cacy of her constitution, engaged in the management of the houshold business, and soon overcame her aversion for that laborious employment. During six years spent in this manner, St. Andre had several children, to whom he gave an education suitable to their present condition: and having thus inured himself to his laborious but tranquil kind of life, he became, at last, the proprietor of a small spot of ground, in the cultivation of which he found a competent subsistence To this he retired, and for ten years enjoyed all the sweets of serenity and peace. Content with his humble fortune, he forgot, in the embraces of his wife and chil dren, that splendid situation to which his birth had entitled him. But even this felicity, lowly as it was, was too great to be permanent. An unexpected event destroyed all the efforts of time and reason, and. plung ed him again into the depths of misery. M. de Vilmore having been lingering, about a year, under a disease, from which his physician assured him it was in vain to expect recovery, was awakened to some remorse for his unnatural conduct towards his son. His troubled conscieace pointed to the tomb, and displayed to his affrighted soul all the horrors of approaching dissolution. Religion, so consolatory after a well spent life, could only augment the inward terrors that incessantly haunted him. In vain, did he endeavour to divert his attention from these distracting thoughts. He was approaching fast to that closing scene, when the most perverse of mortals must cease to have the pernicious power of deceiving himself. Truth, so dreadful to the guilty, appeared with irresistible brightness, and terrible conviction, to dazzle and con found him. At last, he determined to cause some enquiries to be made after the situation of his son. He opened his mind to his steward, who was a man of probity, and greatly interested for the fate of St. Andre; and who, after various fruitless enquiries, discovered the place of his retreat, and wrote him the following letter:

'M. de Vilmore is dying, and wishes to see you. His distracted heart is still capable of returning tenderness. Do not hesitate a moment; but fly to the arms of a father, who is now incessantly reproaching himself with all the miseries you have endured. Hasten to him, it is not yet too late: take advantage of these awful moments when the vain desires of pride and ambition vanish for ever. He wishes to see you, but has not sufficient resolution to desire it. He is surrounded by your enemies, who are already in idea, ransacking his spoils and your's. I give you this intimation of his secret wishes. You have only to appear, and to lay your unfortunate family at his feet, and you will recover all your rights. But be speedy: every thing depends on your activity and expedition.'

St. Andre did not hesitate. The interest of his children prevails over all the reflections, which some foreboding fears suggest. He sells his little inclosure for a paltry sum, and sets out with his family. He can. not quit this favourite spot, without emotions, that bedew his face with tears. He regrets his humble cottage; nor can he tear himself from it, without an inexpressible degree of anxiety and grief. To expedite his journey, he is obliged to purchase a carriage, and to travel post; and expences, in course, consume almost the whole produce of sixteen years of hard labour. At length, he descries the wall of Paris, and soon after the magnificent house of his father. At the sight of it, Blanche clasps her husband in her arms: Ah!' she exclaims, this would have been your's but for me; and can you regret the cottage we have left?'

his

......St. Andre, all in tears, tenderly embraces her; and this moment' which at once displays to her eyes the great sacrifices with which her husband had never once reproached her; this moment, so flattering and so affecting, is perhaps one of the sweetest of her life.

But, alas! what distressing news awaited them! The good steward hastened to them; and informed them, that the evening before he had acquainted his master of their approaching arrival; but that this intelligence had not yet settled his fluctuating resolution; that he had passed a dreadful night, and, in the morning, perceiving his end to be hastening, he had at last sent for his Confessor, and, after two long conferences, had determined to make a new will.......' Hitherto,' continued the steward, every thing was in your favour. The good Priest, whom he entrusted with his conscience, so forcibly remonstrated with him, with respect to his conduct towards you, that, terrified with horror and apprehension, he did not hesitate to send for his Notary. But a moment after, your messenger being arrived, with information that you would be with him in two hours, M. de Vilmore was seized with such a perturbation of mind, as produced a most fatal change. He instantly lost the use of his speech; a situation so much more deplorable, as he still retains his senses and recollection. In a word, he knows that you are here; and he manifests the most earnest desire to see you. The physician says, that your presence may be productive of another change, and restore him to his speech......Come, Sir, let us lose no time.'......At these words, St. Andre, followed by his family, hastens to his father's apartment. M. de Vilmore, on seeing him enter, lifts up his eyes to heaven, and extends his arms to him. St. Andre throws himself on his knees, at the foot of the bed. M. de Vilmore regards him with a look of the most pathetic expression; and the name of St. Andre escapes from his lips. His Confessor runs to him: Make an effort,' he cries: 'your Notary is here: one word more, one single word, may confirm the future happiness of an unfortunate man, whom your silence and death would doom for ever to the most dreadful misery. Pray to God for grace to enable you, in these few remaining moments, to make reparation for all the sufferings of injured innocence.'...... At these tremenous words, M. de Vilmore clasps his hands together, and lifts them to heaven. He opens his mouth, and appears earnest to speak; but, being only able to utter a few confused and inarticulate sounds, grief, terror, and remorse, are painted on his face. His arms begin to stiffen, and the paleness of death appears. The Confessor would present the crucifix to him: the dying wretch, raving in an agony of despair, casts a look of horror on his son; then beholding the offered crucifix with a wild and savage aspect, he trembles, he pushes it aside; and, at this instant, the most shocking convulsions terminate his guilty life. What an awful lesson does this dreadful scene afford to those fathers, (if any such remain) who are capable of hating and abandoning their children! He died without making any alteration in favour of St. Andre; no other will was found, but what had been long before dictated by resentment. Thus, his resolution, and too late remorse, only served to render his end more fatal and deplorable, without reversing the situation of his unhappy son.

