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"Come,

Mr. Atkins at last consented. He took his daughter's arm. my Emily," said he, “ we can never, never recover that happiness we

have lost! but time may teach us to remember our misfortunes with patience."

When they arrived at the house where I lodged, I was informed, that the first floor was then vacant, and that the gentleman and his daughter might be accommodated there. While I was upon the enquiry, Miss Atkins informed her father more particularly what she owed to my benevolence. When I returned into the room where they were, Atkins ran and embraced me; begged me again to forgive the offence he had given me, and made the warmest protestations of gratitude.

Miss Atkins now retired to her chamber, to take some rest from the violence of the emotions she had suffered. When she was gone, her father, addressing himself to me, said, "You have a right, Sir, to be informed of the present situation of one who owes so much to your compassion for his misfortunes. My daughter I find has informed you what that was at the fatal juncture when they began. Her distresses you have heard, you have pitied as they deserved; with mine, perhaps, I cannot so easily make you acquainted. You have a feeling heart, Mr. Harley; I bless it that it has saved my child; but you never was a father, a father torn by that most dreadful of calamities, the dishonour of a child he doated on! You have been already informed of some of the circumstances of her elopement I was then from home, called by the death of a relation, who, though he would never advance me a shilling on the utmost exigency in his life-time, left me all the gleanings of his frugality at his death. I would not write this intelligence to my daughter, because I intended to be the bearer myself; and as soon as my business would allow me, I set out on my return, winged with all the haste of paternal affection. I fondly built those schemes of future happiness, which present prosperity is ever busy to suggest: my Emily was concerned in them all. As I approached our little dwelling, my heart throbbed with the anticipation of joy and welcome. I imagined the cheering fire, the blissful contentment of a frugal meal, made luxurious by a daughter's smile: I painted to myself her surprise at the tidings of our new-acquired riches, our fond disputes about the disposal of

them.

"The road was shortened by the dreams of happiness I enjoyed, and it began to be dark as I reached the house: I alighted from my horse, and walked softly up stairs to the room we commonly sat in. I was somewhat disappointed at not finding my daughter there. I rung the bell; her maid appeared, and shewed no small signs of wonder at the summons. She blessed herself as she entered the room: I smiled at her - surprise. "Where is Miss Emily, Sir?" said she. Emily!" "Yes, Sir; she has been gone hence some days, upon receipt of those letters you sent her.” "Letters!" said I. 66 Yes, Sir; so she told me, and went off in all haste that very night."

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I stood aghast as she spoke; but was able so far to recollect myself, as to put on the affectation of calmness, and telling her there was certainly some mistake in the affair, desired her to leave me.

"When she was gone, I threw myself into a chair, in that state of uncertainty which is of all others the most dreadful. The gay visions with which I had delighted myself, vanished in an instant: I was tortured with tracing back the same circle of doubt and disappointment.

My head grew dizzy as I thought: I called the servant again, and ask ed her a hundred questions to no purpose; there was not room even for conjecture.

"I had not remained long in this situation, when the arrival of a friend, who had accidentally heard of my return, put an end to my doubts, by the recital of my daughter's dishonour. He told me he had his information from a young gentleman, to whom Winbrooke had boasted of having seduced her.

"I started from my seat, with broken curses on my lips, and without knowing whither I should pursue them, ordered my servant to load my pistols, and saddle my horses. My friend, however, with great difficulty, persuaded me to compose myself for that night, promising to accompany me on the morrow to Sir George Winbrooke's in quest of his

son.

"The morrow came, after a night spent in a state little distant from madness. We went as early as decency would allow to Sir George's: he received me with politeness, and indeed compassion; protested his abhorrence of his son's conduct, and told me that he had set out some days before for London, on which place he had procured a draft for a large sum, on pretence of finishing his travels; but that he had not heard from him since his departure.

