sentences.text: CHAP.
sentences.text: CHAP
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: I. Mary, the heroine of this fiction, was the daughter of Edward, who married Eliza, a gentle, fashionable girl, with a kind of indolence in her temper, which might be termed negative good-nature: her virtues, indeed, were all of that stamp.
sentences.text: I.
sentences.text: Mary
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: heroine
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: this
sentences.text: fiction
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: daughter
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: Edward
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: who
sentences.text: married
sentences.text: Eliza
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: gentle
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: fashionable
sentences.text: girl
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: with
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: kind
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: indolence
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: temper
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: might
sentences.text: be
sentences.text: termed
sentences.text: negative
sentences.text: good-nature
sentences.text: :
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: virtues
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: indeed
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: were
sentences.text: all
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: stamp
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: She carefully attended to the _ shews _ of things, and her opinions, I should have said prejudices, were such as the generality approved of.
sentences.text: She
sentences.text: carefully
sentences.text: attended
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: _
sentences.text: shews
sentences.text: _
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: things
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: opinions
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: I
sentences.text: should
sentences.text: have
sentences.text: said
sentences.text: prejudices
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: were
sentences.text: such
sentences.text: as
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: generality
sentences.text: approved
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: She was educated with the expectation of a large fortune, of course became a mere machine: the homage of her attendants made a great part of her puerile amusements, and she never imagined there were any relative duties for her to fulfil: notions of her own consequence, by these means, were interwoven in her mind, and the years of youth spent in acquiring a few superficial accomplishments, without having any taste for them.
sentences.text: She
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: educated
sentences.text: with
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: expectation
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: large
sentences.text: fortune
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: course
sentences.text: became
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: mere
sentences.text: machine
sentences.text: :
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: homage
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: attendants
sentences.text: made
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: great
sentences.text: part
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: puerile
sentences.text: amusements
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: never
sentences.text: imagined
sentences.text: there
sentences.text: were
sentences.text: any
sentences.text: relative
sentences.text: duties
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: fulfil
sentences.text: :
sentences.text: notions
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: own
sentences.text: consequence
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: by
sentences.text: these
sentences.text: means
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: were
sentences.text: interwoven
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: mind
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: years
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: youth
sentences.text: spent
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: acquiring
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: few
sentences.text: superficial
sentences.text: accomplishments
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: without
sentences.text: having
sentences.text: any
sentences.text: taste
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: them
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: When she was first introduced into the polite circle, she danced with an officer, whom she faintly wished to be united to; but her father soon after recommending another in a more distinguished rank of life, she readily submitted to his will, and promised to love, honour, and obey, (a vicious fool,) as in duty bound.
sentences.text: When
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: first
sentences.text: introduced
sentences.text: into
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: polite
sentences.text: circle
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: danced
sentences.text: with
sentences.text: an
sentences.text: officer
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: whom
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: faintly
sentences.text: wished
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: be
sentences.text: united
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: but
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: father
sentences.text: soon
sentences.text: after
sentences.text: recommending
sentences.text: another
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: more
sentences.text: distinguished
sentences.text: rank
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: life
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: readily
sentences.text: submitted
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: his
sentences.text: will
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: promised
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: love
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: honour
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: obey
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: (
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: vicious
sentences.text: fool
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: )
sentences.text: as
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: duty
sentences.text: bound
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: While they resided in London, they lived in the usual fashionable style, and seldom saw each other; nor were they much more sociable when they wooed rural felicity for more than half the year, in a delightful country, where Nature, with lavish hand, had scattered beauties around; for the master, with brute, unconscious gaze, passed them by unobserved, and sought amusement in country sports.
sentences.text: While
sentences.text: they
sentences.text: resided
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: London
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: they
sentences.text: lived
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: usual
sentences.text: fashionable
sentences.text: style
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: seldom
sentences.text: saw
sentences.text: each
sentences.text: other
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: nor
sentences.text: were
sentences.text: they
sentences.text: much
sentences.text: more
sentences.text: sociable
sentences.text: when
sentences.text: they
sentences.text: wooed
sentences.text: rural
sentences.text: felicity
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: more
sentences.text: than
sentences.text: half
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: year
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: delightful
sentences.text: country
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: where
sentences.text: Nature
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: with
sentences.text: lavish
sentences.text: hand
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: had
sentences.text: scattered
sentences.text: beauties
sentences.text: around
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: master
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: with
sentences.text: brute
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: unconscious
sentences.text: gaze
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: passed
sentences.text: them
sentences.text: by
sentences.text: unobserved
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: sought
sentences.text: amusement
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: country
sentences.text: sports
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: He hunted in the morning, and after eating an immoderate dinner, generally fell asleep: this seasonable rest enabled him to digest the cumbrous load; he would then visit some of his pretty tenants; and when he compared their ruddy glow of health with his wife's countenance, which even rouge could not enliven, it is not necessary to say which a _ gourmand _ would give the preference to.
sentences.text: He
sentences.text: hunted
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: morning
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: after
sentences.text: eating
sentences.text: an
sentences.text: immoderate
sentences.text: dinner
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: generally
sentences.text: fell
sentences.text: asleep
sentences.text: :
sentences.text: this
sentences.text: seasonable
sentences.text: rest
sentences.text: enabled
sentences.text: him
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: digest
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: cumbrous
sentences.text: load
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: he
sentences.text: would
sentences.text: then
sentences.text: visit
sentences.text: some
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: his
sentences.text: pretty
sentences.text: tenants
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: when
sentences.text: he
sentences.text: compared
sentences.text: their
sentences.text: ruddy
sentences.text: glow
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: health
sentences.text: with
sentences.text: his
sentences.text: wife
sentences.text: 's
sentences.text: countenance
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: even
sentences.text: rouge
sentences.text: could
sentences.text: not
sentences.text: enliven
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: it
sentences.text: is
sentences.text: not
sentences.text: necessary
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: say
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: _
sentences.text: gourmand
sentences.text: _
sentences.text: would
sentences.text: give
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: preference
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: Their vulgar dance of spirits were infinitely more agreeable to his fancy than her sickly, die-away languor.
sentences.text: Their
sentences.text: vulgar
sentences.text: dance
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: spirits
sentences.text: were
sentences.text: infinitely
sentences.text: more
sentences.text: agreeable
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: his
sentences.text: fancy
sentences.text: than
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: sickly
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: die-away
sentences.text: languor
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: Her voice was but the shadow of a sound, and she had, to complete her delicacy, so relaxed her nerves, that she became a mere nothing.
sentences.text: Her
sentences.text: voice
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: but
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: shadow
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: sound
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: had
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: complete
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: delicacy
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: so
sentences.text: relaxed
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: nerves
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: became
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: mere
sentences.text: nothing
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: Many such noughts are there in the female world!
sentences.text: Many
sentences.text: such
sentences.text: noughts
sentences.text: are
sentences.text: there
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: female
sentences.text: world
sentences.text: !
sentences.text: yet she had a good opinion of her own merit,--truly, she said long prayers,--and sometimes read her Week's Preparation: she dreaded that horrid place vulgarly called _ hell _, the regions below; but whether her's was a mounting spirit, I cannot pretend to determine; or what sort of a planet would have been proper for her, when she left her _ material _ part in this world, let metaphysicians settle; I have nothing to say to her unclothed spirit.
sentences.text: yet
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: had
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: good
sentences.text: opinion
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: own
sentences.text: merit
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: --
sentences.text: truly
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: said
sentences.text: long
sentences.text: prayers
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: --
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: sometimes
sentences.text: read
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: Week
sentences.text: 's
sentences.text: Preparation
sentences.text: :
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: dreaded
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: horrid
sentences.text: place
sentences.text: vulgarly
sentences.text: called
sentences.text: _
sentences.text: hell
sentences.text: _
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: regions
sentences.text: below
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: but
sentences.text: whether
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: 's
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: mounting
sentences.text: spirit
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: I
sentences.text: can
sentences.text: not
sentences.text: pretend
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: determine
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: or
sentences.text: what
sentences.text: sort
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: planet
sentences.text: would
sentences.text: have
sentences.text: been
sentences.text: proper
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: when
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: left
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: _
sentences.text: material
sentences.text: _
sentences.text: part
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: this
sentences.text: world
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: let
sentences.text: metaphysicians
sentences.text: settle
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: I
sentences.text: have
sentences.text: nothing
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: say
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: unclothed
sentences.text: spirit
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: As she was sometimes obliged to be alone, or only with her French waiting-maid, she sent to the metropolis for all the new publications, and while she was dressing her hair, and she could turn her eyes from the glass, she ran over those most delightful substitutes for bodily dissipation, novels.
sentences.text: As
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: sometimes
sentences.text: obliged
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: be
sentences.text: alone
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: or
sentences.text: only
sentences.text: with
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: French
sentences.text: waiting-maid
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: sent
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: metropolis
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: all
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: new
sentences.text: publications
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: while
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: dressing
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: hair
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: could
sentences.text: turn
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: eyes
sentences.text: from
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: glass
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: ran
sentences.text: over
sentences.text: those
sentences.text: most
sentences.text: delightful
sentences.text: substitutes
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: bodily
sentences.text: dissipation
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: novels
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: I say bodily, or the animal soul, for a rational one can find no employment in polite circles.
sentences.text: I
sentences.text: say
sentences.text: bodily
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: or
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: animal
sentences.text: soul
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: rational
sentences.text: one
sentences.text: can
sentences.text: find
sentences.text: no
sentences.text: employment
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: polite
sentences.text: circles
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: The glare of lights, the studied inelegancies of dress, and the compliments offered up at the shrine of false beauty, are all equally addressed to the senses.
sentences.text: The
sentences.text: glare
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: lights
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: studied
sentences.text: inelegancies
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: dress
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: compliments
sentences.text: offered
sentences.text: up
sentences.text: at
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: shrine
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: false
sentences.text: beauty
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: are
sentences.text: all
sentences.text: equally
sentences.text: addressed
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: senses
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: When she could not any longer indulge the caprices of fancy one way, she tried another.
sentences.text: When
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: could
sentences.text: not
sentences.text: any
sentences.text: longer
sentences.text: indulge
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: caprices
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: fancy
sentences.text: one
sentences.text: way
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: tried
sentences.text: another
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: The Platonic Marriage, Eliza Warwick, and some other interesting tales were perused with eagerness.
sentences.text: The
sentences.text: Platonic
sentences.text: Marriage
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: Eliza
sentences.text: Warwick
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: some
sentences.text: other
sentences.text: interesting
sentences.text: tales