In the mean time, St. Andre, a thousand times more to be pitied than ever, perceived with horror, in what a variety of cruel misfortunes this last stroke had plunged him. He had still some money. He hired a

room, in an obscure part of the suburbs, and retired thither, with his family, to reflect, at least in the night, on the resolution it might be best to take. His children, fatigued by their journey, and still too young to feel the torments of anxiety, soon fell asleep, and peaceably enjoyed the most profound repose. One melancholy lamp gave light to this gloomy retreat. St. Andre, now silent and motionless, sat with distraction in his eye; then starting up, walked about the room, with precipitate and uncertain steps; every gesture bespeaking the violent agitation of his soul. Blanche, till then quite absorbed in her grief, beholds her husband; she trembles, and throwing herself at his feet: Oh! unhappy man,' she cries, in what misery have I involved you! But for me, but for this fatal love, that is now your ruin, you would have been happy, and your life would have been as fortunate and prosperous as it is now wretched and deplorable. But if thou love me still, thy courage will not forsake thee: let it revive at the voice of thy children! My children!' answered St. Andre, my children! I have been able to endure thy misery and mine; but have these poor things thy reason and thy strength? Can I see them in misery and grief? No, no it is betterAt these words, he pauses, and retiring to the other end of the room, sinks into a chair.......' O Heaven!' cried the terrified Blanche, what do you make me forbode? What dreadful design?......She could speak no more: grief deprived her of utterance. St. Andre drew near her, and with a wild and distracted air, Blanche,' said he, believe me; dry up thy tears; we have endured life long enough; our task is finished; a moment can deliver us from our miseries; and my courage shall set thee the example,'— -Blanche, collecting all her fortitude, exclaimed with a steady voice: Who? I! shall I thus defy heaven and nature? Shall I abandon my children? How cruel and impious should I be at once! Ah, as yet I am only unfortunate. Innocence still is mine. All, all I can yet endure. Yes, if thou doom me to the horror of surviving thee, I shall have the courage to endeavour to prolong at least my deplorable existence. I will live for thy children......for those poor innocents whom thou wouldst betray, and abandon without resource, to those miseries, which thou thyself hast no longer the fortitude to endure'......At these words, some tears dropped from the eyes of St. Andre, and his wife seeing him softened, seized the favourable moment to melt him still more, and lead him back to virtue. St. Andre, recovering from his distraction, acknowledged the impiety of his intentions: he renounced, he detested it; and he confessed, that Religion, Honour, and Nature, all commanded him to live. But his body sunk under such violent agitations; he was seized with a burning fever; and brought to the point of death. Blanche was now reduced to the lowest depth of misery. On one side, she beheld a dying husband; on the other, her wretched children struggling with all the hardships of cold and hunger. In this distress, she invoked heaven, to terminate at once the miserable existence of so many innocent victims. One morning, sitting by her husband's side, she beheld his face, disfigured by the shades of death; and she recollected that period of her youth, when, in a situation nearly similar, she felt the first impressions of a passion since so fatal to them both. This recollection reviving her tenderness more forcibly than ever, she snatched one of his hands, and bedewing it with tears: O my dear husband,' said she, falling upon her knees, canst thou forgive me the torments with