"I did not wait for any more, either of information or comfort, but, against the united remonstrances of Sir George and my friend, set out instantly for London, with a frantic uncertainty of purpose; but there all manner of search was in vain. I could trace neither of them any farther than the inn where they first put up on their arrival; and after some days fruitless inquiry, returned home destitute of every little hope that had hitherto supported me. The journeys I had made, the restless nights I had spent, above all, the perturbation of my mind, had the effect which naturally might be expected; a very dangerous. fever was the consequence. From this, however, contrary to the expectation of my physicians, I recovered. It was now that I first felt something like calmness of mind; probably from being reduced to a state which could not produce the exertions of anguish or despair. A stupid melancholy settled on my soul; I could endure to live with an apathy of life; at times I forgot my resentment, and wept at the remembrance of my child.

"Such has been the tenor of my days since that fatal moment when these misfortunes began, till yesterday, that I received a letter from a friend in town, acquainting me of her present situation. Could such tales as mine, Mr. Harley, be sometimes suggested to the daughters of levity, did they but know with what anxiety the heart of a parent flutters round the child he loves, they would be less apt to construe into harshness that delicate concern for their conduct, which they often complain of as laying restraint upon things, to the young, the gay, and the thoughtless, seemingly harmless and indifferent. Alas! I fondly imagined that I needed not even these common cautions! my Emily was the Joy of my age, and the pride of my soul!...... Those things are now no more! they are lost for ever! Her death I could have borne! but the death of her honour has added obloquy and shame to that sorrow which bends my grey hairs to the dust!"

As he spoke these last words, his voice trembled in his throat; it was now lost in his tears! He sat with his face half turned from me, as if he VOL. II.

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would have hid the sorrow which he felt. I was in the same attitude myself; I durst not meet his eye with a tear; but gathering my stifled breath, "Let me intreat you, Sir," said I, "to hope better things. The world is ever tyrannical; it warps our sorrows to edge them with keener affliction let us not be slaves to the names it affixes to motive or to action. I know an ingenuous mind cannot help feeling when they sting: but there are considerations by which it may be overcome : its fantastic ideas vanish as they rise; they teach us......to look be yond it."

ANECDOTE OF MRS. CRAWFORD,

FORMERLY MRS. BARRY.

HOSE who remember that celebrated actress, will recollect that

a peculiarly impressive manner of pronouncing

words "bloody" and "murderer"......a manner which no one has hitherto imitated without absurdity, and from which, few could deviate with success.....Once, in Mr. Barry's days, she was performing the Countess of Essex in her first style of excellence. In that scene where Essex is dragged to execution, leaving the Countess fainting on the stage, a-remarkable circumstance occurred, to which these lines allude. Barry's usual management of this affecting situation was, half-raising herself from the stage, and looking round with wistful anxiety, she suddenly sprang from the stage, and seizing the arm of Burleigh, exclaimed, in accents that were truly terrific

"Burleigh bloody Murd'rer! where's my husband?"

Mrs.

A well-dressed man, in the pit, jumped from his seat, and with the most violent emotions of agony, clapped both hands to his face, and making his way to the door, ran out of the house, crying aloud, "Oh! God! I committed a Murder!" He had been remarkably attentive during the play; and such was the universal consternation during the cir cumstance, that no one attempted to prevent his escape. What a forcible instance of the awful operation of conscience, acting through the moral power of the Drama. Need it be added, that it was a greater proof of Mrs. Crawford's excellence as an actress, than all the applause she received during her whole theatrical career.

STORY OF ALBERT BANE.

BY MR. MACKENZIE.

IN

N treating of the moral duties which apply to the different relations of life, men of humanity and feeling have not forgotten to mention those which are due from masters to servants. Nothing indeed can be more natural than the attachment and regard to which the faithful services of our domestics are entitled; the connection grows up, like all other family-charities, in early life, and is only extinguished by those corruptions which blunt the others, by pride, by folly, by dissipation, or by vice.

I hold it indeed as the sure sign of a mind not poised as it ought to be, if it is insensible to the pleasures of home, to the little joys and endearments of a family, to the affection of relations, to the fidelity of domestics. Next to being well with his own conscience, the friendship and attachment of a man's family and dependents seems to me one of the most comfortable circumstances in his lot. His situation, with regard to either, forms that sort of bosom comfort or disquiet that sticks close to him at all times and seasons, and which, though he may now and then forget it amidst the bustle of public, or the hurry of active life, will resume it's place in his thoughts, and it's permanent effect on his happiness, at every pause of ambition or of business.