sentences.text: were
sentences.text: perused
sentences.text: with
sentences.text: eagerness
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: Nothing could be more natural than the developement of the passions, nor more striking than the views of the human heart.
sentences.text: Nothing
sentences.text: could
sentences.text: be
sentences.text: more
sentences.text: natural
sentences.text: than
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: developement
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: passions
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: nor
sentences.text: more
sentences.text: striking
sentences.text: than
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: views
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: human
sentences.text: heart
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: What delicate struggles!
sentences.text: What
sentences.text: delicate
sentences.text: struggles
sentences.text: !
sentences.text: and uncommonly pretty turns of thought!
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: uncommonly
sentences.text: pretty
sentences.text: turns
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: thought
sentences.text: !
sentences.text: The picture that was found on a bramble-bush, the new sensitive-plant, or tree, which caught the swain by the upper-garment, and presented to his ravished eyes a portrait.
sentences.text: The
sentences.text: picture
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: found
sentences.text: on
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: bramble-bush
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: new
sentences.text: sensitive-plant
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: or
sentences.text: tree
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: caught
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: swain
sentences.text: by
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: upper-garment
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: presented
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: his
sentences.text: ravished
sentences.text: eyes
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: portrait
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: -- Fatal image!
sentences.text: --
sentences.text: Fatal
sentences.text: image
sentences.text: !
sentences.text: -- It planted a thorn in a till then insensible heart, and sent a new kind of a knight-errant into the world.
sentences.text: --
sentences.text: It
sentences.text: planted
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: thorn
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: till
sentences.text: then
sentences.text: insensible
sentences.text: heart
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: sent
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: new
sentences.text: kind
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: knight-errant
sentences.text: into
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: world
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: But even this was nothing to the catastrophe, and the circumstance on which it hung, the hornet settling on the sleeping lover's face.
sentences.text: But
sentences.text: even
sentences.text: this
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: nothing
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: catastrophe
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: circumstance
sentences.text: on
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: it
sentences.text: hung
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: hornet
sentences.text: settling
sentences.text: on
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: sleeping
sentences.text: lover
sentences.text: 's
sentences.text: face
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: What a _ heart-rending _ accident!
sentences.text: What
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: _
sentences.text: heart-rending
sentences.text: _
sentences.text: accident
sentences.text: !
sentences.text: She planted, in imitation of those susceptible souls, a rose bush; but there was not a lover to weep in concert with her, when she watered it with her tears.
sentences.text: She
sentences.text: planted
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: imitation
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: those
sentences.text: susceptible
sentences.text: souls
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: rose
sentences.text: bush
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: but
sentences.text: there
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: not
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: lover
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: weep
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: concert
sentences.text: with
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: when
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: watered
sentences.text: it
sentences.text: with
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: tears
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: -- Alas!
sentences.text: --
sentences.text: Alas
sentences.text: !
sentences.text: Alas!
sentences.text: Alas
sentences.text: !
sentences.text: If my readers would excuse the sportiveness of fancy, and give me credit for genius, I would go on and tell them such tales as would force the sweet tears of sensibility to flow in copious showers down beautiful cheeks, to the discomposure of rouge, & c. & c. Nay, I would make it so interesting, that the fair peruser should beg the hair-dresser to settle the curls himself, and not interrupt her.
sentences.text: If
sentences.text: my
sentences.text: readers
sentences.text: would
sentences.text: excuse
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: sportiveness
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: fancy
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: give
sentences.text: me
sentences.text: credit
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: genius
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: I
sentences.text: would
sentences.text: go
sentences.text: on
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: tell
sentences.text: them
sentences.text: such
sentences.text: tales
sentences.text: as
sentences.text: would
sentences.text: force
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: sweet
sentences.text: tears
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: sensibility
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: flow
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: copious
sentences.text: showers
sentences.text: down
sentences.text: beautiful
sentences.text: cheeks
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: discomposure
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: rouge
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: &
sentences.text: c.
sentences.text: &
sentences.text: c.
sentences.text: Nay
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: I
sentences.text: would
sentences.text: make
sentences.text: it
sentences.text: so
sentences.text: interesting
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: fair
sentences.text: peruser
sentences.text: should
sentences.text: beg
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: hair-dresser
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: settle
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: curls
sentences.text: himself
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: not
sentences.text: interrupt
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: She had besides another resource, two most beautiful dogs, who shared her bed, and reclined on cushions near her all the day.
sentences.text: She
sentences.text: had
sentences.text: besides
sentences.text: another
sentences.text: resource
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: two
sentences.text: most
sentences.text: beautiful
sentences.text: dogs
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: who
sentences.text: shared
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: bed
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: reclined
sentences.text: on
sentences.text: cushions
sentences.text: near
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: all
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: day
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: These she watched with the most assiduous care, and bestowed on them the warmest caresses.
sentences.text: These
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: watched
sentences.text: with
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: most
sentences.text: assiduous
sentences.text: care
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: bestowed
sentences.text: on
sentences.text: them
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: warmest
sentences.text: caresses
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: This fondness for animals was not that kind of _ attendrissement _ which makes a person take pleasure in providing for the subsistence and comfort of a living creature; but it proceeded from vanity, it gave her an opportunity of lisping out the prettiest French expressions of ecstatic fondness, in accents that had never been attuned by tenderness.
sentences.text: This
sentences.text: fondness
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: animals
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: not
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: kind
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: _
sentences.text: attendrissement
sentences.text: _
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: makes
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: person
sentences.text: take
sentences.text: pleasure
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: providing
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: subsistence
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: comfort
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: living
sentences.text: creature
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: but
sentences.text: it
sentences.text: proceeded
sentences.text: from
sentences.text: vanity
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: it
sentences.text: gave
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: an
sentences.text: opportunity
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: lisping
sentences.text: out
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: prettiest
sentences.text: French
sentences.text: expressions
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: ecstatic
sentences.text: fondness
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: accents
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: had
sentences.text: never
sentences.text: been
sentences.text: attuned
sentences.text: by
sentences.text: tenderness
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: She was chaste, according to the vulgar acceptation of the word, that is, she did not make any actual _ faux pas _; she feared the world, and was indolent; but then, to make amends for this seeming self-denial, she read all the sentimental novels, dwelt on the love-scenes, and, had she thought while she read, her mind would have been contaminated; as she accompanied the lovers to the lonely arbors, and would walk with them by the clear light of the moon.
sentences.text: She
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: chaste
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: according
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: vulgar
sentences.text: acceptation
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: word
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: is
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: did
sentences.text: not
sentences.text: make
sentences.text: any
sentences.text: actual
sentences.text: _
sentences.text: faux
sentences.text: pas
sentences.text: _
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: feared
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: world
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: indolent
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: but
sentences.text: then
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: make
sentences.text: amends
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: this
sentences.text: seeming
sentences.text: self-denial
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: read
sentences.text: all
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: sentimental
sentences.text: novels
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: dwelt
sentences.text: on
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: love-scenes
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: had
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: thought
sentences.text: while
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: read
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: mind
sentences.text: would
sentences.text: have
sentences.text: been
sentences.text: contaminated
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: as
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: accompanied
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: lovers
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: lonely
sentences.text: arbors
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: would
sentences.text: walk
sentences.text: with
sentences.text: them
sentences.text: by
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: clear
sentences.text: light
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: moon
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: She wondered her husband did not stay at home.
sentences.text: She
sentences.text: wondered
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: husband
sentences.text: did
sentences.text: not
sentences.text: stay
sentences.text: at
sentences.text: home
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: She was jealous--why did he not love her, sit by her side, squeeze her hand, and look unutterable things?
sentences.text: She
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: jealous
sentences.text: --
sentences.text: why
sentences.text: did
sentences.text: he
sentences.text: not
sentences.text: love
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: sit
sentences.text: by
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: side
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: squeeze
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: hand
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: look
sentences.text: unutterable
sentences.text: things
sentences.text: ?
sentences.text: Gentle reader, I will tell thee; they neither of them felt what they could not utter.
sentences.text: Gentle
sentences.text: reader
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: I
sentences.text: will
sentences.text: tell
sentences.text: thee
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: they
sentences.text: neither
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: them
sentences.text: felt
sentences.text: what
sentences.text: they
sentences.text: could
sentences.text: not
sentences.text: utter
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: I will not pretend to say that they always annexed an idea to a word; but they had none of those feelings which are not easily analyzed.
sentences.text: I
sentences.text: will
sentences.text: not
sentences.text: pretend
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: say
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: they
sentences.text: always
sentences.text: annexed
sentences.text: an
sentences.text: idea
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: word
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: but
sentences.text: they
sentences.text: had
sentences.text: none
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: those
sentences.text: feelings
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: are
sentences.text: not
sentences.text: easily
sentences.text: analyzed
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: CHAP.
sentences.text: CHAP
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: II.
sentences.text: II
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: In due time she brought forth a son, a feeble babe; and the following year a daughter.
sentences.text: In
sentences.text: due
sentences.text: time
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: brought
sentences.text: forth
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: son
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: feeble
sentences.text: babe
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: following
sentences.text: year
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: daughter
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: After the mother's throes she felt very few sentiments of maternal tenderness: the children were given to nurses, and she played with her dogs.
sentences.text: After
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: mother
sentences.text: 's
sentences.text: throes
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: felt
sentences.text: very
sentences.text: few
sentences.text: sentiments
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: maternal
sentences.text: tenderness
sentences.text: :
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: children
sentences.text: were
sentences.text: given
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: nurses
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: played
sentences.text: with
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: dogs
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: Want of exercise prevented the least chance of her recovering strength; and two or three milk-fevers brought on a consumption, to which her constitution tended.
sentences.text: Want
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: exercise
sentences.text: prevented
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: least
sentences.text: chance
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: recovering
sentences.text: strength
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: two
sentences.text: or
sentences.text: three
sentences.text: milk-fevers
sentences.text: brought
sentences.text: on
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: consumption
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: constitution
sentences.text: tended
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: Her children all died in their infancy, except the two first, and she began to grow fond of the son, as he was remarkably handsome.
sentences.text: Her
sentences.text: children
sentences.text: all
sentences.text: died
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: their
sentences.text: infancy
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: except
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: two
sentences.text: first
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: began
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: grow
sentences.text: fond
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: son
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: as
sentences.text: he
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: remarkably
sentences.text: handsome
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: For years she divided her time between the sofa, and the card-table.
sentences.text: For
sentences.text: years
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: divided
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: time
sentences.text: between
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: sofa
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: card-table
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: She thought not of death, though on the borders of the grave; nor did any of the duties of her station occur to her as necessary.
sentences.text: She
sentences.text: thought
sentences.text: not
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: death
