this grow! God grant your honour may,' said I, 'when I am dead and gone!' and I lifted up the apron to my eyes, for my heart grew big at his words; but he smiled in my face, and said, 'We shall both live, Peter, and that will be best. Ah! I little thought then, Miss Walton, I little thought!"-and he shook his thin grey locks!-The heart of apathy itself could not have withstood it; Miss Walton's and Lucy's, melting and tender at all times, were quite overcome.

A change in Bolton's situation.

THE reader will pardon the digression I have made; I would not, willingly, lead him out of his way, except into some path, where his feelings may be expanded, and his heart improved.

He will remember that I mentioned, in the fourth chapter, the expectation which Bolton entertained, of seeing his Lucy at a period not very remote.

soon.

But that period was not destined to arrive so When he expected Sir Thomas's commands, or rather his permission, to visit the family at Bilswood, he received a letter from that gentleman, purporting, that he had at last been able to put him in the way of attaining that independence he had so often wished for, having just procured him a commission in a regiment then stationed in Gibraltar; that though he, (Sir Thomas,) as well as Mrs Selwyn and Lucy, was exceedingly desirous to have an opportunity of bidding him farewell, yet he had prevailed on himself to waive that pleasure, from the consideration of its inconvenience to Harry, as it

was absolutely necessary that he should join his regiment immediately. He inclosed letters of introduction to several gentlemen of his acquaintance in London, remitted him drafts on that place, for a considerable sum, to fit him out for his intended expedition, and begged that he might lose no time in repairing thither for that purpose. He ended with assuring him of the continuance of his friendship, which, he declared, no distance of time or place could alienate or impair.

The effect which this letter had upon Bolton, as he was then circumstanced, my readers can easily imagine. There was another accompanied it; a note from his Lucy: she intended it for comfort, for it assumed the language of consolation; but the depression of her own spirits was visible, amidst the hopes with which she meant to buoy up those of Bolton.

With this letter for its text, did his imagination run over all the delights of the past, and compare them with the disappointment of the present. Yet those tender regrets which the better part of our nature feels, have something in them to blunt the edge of that pain they inflict, and confer on the votaries of sorrow a sensation that borders on pleasure. He visited the walks which his Lucy had trod, the trees under which she had sat, the prospects they had marked together, and he would not have exchanged his feelings for all that luxury could give, or festivity inspire. Nor did he part with the idea after the object was removed; but, even on the road to London, to which place he began his journey next morning, 'twas but pulling out his letter again, humming over that little melancholy air which his Lucy had praised, and the scene was present at once. It drew indeed a sigh from his bosom, and an unmanly tear stood in his eye; yet the sigh and the tear were such, that it was impossible to wish it removed.

CHAP. VII.

His arrival, and situation in London.

WHEN Bolton reached the metropolis, he applied, without delay, to those persons for whom he had letters from Sir Thomas Sindall, whose instructions the Baronet had directed him to follow, in that course of military duty which he had now enabled him to pursue.

In the reception he met with, it is not surprising that he was disappointed. He looked for that cordial friendship, that warm attachment, which is only to be found in the smaller circles of private life, which is lost in the bustle and extended connexion of large societies. The letters he presented were read with a civil indifference, and produced the unmeaning professions of ceremony and politeness. From some of those to whom they were addressed, he had invita

tions, which he accepted with diffidence, to feasts which he partook with disgust; where he sat, amidst the profusion of ostentatious wealth, surrounded with company he did not know, and listening to discourse in which he was not qualified to join.

A plain honest tradesman, to whom he happened to carry a commission from Mrs Wistanly, was the only person who seemed to take an interest in his welfare. At this man's house he received the welcome of a favoured acquaintance, he eat of the family-dinner, and heard the jest which rose for their amusement: for ceremony did not regulate the figure of their table; nor had fashion banished the language of nature from their lips. Under this man's guidance he transacted any little business his situation required, and was frequently conducted by him to those very doors, whose lordly owners received him in that manner, which grandeur thinks itself entitled to assume, and dependence is constrained to endure.