which my fatal love has embittered thy life?'...... Ah !''answered St. Andre, my last moments indeed are dreadful. I leave thee and my children in the depth of misery; but if this career of suffering and sorrow were to commence again, I would endure all for thee.'...... As he ended these words, the door of the chamber suddenly flew open, and a most unexpected sight attracted the attention of this unhappy pair. A beautiful young lady, about four-and-twenty years old, enters the room, and with an air of benignity and compassion, approaches the bed, leading by the hand a little girl, about seven years of age. Having dismissed her attendants, and shut the door, she addresses Blanche in a sweet voice, requesting her name, Blanche, confounded and abashed, hesitates, and is incapable of utterance. St. Andre, in spite of his weakness, makes an effort to raise himself, and briefly explains his unhappy situation......' I see,' says the lady, that I have not been deceived. God grant that I may not be come too late! And you, my daughter,' she continues, turning to her child, who was crying, take notice of this room and the affecting objects it contains. Never let the remembrance of them be effaced from your memory. Take this purse, and lay it at the foot of the bed. Approach it with that respect we owe to the unfortunate. Never forget it; and render yourself worthy one day of the sacred employment with which I honour you.'

You will surely be desirous to know who was this generous and charming stranger? It will interest you still more, when you learn, that it was Madame de Lagaraye, in all the bloom of youth, with that daughter whom she has since lost; that only daughter, who died at fifteen; and whom such examples, and such an education, could not but render the delight of this virtuous mother......But to return to St. Andre; M. de Lagaraye having learned his history, was so sensibly affected by his misfortunes, that he offered him an asylum on his estate; and, at length, placed him at the head of his new establishments, of which St. Andre has had the direction for six years. M. de Lagaraye has provided for all his children; and to his other benefits has added the gift of a charming house, surrounded by an excellent kitchen-garden. It is in this agreeable retreat that the remainder of a life, hitherto so turbulent, now steals away in delightful repose. Here the praises of Monsieur and Madame de Lagaraye are uttered every hour; and here their venerable names are inscribed on every wall, and incessantly celebrated by the affectionate voice of sentiment and gratitude.

ANECDOTE.

As the celebrated and haughty Seymour, speaker of the House of Commons, was riding one day near Henley upon Thames, he met a large west-country waggon, which he was astonished to find did not turn aside, in compliment to his dignity. As the waggoner approached him, Seymour lifted up his gold-headed cane, and made a blow at him: the driver falling back just his whip's length, soon convinced the courtier of his error, who, smarting under its well-applied lash, exclaimed, “Sirrah! villain! I'll commit you to gaol......I'll send you to the devil ......don't you know who I am?......Naw... who beenst?......" I am the speaker, rascal!"......" Rotte, then," replied the sarcastic lout, why disnt speak afore."

FILIAL DUTY.

AIKIN.

MRGER

R. HASTINGS was a reputable tradesman in a considerable country town. He married young, and had a numerous family, over whom, as his temper was hasty and ungoverned, he exercised the paternal authority with harshness and caprice. His wife, a pattern of female mildness and gentleness, made it her sole study, by every softening and conciliatory art, to keep her husband in good humour with herself and her children, but too often failed in both.

Charles, their eldest son, had one of those dispositions, which, though easily managed by prudent and gentle methods, always revolt against the exertions of passionate and rigorous authority. It was therefore impossible that he should avoid frequent and angry disputes with his father, whose sternness and severity he returned with sullen and unyielding obstinacy. These unhappy contests acquired such additional force with increasing years, that when the youth had reached the age of fifteen, his father, in consequence of a violent quarrel in which he could not bring him to submission, turned him out of doors, with an injunction never to see his face again.

The lad's spirit was too high to render a repetition of the command necessary. Unprovided as he was, he set out immediately, on foot, for London; where arriving, after much hardship and fatigue, he found out an East-India captain with whom his father had some acquaintance, and, after much solicitation, obtained leave to accompany him in a voyage which commenced in a few days.

able

Exasperated as Mr. Hastings was, he could not help feeling considerregret on finding that his son had so well obeyed the command which his passion had dictated; and the mother, for whom the youth had always testified the greatest affection and respect, was long inconsolable. From all their inquiries, they were only able to learn that their son was gone to sea, but to what part, or in what situation, they could never discover.

To this cause of distress was soon added that of a decline in their circumstances, owing to repeated losses in trade. After the ineffectual struggle of a few years, they were obliged to retire to a small house in a neighbouring village, where, consumed by grief, with health and spirits broken, they brought up their family in indigence and obscurity.