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: though
sentences.text: on
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: borders
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: grave
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: nor
sentences.text: did
sentences.text: any
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: duties
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: station
sentences.text: occur
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: as
sentences.text: necessary
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: Her children were left in the nursery; and when Mary, the little blushing girl, appeared, she would send the awkward thing away.
sentences.text: Her
sentences.text: children
sentences.text: were
sentences.text: left
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: nursery
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: when
sentences.text: Mary
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: little
sentences.text: blushing
sentences.text: girl
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: appeared
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: would
sentences.text: send
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: awkward
sentences.text: thing
sentences.text: away
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: To own the truth, she was awkward enough, in a house without any play-mates; for her brother had been sent to school, and she scarcely knew how to employ herself; she would ramble about the garden, admire the flowers, and play with the dogs.
sentences.text: To
sentences.text: own
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: truth
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: awkward
sentences.text: enough
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: house
sentences.text: without
sentences.text: any
sentences.text: play-mates
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: brother
sentences.text: had
sentences.text: been
sentences.text: sent
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: school
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: scarcely
sentences.text: knew
sentences.text: how
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: employ
sentences.text: herself
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: would
sentences.text: ramble
sentences.text: about
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: garden
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: admire
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: flowers
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: play
sentences.text: with
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: dogs
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: An old house-keeper told her stories, read to her, and, at last, taught her to read.
sentences.text: An
sentences.text: old
sentences.text: house-keeper
sentences.text: told
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: stories
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: read
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: at
sentences.text: last
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: taught
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: read
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: Her mother talked of enquiring for a governess when her health would permit; and, in the interim desired her own maid to teach her French.
sentences.text: Her
sentences.text: mother
sentences.text: talked
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: enquiring
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: governess
sentences.text: when
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: health
sentences.text: would
sentences.text: permit
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: interim
sentences.text: desired
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: own
sentences.text: maid
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: teach
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: French
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: As she had learned to read, she perused with avidity every book that came in her way.
sentences.text: As
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: had
sentences.text: learned
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: read
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: perused
sentences.text: with
sentences.text: avidity
sentences.text: every
sentences.text: book
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: came
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: way
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: Neglected in every respect, and left to the operations of her own mind, she considered every thing that came under her inspection, and learned to think.
sentences.text: Neglected
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: every
sentences.text: respect
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: left
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: operations
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: own
sentences.text: mind
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: considered
sentences.text: every
sentences.text: thing
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: came
sentences.text: under
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: inspection
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: learned
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: think
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: She had heard of a separate state, and that angels sometimes visited this earth.
sentences.text: She
sentences.text: had
sentences.text: heard
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: separate
sentences.text: state
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: angels
sentences.text: sometimes
sentences.text: visited
sentences.text: this
sentences.text: earth
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: She would sit in a thick wood in the park, and talk to them; make little songs addressed to them, and sing them to tunes of her own composing; and her native wood notes wild were sweet and touching.
sentences.text: She
sentences.text: would
sentences.text: sit
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: thick
sentences.text: wood
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: park
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: talk
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: them
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: make
sentences.text: little
sentences.text: songs
sentences.text: addressed
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: them
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: sing
sentences.text: them
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: tunes
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: own
sentences.text: composing
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: native
sentences.text: wood
sentences.text: notes
sentences.text: wild
sentences.text: were
sentences.text: sweet
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: touching
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: Her father always exclaimed against female acquirements, and was glad that his wife's indolence and ill health made her not trouble herself about them.
sentences.text: Her
sentences.text: father
sentences.text: always
sentences.text: exclaimed
sentences.text: against
sentences.text: female
sentences.text: acquirements
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: glad
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: his
sentences.text: wife
sentences.text: 's
sentences.text: indolence
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: ill
sentences.text: health
sentences.text: made
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: not
sentences.text: trouble
sentences.text: herself
sentences.text: about
sentences.text: them
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: She had besides another reason, she did not wish to have a fine tall girl brought forward into notice as her daughter; she still expected to recover, and figure away in the gay world.
sentences.text: She
sentences.text: had
sentences.text: besides
sentences.text: another
sentences.text: reason
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: did
sentences.text: not
sentences.text: wish
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: have
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: fine
sentences.text: tall
sentences.text: girl
sentences.text: brought
sentences.text: forward
sentences.text: into
sentences.text: notice
sentences.text: as
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: daughter
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: still
sentences.text: expected
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: recover
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: figure
sentences.text: away
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: gay
sentences.text: world
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: Her husband was very tyrannical and passionate; indeed so very easily irritated when inebriated, that Mary was continually in dread lest he should frighten her mother to death; her sickness called forth all Mary's tenderness, and exercised her compassion so continually, that it became more than a match for self-love, and was the governing propensity of her heart through life.
sentences.text: Her
sentences.text: husband
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: very
sentences.text: tyrannical
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: passionate
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: indeed
sentences.text: so
sentences.text: very
sentences.text: easily
sentences.text: irritated
sentences.text: when
sentences.text: inebriated
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: Mary
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: continually
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: dread
sentences.text: lest
sentences.text: he
sentences.text: should
sentences.text: frighten
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: mother
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: death
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: sickness
sentences.text: called
sentences.text: forth
sentences.text: all
sentences.text: Mary
sentences.text: 's
sentences.text: tenderness
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: exercised
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: compassion
sentences.text: so
sentences.text: continually
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: it
sentences.text: became
sentences.text: more
sentences.text: than
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: match
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: self-love
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: governing
sentences.text: propensity
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: heart
sentences.text: through
sentences.text: life
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: She was violent in her temper; but she saw her father's faults, and would weep when obliged to compare his temper with her own.
sentences.text: She
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: violent
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: temper
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: but
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: saw
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: father
sentences.text: 's
sentences.text: faults
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: would
sentences.text: weep
sentences.text: when
sentences.text: obliged
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: compare
sentences.text: his
sentences.text: temper
sentences.text: with
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: own
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: -- She did more; artless prayers rose to Heaven for pardon, when she was conscious of having erred; and her contrition was so exceedingly painful, that she watched diligently the first movements of anger and impatience, to save herself this cruel remorse.
sentences.text: --
sentences.text: She
sentences.text: did
sentences.text: more
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: artless
sentences.text: prayers
sentences.text: rose
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: Heaven
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: pardon
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: when
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: conscious
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: having
sentences.text: erred
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: contrition
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: so
sentences.text: exceedingly
sentences.text: painful
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: watched
sentences.text: diligently
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: first
sentences.text: movements
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: anger
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: impatience
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: save
sentences.text: herself
sentences.text: this
sentences.text: cruel
sentences.text: remorse
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: Sublime ideas filled her young mind--always connected with devotional sentiments; extemporary effusions of gratitude, and rhapsodies of praise would burst often from her, when she listened to the birds, or pursued the deer.
sentences.text: Sublime
sentences.text: ideas
sentences.text: filled
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: young
sentences.text: mind
sentences.text: --
sentences.text: always
sentences.text: connected
sentences.text: with
sentences.text: devotional
sentences.text: sentiments
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: extemporary
sentences.text: effusions
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: gratitude
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: rhapsodies
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: praise
sentences.text: would
sentences.text: burst
sentences.text: often
sentences.text: from
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: when
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: listened
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: birds
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: or
sentences.text: pursued
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: deer
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: She would gaze on the moon, and ramble through the gloomy path, observing the various shapes the clouds assumed, and listen to the sea that was not far distant.
sentences.text: She
sentences.text: would
sentences.text: gaze
sentences.text: on
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: moon
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: ramble
sentences.text: through
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: gloomy
sentences.text: path
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: observing
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: various
sentences.text: shapes
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: clouds
sentences.text: assumed
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: listen
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: sea
sentences.text: that
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: not
sentences.text: far
sentences.text: distant
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: The wandering spirits, which she imagined inhabited every part of nature, were her constant friends and confidants.
sentences.text: The
sentences.text: wandering
sentences.text: spirits
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: which
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: imagined
sentences.text: inhabited
sentences.text: every
sentences.text: part
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: nature
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: were
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: constant
sentences.text: friends
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: confidants
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: She began to consider the Great First Cause, formed just notions of his attributes, and, in particular, dwelt on his wisdom and goodness.
sentences.text: She
sentences.text: began
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: consider
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: Great
sentences.text: First
sentences.text: Cause
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: formed
sentences.text: just
sentences.text: notions
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: his
sentences.text: attributes
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: in
sentences.text: particular
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: dwelt
sentences.text: on
sentences.text: his
sentences.text: wisdom
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: goodness
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: Could she have loved her father or mother, had they returned her affection, she would not so soon, perhaps, have sought out a new world.
sentences.text: Could
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: have
sentences.text: loved
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: father
sentences.text: or
sentences.text: mother
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: had
sentences.text: they
sentences.text: returned
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: affection
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: would
sentences.text: not
sentences.text: so
sentences.text: soon
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: perhaps
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: have
sentences.text: sought
sentences.text: out
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: new
sentences.text: world
sentences.text: .
sentences.text: Her sensibility prompted her to search for an object to love; on earth it was not to be found: her mother had often disappointed her, and the apparent partiality she shewed to her brother gave her exquisite pain--produced a kind of habitual melancholy, led her into a fondness for reading tales of woe, and made her almost realize the fictitious distress.
sentences.text: Her
sentences.text: sensibility
sentences.text: prompted
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: search
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: an
sentences.text: object
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: love
sentences.text: ;
sentences.text: on
sentences.text: earth
sentences.text: it
sentences.text: was
sentences.text: not
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: be
sentences.text: found
sentences.text: :
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: mother
sentences.text: had
sentences.text: often
sentences.text: disappointed
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: apparent
sentences.text: partiality
sentences.text: she
sentences.text: shewed
sentences.text: to
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: brother
sentences.text: gave
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: exquisite
sentences.text: pain
sentences.text: --
sentences.text: produced
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: kind
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: habitual
sentences.text: melancholy
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: led
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: into
sentences.text: a
sentences.text: fondness
sentences.text: for
sentences.text: reading
sentences.text: tales
sentences.text: of
sentences.text: woe
sentences.text: ,
sentences.text: and
sentences.text: made
sentences.text: her
sentences.text: almost
sentences.text: realize
sentences.text: the
sentences.text: fictitious
sentences.text: distress
sentences.text: .
text: CHAP. I.
  