After some days of inquiry and solicitude, he learned, that it was not necessary for him to join his regiment so speedily as Sir Thomas's letter had induced him to believe.

Upon obtaining this information, he immediately communicated it to the Baronet, and signified, at the same time, a desire of improving that time, which this respite allowed him for his stay in England, in a visit to the family at Bilswood. But with this purpose his cousin's ideas did not at all coincide; he wrote Harry an answer, disapproving entirely his intentions of leaving London, and laid down a plan for his improvement in military science, which could only be followed in the metropolis. Here was another disappointment; but Harry considered it his duty to obey.

What he felt, however, may be gathered from the following letter, which he wrote to Miss Sindall, by the post succeeding that which brought him the instructions of Sir Thomas.

"As I found, soon after my arrival here, that the necessity of joining my regiment immediately was superseded, I hoped by this time to have informed my dearest Lucy of my intended departure from London, to be once more restored to her and the country.

"I have suffered the mortification of another disappointment: Sir Thomas's letter is now before me, which fixes me here for the winter; I confess the reasonableness of his opinion; but reason and Sir Thomas cannot feel like Bolton. "When we parted last, we flattered ourselves with other prospects; cruel as the reflection is, I feel a sort of pleasure in recalling it, especially when I venture to believe that my Lucy has not forgotten our parting.

"To-morrow is Christmas day; I call to remembrance our last year's holidays; may these be as happy with you, though I am not to partake them! Write me every particular of these days

of jollity; fear not, as your last letter expresses it, tiring me with trifles; nothing is a trifle in which you are concerned. While I read the account, I will fancy myself at Bilswood; here I will walk forth, an unnoticed thing amidst the busy crowd that surrounds me: your letters give me some interest in myself, because they shew me that I am something to my Lucy; she is every thing to her BOLTON."

CHAP. VIII. Filial Piety.

BOLTON had a disposition towards society that did not allow him an indifference about any thing of human form with whom he could have an opportunity of intercourse. He was every one's friend in his heart, till some positive demerit rendered a person unworthy of his goodwill.

He had not long possessed his lodgings in town, till he cultivated an acquaintance with his landlord and landlady; the latter he found to be the representative of the family, from a power of loquacity very much superior to her husband, who seemed to be wonderfully pleased with his wife's conversation, and very happy under what might not improperly be termed her government.

To Mrs Terwitt, therefore, (for that was the lady's name,) did Bolton address his approaches towards an acquaintance, and from her he had the good fortune to find them meet with a favourable reception. They were so intimate the second week of his residence in the house, that she told him the best part of the transactions of her life, and consulted him upon the disposal of her eldest daughter in marriage, whom a young tradesman, she said, had been in suit of ever since the Easter-holidays preceding. "We can give her," added she," something handsome enough for a portion; and the old gentleman above stairs has promised her a present of a hundred pounds on her wedding-day, provided she marries to please him."

"The gentleman above stairs?" said Bolton; "how have I been so unlucky as never to have heard of him before?"

"He is not at present in town," replied the landlady;" having gone about a fortnight ago to Bath, whence he is not yet returned. Indeed, I fear his health requires some stay at that place, for he has been but poorly of late; heaven preserve his life, for he is a good friend of ours, and of many one's else who stand in need of his friendship. He has an estate, sir, of a thousand pounds a-year, and money besides, as I have been told, yet he chooses to live private, as you will see, and spends, I believe, the most of his income in charitable actions."

"I did indeed," said Harry, "observe a

young man come to the door this morning at an early hour, and I heard him ask if the gentle man was returned; but I did not then know that he meant any person who lodged here." "Ay, sure enough he meant Mr Rawlinson," said Mrs Terwitt, " and I wish he may not feel his absence much, for he has called here frequently of late, and the last time, when he was told of his not being yet returned, Betty observed that the tears gushed from his eyes.”"When he calls again," said Bolton, "I beg that I may be informed of it."