In situations and with dispositions such as mine, there is perhaps less merit in feeling the benevolent attachment to which I allude, than in those of persons of more bustling lives, and more dissipated attentions. To the lounger, the home which receives him from the indifference of the circles in which he sometimes loiters his time, is naturally felt as a place of comfort and protection; and an elderly man-servant, whom I think I govern quietly and gently, but who, perhaps, quietly and gently governs me, I naturally regard as a tried and valuable friend. Few people will perhaps, perfectly understand the feeling I experience when I knock at my door, after any occasional absence, and hear the hurried step of Peter on the stairs; when I see the glad face with which he receives me, and the look of honest joy with which he pats Cæsar, (a Pomeranian dog who attends me in all my excursions) on the head, as if to mark his kind reception of him too: when he tells me he knew my rap; makes his modest enquiries after my health; opens the door of my room, which he has arranged for my reception; places my slippers before the fire, and draws my elbow-chair to it's usual stand; I confess I sit down in it with a self-complacency, which I am vain enough to think a bad man were incapable of feeling.

It appears to me a very pernicious mistake, which I have sometimes seen parents guilty of in the education of their children, to encourage and excite in them a haughty and despotic behaviour to their servants;

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to teach them an early conceit of the difference of their conditions; to accustom them to consider the services of their attendants as perfectly compensated by the wages they receive, and as unworthy of any return of kindness, attention, or complacency. Something of this kind must indeed necessarily happen in the great and fluctuating establishments of fashionable life; but I am sorry to see it of late gaining ground in the country of Scotland, where, from particular circumstances, the virtues and fidelity of a great man's houshold were wont to be conspicuous, and exertions of friendship and magnanimity in the cause of a master used to be cited among the traditional memorabilia of most old families.

When I was last autumn at my friend Colonel Caustic's in the coun. try, I saw there, on a visit to Miss Caustic, a young gentleman and his sister, children of a neighbour of the colonel's, with whose appearance and manner I was peculiarly pleased. The history of their parents,' said my friend, is somewhat particular; and I love to tell it, as I do every thing that is to the honour of our nature. Man is so poor a thing, taken in the gross, that when I meet with an instance of nobleness in detail, I am fain to rest upon it long, and to recal it often; as, in coming hither over our barren hills, you would look with double delight on a spot of cultivation or of beauty.

The father of those young folks, whose looks you were struck with, was a gentleman of considerable domains and extensive influence on the northern frontier of our country. In his youth he lived, as it was then more the fashion than it is now, at the seat of his ancestors, surrounded with gothic grandeur, and compassed with feudal followers and dependents, all of whom could trace their connection, at a period more or less remote, with the family of their chief. Every domestic in his house bore the family-name, and looked on himself as in a certain degree partaking of it's dignity, and sharing it's fortunes. Of these, one was, in a particular manner, the favourite of his master. Albert Bane, (the sirname, you know, is generally lost, in a name descriptive of the invididual) had been his companion from his infancy. Of an age so much more advanced as to enable him to be a sort of tutor to his youthful lord. Albert had early taught him the rural exercises and rural amusements in which himself was eminently skilful; he had attended him in the course of his education at home, of his travels abroad, and was still the constant companion of his excursions, and the associate of his sports.

'On one of those latter occasions, a favourite dog of Albert's, whom he had trained himself, and of whose qualities he was proud, happened to mar the sport which his master expected; who, irritated at the disappointment, and having his gun ready cocked in his hand, fired at the animal, which, however, in the hurry of his resentment he missed. Albert, to whom Oscar was as a child, remonstrated against the rashness of the deed, in a manner rather too warm for his master, ruffled as he was with the accident, and conscious of being in the wrong, to bear. In his passion he struck his faithful attendant; who suffered the indignity in silence, and retiring, rather in grief than anger, left his native country that very night; and, when he reached the nearest town, enlisted with a recruiting party of a regiment, then on foreign service. It was in the beginning of the war with France which broke out in 1744, rendered remarkable for the rebellion which the policy of the French court excited, in which some of the first families of the Highlands were unfor

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