  
  Mary, the heroine of this fiction, was the daughter of Edward, who
  married Eliza, a gentle, fashionable girl, with a kind of indolence in
  her temper, which might be termed negative good-nature: her virtues,
  indeed, were all of that stamp. She carefully attended to the _shews_ of
  things, and her opinions, I should have said prejudices, were such as
  the generality approved of. She was educated with the expectation of a
  large fortune, of course became a mere machine: the homage of her
  attendants made a great part of her puerile amusements, and she never
  imagined there were any relative duties for her to fulfil: notions of
  her own consequence, by these means, were interwoven in her mind, and
  the years of youth spent in acquiring a few superficial accomplishments,
  without having any taste for them. When she was first introduced into
  the polite circle, she danced with an officer, whom she faintly wished
  to be united to; but her father soon after recommending another in a
  more distinguished rank of life, she readily submitted to his will, and
  promised to love, honour, and obey, (a vicious fool,) as in duty bound.
  
  While they resided in London, they lived in the usual fashionable style,
  and seldom saw each other; nor were they much more sociable when they
  wooed rural felicity for more than half the year, in a delightful
  country, where Nature, with lavish hand, had scattered beauties around;
  for the master, with brute, unconscious gaze, passed them by unobserved,
  and sought amusement in country sports. He hunted in the morning, and
  after eating an immoderate dinner, generally fell asleep: this
  seasonable rest enabled him to digest the cumbrous load; he would then
  visit some of his pretty tenants; and when he compared their ruddy glow
  of health with his wife's countenance, which even rouge could not
  enliven, it is not necessary to say which a _gourmand_ would give the
  preference to. Their vulgar dance of spirits were infinitely more
  agreeable to his fancy than her sickly, die-away languor. Her voice was
  but the shadow of a sound, and she had, to complete her delicacy, so
  relaxed her nerves, that she became a mere nothing.
  