Next morning he heard somebody knock at the door, much about the time he had seen the young man approach it the preceding day. Upon going to the window, he observed the same stripling, but his dress was different; he had no coat to cover a thread-bare waistcoat, nor had he any hat. Bolton let the maid know that he was aware of his being at the door, and resumed his own station at the window. The youth repeated his inquiries after Mr Rawlinson, and, upon receiving the same answer, cast up to heaven a look of resignation, and retired.

Bolton slipped down stairs, and followed him; his lodgings were situated near Queen Square; the lad took the country-road, and went on without stopping till he reached Pancras churchyard. He stood, seemingly entranced, over a new-covered grave at one end of it. Harry placed himself under cover of a tomb hard by, where he could mark him unperceived.

́He held his hands clasped in one another, and the tears began to trickle down his cheeks. Bolton stole from out his hiding-place, and approached towards the spot. The poor lad began to speak, as if addressing himself to the dead beneath.

"Thou canst not feel their cruelty; nor shall the winds of winter chill thee, as they do thy wretched son:-Inhuman miscreants! but these shall cover thee."-He threw himself on the ground, and spread his arms over the grave, on which he wept.

Bolton stooped down to raise him from the earth: he turned, and gazed on him, with a look wildered and piteous. "Pardon a stranger, young man," said Bolton, "who cannot but be interested in your sorrow; he is not entitled to ask its cause, yet his heart swells with the hope of removing it."-" May Heaven requite you," replied the stranger," for your pity to a poor orphan! Oh! sir, I have not been used to beg, and even to receive charity is hard upon me; did I mean to move compassion, I have a story to tell-You weep already, sir; hear me, and judge if I deserve your tears.

"Here lies my father, the only relation whom misfortune had left to own me; but Heaven had sent us a friend in that best of men, Mr Rawlinson. He came accidentally to the knowledge of our sufferings, and took on himself the charge of relieving them, which the cruelty of

our own connexions had abandoned; but alas! when, by his assistance, my father was put into a way of earning his bread, he was seized with that illness of which he died. Some small debts, which his short time in business had not yet allowed him to discharge, were put in suit against him by his creditors. His sickness and death, which happened a few days ago, did but hasten their proceedings; they seized, sir, the very covering of that bed on which his body was laid. Mr Rawlinson was out of town, and I fancy he never received those letters I wrote to him to Bath. I had no one from whom to expect relief; every thing but these rags on my back, I sold to bury the best of fathers; but my little all was not enough; and the man whom I employed for his funeral, took yesterday, from off these clods, the very sod which had covered him, because I had not wherewithal to pay its price." Bolton fell on his neck, and answered him with his tears.

He covered the dust of the father, and clothed the nakedness of the son; and, having placed him where it was in his power to make future inquiries after his situation, left him to bless Providence for the aid it had sent, without knowing the hand through which its bounty had flowed. That hand, indeed, the grateful youth pressed to his lips at parting, and begged earnestly to know the name of his benefactor. "I am a friend," said Bolton, " of Mr Rawlinson, and humanity."

CHAP. IX.

A very alarming Accident; which proves the means of Bolton's getting acquainted with his Fellow-lodger.

WHEN Bolton returned, in the evening, from those labours of charity he had undertaken, he found that the family were abroad, supping, in a body, with the daughter's lover; the maid sat up to wait their home-coming; and Bolton, who had more liberty, but much less inclination to sleep, betook himself to meditation.

It was now near midnight, and the hum of Betty's spinning-wheel, which had frequently intermitted before, became entirely silent, when Bolton was alarmed with a very loud knocking of the watchman at the door, and presently a confused assemblage of voices crying out, "Fire, Fire!" echoed from one end of the street to the other. Upon opening his window, he discovered too plainly the reason of the alarm; the flames were already appearing at the windows of the ground-floor, to which they had probably been communicated by the candle, which the maid had burning by her in the kitchen below.

She had now at last awaked, and was running about before the door of the house, wringing her hands, and speaking incoherently to the few who