  Many such noughts are there in the female world! yet she had a good
  opinion of her own merit,--truly, she said long prayers,--and sometimes
  read her Week's Preparation: she dreaded that horrid place vulgarly
  called _hell_, the regions below; but whether her's was a mounting
  spirit, I cannot pretend to determine; or what sort of a planet would
  have been proper for her, when she left her _material_ part in this
  world, let metaphysicians settle; I have nothing to say to her unclothed
  spirit.
  
  As she was sometimes obliged to be alone, or only with her French
  waiting-maid, she sent to the metropolis for all the new publications,
  and while she was dressing her hair, and she could turn her eyes from
  the glass, she ran over those most delightful substitutes for bodily
  dissipation, novels. I say bodily, or the animal soul, for a rational
  one can find no employment in polite circles. The glare of lights, the
  studied inelegancies of dress, and the compliments offered up at the
  shrine of false beauty, are all equally addressed to the senses.
  
  When she could not any longer indulge the caprices of fancy one way, she
  tried another. The Platonic Marriage, Eliza Warwick, and some other
  interesting tales were perused with eagerness. Nothing could be more
  natural than the developement of the passions, nor more striking than
  the views of the human heart. What delicate struggles! and uncommonly
  pretty turns of thought! The picture that was found on a bramble-bush,
  the new sensitive-plant, or tree, which caught the swain by the
  upper-garment, and presented to his ravished eyes a portrait.--Fatal
  image!--It planted a thorn in a till then insensible heart, and sent a
  new kind of a knight-errant into the world. But even this was nothing to
  the catastrophe, and the circumstance on which it hung, the hornet
  settling on the sleeping lover's face. What a _heart-rending_ accident!
  She planted, in imitation of those susceptible souls, a rose bush; but
  there was not a lover to weep in concert with her, when she watered it
  with her tears.--Alas! Alas!
  
  If my readers would excuse the sportiveness of fancy, and give me credit
  for genius, I would go on and tell them such tales as would force the
  sweet tears of sensibility to flow in copious showers down beautiful
  cheeks, to the discomposure of rouge, &c. &c. Nay, I would make it so
  interesting, that the fair peruser should beg the hair-dresser to
  settle the curls himself, and not interrupt her.
  
  She had besides another resource, two most beautiful dogs, who shared
  her bed, and reclined on cushions near her all the day. These she
  watched with the most assiduous care, and bestowed on them the warmest
  caresses. This fondness for animals was not that kind of
  _attendrissement_ which makes a person take pleasure in providing for
  the subsistence and comfort of a living creature; but it proceeded from
  vanity, it gave her an opportunity of lisping out the prettiest French
  expressions of ecstatic fondness, in accents that had never been attuned
  by tenderness.
  
  She was chaste, according to the vulgar acceptation of the word, that
  is, she did not make any actual _faux pas_; she feared the world, and
  was indolent; but then, to make amends for this seeming self-denial, she
  read all the sentimental novels, dwelt on the love-scenes, and, had she
  thought while she read, her mind would have been contaminated; as she
  accompanied the lovers to the lonely arbors, and would walk with them by
  the clear light of the moon. She wondered her husband did not stay at
  home. She was jealous--why did he not love her, sit by her side, squeeze
  her hand, and look unutterable things? Gentle reader, I will tell thee;
  they neither of them felt what they could not utter. I will not pretend
  to say that they always annexed an idea to a word; but they had none of
  those feelings which are not easily analyzed.
  
  
  
  
  CHAP. II.
  
  
  In due time she brought forth a son, a feeble babe; and the following
  year a daughter. After the mother's throes she felt very few sentiments
  of maternal tenderness: the children were given to nurses, and she
  played with her dogs. Want of exercise prevented the least chance of her
  recovering strength; and two or three milk-fevers brought on a
  consumption, to which her constitution tended. Her children all died in
  their infancy, except the two first, and she began to grow fond of the
  son, as he was remarkably handsome. For years she divided her time
  between the sofa, and the card-table. She thought not of death, though
  on the borders of the grave; nor did any of the duties of her station
  occur to her as necessary. Her children were left in the nursery; and
  when Mary, the little blushing girl, appeared, she would send the
  awkward thing away. To own the truth, she was awkward enough, in a house
  without any play-mates; for her brother had been sent to school, and she
  scarcely knew how to employ herself; she would ramble about the garden,
  admire the flowers, and play with the dogs. An old house-keeper told her
  stories, read to her, and, at last, taught her to read. Her mother
  talked of enquiring for a governess when her health would permit; and,
  in the interim desired her own maid to teach her French. As she had
  learned to read, she perused with avidity every book that came in her
  way. Neglected in every respect, and left to the operations of her own
  mind, she considered every thing that came under her inspection, and
  learned to think. She had heard of a separate state, and that angels
  sometimes visited this earth. She would sit in a thick wood in the park,
  and talk to them; make little songs addressed to them, and sing them to
  tunes of her own composing; and her native wood notes wild were sweet
  and touching.
  
  Her father always exclaimed against female acquirements, and was glad
  that his wife's indolence and ill health made her not trouble herself
  about them. She had besides another reason, she did not wish to have a
  fine tall girl brought forward into notice as her daughter; she still
  expected to recover, and figure away in the gay world. Her husband was
  very tyrannical and passionate; indeed so very easily irritated when
  inebriated, that Mary was continually in dread lest he should frighten
  her mother to death; her sickness called forth all Mary's tenderness,
  and exercised her compassion so continually, that it became more than a
  match for self-love, and was the governing propensity of her heart
  through life. She was violent in her temper; but she saw her father's
  faults, and would weep when obliged to compare his temper with her
  own.--She did more; artless prayers rose to Heaven for pardon, when she
  was conscious of having erred; and her contrition was so exceedingly
  painful, that she watched diligently the first movements of anger and
  impatience, to save herself this cruel remorse.
  
  Sublime ideas filled her young mind--always connected with devotional
  sentiments; extemporary effusions of gratitude, and rhapsodies of
  praise would burst often from her, when she listened to the birds, or
  pursued the deer. She would gaze on the moon, and ramble through the
  gloomy path, observing the various shapes the clouds assumed, and listen
  to the sea that was not far distant. The wandering spirits, which she
  imagined inhabited every part of nature, were her constant friends and
  confidants. She began to consider the Great First Cause, formed just
  notions of his attributes, and, in particular, dwelt on his wisdom and
  goodness. Could she have loved her father or mother, had they returned
  her affection, she would not so soon, perhaps, have sought out a new
  world.
  
  Her sensibility prompted her to search for an object to love; on earth
  it was not to be found: her mother had often disappointed her, and the
  apparent partiality she shewed to her brother gave her exquisite
  pain--produced a kind of habitual melancholy, led her into a fondness
  for reading tales of woe, and made her almost realize the fictitious
  distress.
  
  She had not any notion of death till a little chicken expired at her
  feet; and her father had a dog hung in a passion. She then concluded
  animals had souls, or they would not have been subjected to the caprice
  of man; but what was the soul of man or beast? In this style year after
  year rolled on, her mother still vegetating.
  
  A little girl who attended in the nursery fell sick. Mary paid her great
  attention; contrary to her wish, she was sent out of the house to her
  mother, a poor woman, whom necessity obliged to leave her sick child
  while she earned her daily bread. The poor wretch, in a fit of delirium
  stabbed herself, and Mary saw her dead body, and heard the dismal
  account; and so strongly did it impress her imagination, that every
  night of her life the bleeding corpse presented itself to her when the
  first began to slumber. Tortured by it, she at last made a vow, that if
  she was ever mistress of a family she would herself watch over every
  part of it. The impression that this accident made was indelible.
  
  As her mother grew imperceptibly worse and worse, her father, who did
  not understand such a lingering complaint, imagined his wife was only
  grown still more whimsical, and that if she could be prevailed on to
  exert herself, her health would soon be re-established. In general he
  treated her with indifference; but when her illness at all interfered
  with his pleasures, he expostulated in the most cruel manner, and
  visibly harassed the invalid. Mary would then assiduously try to turn
  his attention to something else; and when sent out of the room, would
  watch at the door, until the storm was over, for unless it was, she
  could not rest. Other causes also contributed to disturb her repose: her
  mother's luke-warm manner of performing her religious duties, filled her
  with anguish; and when she observed her father's vices, the unbidden
  tears would flow. She was miserable when beggars were driven from the
  gate without being relieved; if she could do it unperceived, she would
  give them her own breakfast, and feel gratified, when, in consequence of
  it, she was pinched by hunger.
  
  She had once, or twice, told her little secrets to her mother; they were
  laughed at, and she determined never to do it again. In this manner was
  she left to reflect on her own feelings; and so strengthened were they
  by being meditated on, that her character early became singular and
  permanent. Her understanding was strong and clear, when not clouded by
  her feelings; but she was too much the creature of impulse, and the
  slave of compassion.
  
  
  
  
  CHAP. III.
  
  
  Near her father's house lived a poor widow, who had been brought up in
  affluence, but reduced to great distress by the extravagance of her
  husband; he had destroyed his constitution while he spent his fortune;
  and dying, left his wife, and five small children, to live on a very
  scanty pittance. The eldest daughter was for some years educated by a
  distant relation, a Clergyman. While she was with him a young gentleman,
  son to a man of property in the neighbourhood, took particular notice of
  her. It is true, he never talked of love; but then they played and sung
  in concert; drew landscapes together, and while she worked he read to
  her, cultivated her taste, and stole imperceptibly her heart. Just at
  this juncture, when smiling, unanalyzed hope made every prospect bright,
  and gay expectation danced in her eyes, her benefactor died. She
  returned to her mother--the companion of her youth forgot her, they took
  no more sweet counsel together. This disappointment spread a sadness
  over her countenance, and made it interesting. She grew fond of
  solitude, and her character appeared similar to Mary's, though her
  natural disposition was very different.
  
  She was several years older than Mary, yet her refinement, her taste,
  caught her eye, and she eagerly sought her friendship: before her return
  she had assisted the family, which was almost reduced to the last ebb;
  and now she had another motive to actuate her.
  
  As she had often occasion to send messages to Ann, her new friend,
  mistakes were frequently made; Ann proposed that in future they should
  be written ones, to obviate this difficulty, and render their
  intercourse more agreeable. Young people are mostly fond of scribbling;
  Mary had had very little instruction; but by copying her friend's
  letters, whose hand she admired, she soon became a proficient; a little
  practice made her write with tolerable correctness, and her genius gave
  force to it. In conversation, and in writing, when she felt, she was
  pathetic, tender and persuasive; and she expressed contempt with such
  energy, that few could stand the flash of her eyes.
  
  As she grew more intimate with Ann, her manners were softened, and she
  acquired a degree of equality in her behaviour: yet still her spirits
  were fluctuating, and her movements rapid. She felt less pain on
  account of her mother's partiality to her brother, as she hoped now to
  experience the pleasure of being beloved; but this hope led her into new
  sorrows, and, as usual, paved the way for disappointment. Ann only felt
  gratitude; her heart was entirely engrossed by one object, and
  friendship could not serve as a substitute; memory officiously retraced
  past scenes, and unavailing wishes made time loiter.
  
  Mary was often hurt by the involuntary indifference which these
  consequences produced. When her friend was all the world to her, she
  found she was not as necessary to her happiness; and her delicate mind
  could not bear to obtrude her affection, or receive love as an alms, the
  offspring of pity. Very frequently has she ran to her with delight, and
  not perceiving any thing of the same kind in Ann's countenance, she has
  shrunk back; and, falling from one extreme into the other, instead of a
  warm greeting that was just slipping from her tongue, her expressions
  seemed to be dictated by the most chilling insensibility.
  
  She would then imagine that she looked sickly or unhappy, and then all
  her tenderness would return like a torrent, and bear away all
  reflection. In this manner was her sensibility called forth, and
  exercised, by her mother's illness, her friend's misfortunes, and her
  own unsettled mind.
  
  
  
  
  CHAP. IV.
  
  
  Near to her father's house was a range of mountains; some of them were,
  literally speaking, cloud-capt, for on them clouds continually rested,
  and gave grandeur to the prospect; and down many of their sides the
  little bubbling cascades ran till they swelled a beautiful river.
  Through the straggling trees and bushes the wind whistled, and on them
  the birds sung, particularly the robins; they also found shelter in the
  ivy of an old castle, a haunted one, as the story went; it was situated
  on the brow of one of the mountains, and commanded a view of the sea.
  This castle had been inhabited by some of her ancestors; and many tales
  had the old house-keeper told her of the worthies who had resided there.
  
  When her mother frowned, and her friend looked cool, she would steal to
  this retirement, where human foot seldom trod--gaze on the sea, observe
  the grey clouds, or listen to the wind which struggled to free itself
  from the only thing that impeded its course. When more cheerful, she
  admired the various dispositions of light and shade, the beautiful tints
  the gleams of sunshine gave to the distant hills; then she rejoiced in
  existence, and darted into futurity.
  
  One way home was through the cavity of a rock covered with a thin layer
  of earth, just sufficient to afford nourishment to a few stunted shrubs
  and wild plants, which grew on its sides, and nodded over the summit. A
  clear stream broke out of it, and ran amongst the pieces of rocks
  fallen into it. Here twilight always reigned--it seemed the Temple of
  Solitude; yet, paradoxical as the assertion may appear, when the foot
  sounded on the rock, it terrified the intruder, and inspired a strange
  feeling, as if the rightful sovereign was dislodged. In this retreat she
  read Thomson's Seasons, Young's Night-Thoughts, and Paradise Lost.
  
  At a little distance from it were the huts of a few poor fishermen, who
  supported their numerous children by their precarious labour. In these
  little huts she frequently rested, and denied herself every childish
  gratification, in order to relieve the necessities of the inhabitants.
  Her heart yearned for them, and would dance with joy when she had
  relieved their wants, or afforded them pleasure.
  
  In these pursuits she learned the luxury of doing good; and the sweet
  tears of benevolence frequently moistened her eyes, and gave them a
  sparkle which, exclusive of that, they had not; on the contrary, they
  were rather fixed, and would never have been observed if her soul had
  not animated them. They were not at all like those brilliant ones which
  look like polished diamonds, and dart from every superfice, giving more
  light to the beholders than they receive themselves.
  
  Her benevolence, indeed, knew no bounds; the distress of others carried
  her out of herself; and she rested not till she had relieved or
  comforted them. The warmth of her compassion often made her so diligent,
  that many things occurred to her, which might have escaped a less
  interested observer.
  
  In like manner, she entered with such spirit into whatever she read,
  and the emotions thereby raised were so strong, that it soon became a
  part of her mind.
  
  Enthusiastic sentiments of devotion at this period actuated her; her
  Creator was almost apparent to her senses in his works; but they were
  mostly the grand or solemn features of Nature which she delighted to
  contemplate. She would stand and behold the waves rolling, and think of
  the voice that could still the tumultuous deep.
  
  These propensities gave the colour to her mind, before the passions
  began to exercise their tyrannic sway, and particularly pointed out
  those which the soil would have a tendency to nurse.
  
  Years after, when wandering through the same scenes, her imagination has
  strayed back, to trace the first placid sentiments they inspired, and
  she would earnestly desire to regain the same peaceful tranquillity.
  
  Many nights she sat up, if I may be allowed the expression, _conversing_
  with the Author of Nature, making verses, and singing hymns of her own
  composing. She considered also, and tried to discern what end her
  various faculties were destined to pursue; and had a glimpse of a truth,
  which afterwards more fully unfolded itself.
  
  She thought that only an infinite being could fill the human soul, and
  that when other objects were followed as a means of happiness, the
  delusion led to misery, the consequence of disappointment. Under the
  influence of ardent affections, how often has she forgot this
  conviction, and as often returned to it again, when it struck her with
  redoubled force. Often did she taste unmixed delight; her joys, her
  ecstacies arose from genius.
  
  She was now fifteen, and she wished to receive the holy sacrament; and
  perusing the scriptures, and discussing some points of doctrine which
  puzzled her, she would sit up half the night, her favourite time for
  employing her mind; she too plainly perceived that she saw through a
  glass darkly; and that the bounds set to stop our intellectual
  researches, is one of the trials of a probationary state.
  
  But her affections were roused by the display of divine mercy; and she
  eagerly desired to commemorate the dying love of her great benefactor.
  The night before the important day, when she was to take on herself her
  baptismal vow, she could not go to bed; the sun broke in on her
  meditations, and found her not exhausted by her watching.
  
  The orient pearls were strewed around--she hailed the morn, and sung
  with wild delight, Glory to God on high, good will towards men. She was
  indeed so much affected when she joined in the prayer for her eternal
  preservation, that she could hardly conceal her violent emotions; and
  the recollection never failed to wake her dormant piety when earthly
  passions made it grow languid.
  
  These various movements of her mind were not commented on, nor were the
  luxuriant shoots restrained by culture. The servants and the poor adored
  her.
  
  In order to be enabled to gratify herself in the highest degree, she
  practiced the most rigid oeconomy, and had such power over her
  appetites and whims, that without any great effort she conquered them
  so entirely, that when her understanding or affections had an object,
  she almost forgot she had a body which required nourishment.
  
  This habit of thinking, this kind of absorption, gave strength to the
  passions.
  
  We will now enter on the more active field of life.
  
  
  
  
  CHAP. V.
  
  
  A few months after Mary was turned of seventeen, her brother was
  attacked by a violent fever, and died before his father could reach the
  school.
  
  She was now an heiress, and her mother began to think her of
  consequence, and did not call her _the child_. Proper masters were sent
  for; she was taught to dance, and an extraordinary master procured to
  perfect her in that most necessary of all accomplishments.
  
  A part of the estate she was to inherit had been litigated, and the heir
  of the person who still carried on a Chancery suit, was only two years
  younger than our heroine. The fathers, spite of the dispute, frequently
  met, and, in order to settle it amicably, they one day, over a bottle,
  determined to quash it by a marriage, and, by uniting the two estates,
  to preclude all farther enquiries into the merits of their different
  claims.
  
  While this important matter was settling, Mary was otherwise employed.
  Ann's mother's resources were failing; and the ghastly phantom, poverty,
  made hasty strides to catch them in his clutches. Ann had not fortitude
  enough to brave such accumulated misery; besides, the canker-worm was
  lodged in her heart, and preyed on her health. She denied herself every
  little comfort; things that would be no sacrifice when a person is well,
  are absolutely necessary to alleviate bodily pain, and support the
  animal functions.
  
  There were many elegant amusements, that she had acquired a relish for,
  which might have taken her mind off from its most destructive bent; but
  these her indigence would not allow her to enjoy: forced then, by way of
  relaxation, to play the tunes her lover admired, and handle the pencil
  he taught her to hold, no wonder his image floated on her imagination,
  and that taste invigorated love.
  
  Poverty, and all its inelegant attendants, were in her mother's abode;
  and she, though a good sort of a woman, was not calculated to banish, by
  her trivial, uninteresting chat, the delirium in which her daughter was
  lost.
  
  This ill-fated love had given a bewitching softness to her manners, a
  delicacy so truly feminine, that a man of any feeling could not behold
  her without wishing to chase her sorrows away. She was timid and
  irresolute, and rather fond of dissipation; grief only had power to make
  her reflect.
  
  In every thing it was not the great, but the beautiful, or the pretty,
  that caught her attention. And in composition, the polish of style, and
  harmony of numbers, interested her much more than the flights of genius,
  or abstracted speculations.
  
  She often wondered at the books Mary chose, who, though she had a lively
  imagination, would frequently study authors whose works were addressed
  to the understanding. This liking taught her to arrange her thoughts,
  and argue with herself, even when under the influence of the most
  violent passions.
  
  Ann's misfortunes and ill health were strong ties to bind Mary to her;
  she wished so continually to have a home to receive her in, that it
  drove every other desire out of her mind; and, dwelling on the tender
  schemes which compassion and friendship dictated, she longed most
  ardently to put them in practice.
  
  Fondly as she loved her friend, she did not forget her mother, whose
  decline was so imperceptible, that they were not aware of her
  approaching dissolution. The physician, however, observing the most
  alarming symptoms; her husband was apprised of her immediate danger; and
  then first mentioned to her his designs with respect to his daughter.
  
  She approved of them; Mary was sent for; she was not at home; she had
  rambled to visit Ann, and found her in an hysteric fit. The landlord of
  her little farm had sent his agent for the rent, which had long been due
  to him; and he threatened to seize the stock that still remained, and
  turn them out, if they did not very shortly discharge the arrears.
  
  As this man made a private fortune by harassing the tenants of the
  person to whom he was deputy, little was to be expected from his
  forbearance.
  
  All this was told to Mary--and the mother added, she had many other
  creditors who would, in all probability, take the alarm, and snatch from
  them all that had been saved out of the wreck. "I could bear all," she
  cried; "but what will become of my children? Of this child," pointing to
  the fainting Ann, "whose constitution is already undermined by care and
  grief--where will she go?"--Mary's heart ceased to beat while she asked
  the question--She attempted to speak; but the inarticulate sounds died
  away. Before she had recovered herself, her father called himself to
  enquire for her; and desired her instantly to accompany him home.
  
  Engrossed by the scene of misery she had been witness to, she walked
  silently by his side, when he roused her out of her reverie by telling
  her that in all likelihood her mother had not many hours to live; and
  before she could return him any answer, informed her that they had both
  determined to marry her to Charles, his friend's son; he added, the
  ceremony was to be performed directly, that her mother might be witness
  of it; for such a desire she had expressed with childish eagerness.
  
  Overwhelmed by this intelligence, Mary rolled her eyes about, then, with
  a vacant stare, fixed them on her father's face; but they were no longer
  a sense; they conveyed no ideas to the brain. As she drew near the
  house, her wonted presence of mind returned: after this suspension of
  thought, a thousand darted into her mind,--her dying mother,--her
  friend's miserable situation,--and an extreme horror at taking--at being
  forced to take, such a hasty step; but she did not feel the disgust, the
  reluctance, which arises from a prior attachment.
  
  She loved Ann better than any one in the world--to snatch her from the
  very jaws of destruction--she would have encountered a lion. To have
  this friend constantly with her; to make her mind easy with respect to
  her family, would it not be superlative bliss?
  
  Full of these thoughts she entered her mother's chamber, but they then
  fled at the sight of a dying parent. She went to her, took her hand; it
  feebly pressed her's. "My child," said the languid mother: the words
  reached her heart; she had seldom heard them pronounced with accents
  denoting affection; "My child, I have not always treated you with
  kindness--God forgive me! do you?"--Mary's tears strayed in a
  disregarded stream; on her bosom the big drops fell, but did not relieve
  the fluttering tenant. "I forgive you!" said she, in a tone of
  astonishment.
  
  The clergyman came in to read the service for the sick, and afterwards
  the marriage ceremony was performed. Mary stood like a statue of
  Despair, and pronounced the awful vow without thinking of it; and then
  ran to support her mother, who expired the same night in her arms.
  
  Her husband set off for the continent the same day, with a tutor, to
  finish his studies at one of the foreign universities.
  
  Ann was sent for to console her, not on account of the departure of her
  new relation, a boy she seldom took any notice of, but to reconcile her
  to her fate; besides, it was necessary she should have a female
  companion, and there was not any maiden aunt in the family, or cousin of
  the same class.
  
  
  
  
  CHAP. VI.
  
  
  Mary was allowed to pay the rent which gave her so much uneasiness, and
  she exerted every nerve to prevail on her father effectually to succour
  the family; but the utmost she could obtain was a small sum very
  inadequate to the purpose, to enable the poor woman to carry into
  execution a little scheme of industry near the metropolis.
  
  Her intention of leaving that part of the country, had much more weight
  with him, than Mary's arguments, drawn from motives of philanthropy and
  friendship; this was a language he did not understand; expressive of
  occult qualities he never thought of, as they could not be seen or
  felt.
  
  After the departure of her mother, Ann still continued to languish,
  though she had a nurse who was entirely engrossed by the desire of
  amusing her. Had her health been re-established, the time would have
  passed in a tranquil, improving manner.
  
  During the year of mourning they lived in retirement; music, drawing,
  and reading, filled up the time; and Mary's taste and judgment were both
  improved by contracting a habit of observation, and permitting the
  simple beauties of Nature to occupy her thoughts.
  
  She had a wonderful quickness in discerning distinctions and combining
  ideas, that at the first glance did not appear to be similar. But these
  various pursuits did not banish all her cares, or carry off all her
  constitutional black bile. Before she enjoyed Ann's society, she
  imagined it would have made her completely happy: she was disappointed,
  and yet knew not what to complain of.
  
  As her friend could not accompany her in her walks, and wished to be
  alone, for a very obvious reason, she would return to her old haunts,
  retrace her anticipated pleasures--and wonder how they changed their
  colour in possession, and proved so futile.
  
  She had not yet found the companion she looked for. Ann and she were not
  congenial minds, nor did she contribute to her comfort in the degree she
  expected. She shielded her from poverty; but this was only a negative
  blessing; when under the pressure it was very grievous, and still more
  so were the apprehensions; but when exempt from them, she was not
  contented.
  
  Such is human nature, its laws were not to be inverted to gratify our
  heroine, and stop the progress of her understanding, happiness only
  flourished in paradise--we cannot taste and live.
  
  Another year passed away with increasing apprehensions. Ann had a hectic
  cough, and many unfavourable prognostics: Mary then forgot every thing
  but the fear of losing her, and even imagined that her recovery would
  have made her happy.
  
  Her anxiety led her to study physic, and for some time she only read
  books of that cast; and this knowledge, literally speaking, ended in
  vanity and vexation of spirit, as it enabled her to foresee what she
  could not prevent.
  
  As her mind expanded, her marriage appeared a dreadful misfortune; she
  was sometimes reminded of the heavy yoke, and bitter was the
  recollection!
  
  In one thing there seemed to be a sympathy between them, for she wrote
  formal answers to his as formal letters. An extreme dislike took root in
  her mind; the found of his name made her turn sick; but she forgot all,
  listening to Ann's cough, and supporting her languid frame. She would
  then catch her to her bosom with convulsive eagerness, as if to save her
  from sinking into an opening grave.
  
  
  
  
  CHAP. VII.
  
  
  It was the will of Providence that Mary should experience almost every
  species of sorrow. Her father was thrown from his horse, when his blood
  was in a very inflammatory state, and the bruises were very dangerous;
  his recovery was not expected by the physical tribe.
  
  Terrified at seeing him so near death, and yet so ill prepared for it,
  his daughter sat by his bed, oppressed by the keenest anguish, which her
  piety increased.
  
  Her grief had nothing selfish in it; he was not a friend or protector;
  but he was her father, an unhappy wretch, going into eternity, depraved
  and thoughtless. Could a life of sensuality be a preparation for a
  peaceful death? Thus meditating, she passed the still midnight hour by
  his bedside.
  
  The nurse fell asleep, nor did a violent thunder storm interrupt her
  repose, though it made the night appear still more terrific to Mary. Her
  father's unequal breathing alarmed her, when she heard a long drawn
  breath, she feared it was his last, and watching for another, a dreadful
  peal of thunder struck her ears. Considering the separation of the soul
  and body, this night seemed sadly solemn, and the hours long.
  
  Death is indeed a king of terrors when he attacks the vicious man! The
  compassionate heart finds not any comfort; but dreads an eternal
  separation. No transporting greetings are anticipated, when the
  survivors also shall have finished their course; but all is black!--the
  grave may truly be said to receive the departed--this is the sting of
  death!
  
  Night after night Mary watched, and this excessive fatigue impaired her
  own health, but had a worse effect on Ann; though she constantly went to
  bed, she could not rest; a number of uneasy thoughts obtruded
  themselves; and apprehensions about Mary, whom she loved as well as her
  exhausted heart could love, harassed her mind. After a sleepless,
  feverish night she had a violent fit of coughing, and burst a
  blood-vessel. The physician, who was in the house, was sent for, and
  when he left the patient, Mary, with an authoritative voice, insisted on
  knowing his real opinion. Reluctantly he gave it, that her friend was in
  a critical state; and if she passed the approaching winter in England,
  he imagined she would die in the spring; a season fatal to consumptive
  disorders. The spring!--Her husband was then expected.--Gracious Heaven,
  could she bear all this.
  
  In a few days her father breathed his last. The horrid sensations his
  death occasioned were too poignant to be durable: and Ann's danger, and
  her own situation, made Mary deliberate what mode of conduct she should
  pursue. She feared this event might hasten the return of her husband,
  and prevent her putting into execution a plan she had determined on. It
  was to accompany Ann to a more salubrious climate.
  
  
  
  
  CHAP. VIII.
  
  
  I mentioned before, that Mary had never had any particular attachment,
  to give rise to the disgust that daily gained ground. Her friendship for
  Ann occupied her heart, and resembled a passion. She had had, indeed,
  several transient likings; but they did not amount to love. The society
  of men of genius delighted her, and improved her faculties. With beings
  of this class she did not often meet; it is a rare genus; her first
  favourites were men past the meridian of life, and of a philosophic
  turn.
  
  Determined on going to the South of France, or Lisbon; she wrote to the
  man she had promised to obey. The physicians had said change of air was
  necessary for her as well as her friend. She mentioned this, and added,
  "Her comfort, almost her existence, depended on the recovery of the
  invalid she wished to attend; and that should she neglect to follow the
  medical advice she had received, she should never forgive herself, or
  those who endeavoured to prevent her." Full of her design, she wrote
  with more than usual freedom; and this letter was like most of her
  others, a transcript of her heart.
  
  "This dear friend," she exclaimed, "I love for her agreeable qualities,
  and substantial virtues. Continual attention to her health, and the
  tender office of a nurse, have created an affection very like a maternal
  one--I am her only support, she leans on me--could I forsake the
  forsaken, and break the bruised reed--No--I would die first! I must--I
  will go."
  
  She would have added, "you would very much oblige me by consenting;" but
  her heart revolted--and irresolutely she wrote something about wishing
  him happy.--"Do I not wish all the world well?" she cried, as she
  subscribed her name--It was blotted, the letter sealed in a hurry, and
  sent out of her sight; and she began to prepare for her journey.
  
  By the return of the post she received an answer; it contained some
  common-place remarks on her romantic friendship, as he termed it; "But
  as the physicians advised change of air, he had no objection."
  
  
  
  
  CHAP. IX.
  
  
  There was nothing now to retard their journey; and Mary chose Lisbon
  rather than France, on account of its being further removed from the
  only person she wished not to see.
  
  They set off accordingly for Falmouth, in their way to that city. The
  journey was of use to Ann, and Mary's spirits were raised by her
  recovered looks--She had been in despair--now she gave way to hope, and
  was intoxicated with it. On ship-board Ann always remained in the cabin;
  the sight of the water terrified her: on the contrary, Mary, after she
  was gone to bed, or when she fell asleep in the day, went on deck,
  conversed with the sailors, and surveyed the boundless expanse before
  her with delight. One instant she would regard the ocean, the next the
  beings who braved its fury. Their insensibility and want of fear, she
  could not name courage; their thoughtless mirth was quite of an animal
  kind, and their feelings as impetuous and uncertain as the element they
  plowed.
  
  They had only been a week at sea when they hailed the rock of Lisbon,
  and the next morning anchored at the castle. After the customary visits,
  they were permitted to go on shore, about three miles from the city; and
  while one of the crew, who understood the language, went to procure them
  one of the ugly carriages peculiar to the country, they waited in the
  Irish convent, which is situated close to the Tagus.
  
  Some of the people offered to conduct them into the church, where there
  was a fine organ playing; Mary followed them, but Ann preferred staying
  with a nun she had entered into conversation with.
  
  One of the nuns, who had a sweet voice, was singing; Mary was struck
  with awe; her heart joined in the devotion; and tears of gratitude and
  tenderness flowed from her eyes. My Father, I thank thee! burst from
  her--words were inadequate to express her feelings. Silently, she
  surveyed the lofty dome; heard unaccustomed sounds; and saw faces,
  strange ones, that she could not yet greet with fraternal love.
  
  In an unknown land, she considered that the Being she adored inhabited
  eternity, was ever present in unnumbered worlds. When she had not any
  one she loved near her, she was particularly sensible of the presence
  of her Almighty Friend.
  
  The arrival of the carriage put a stop to her speculations; it was to
  conduct them to an hotel, fitted up for the reception of invalids.
  Unfortunately, before they could reach it there was a violent shower of
  rain; and as the wind was very high, it beat against the leather
  curtains, which they drew along the front of the vehicle, to shelter
  themselves from it; but it availed not, some of the rain forced its way,
  and Ann felt the effects of it, for she caught cold, spite of Mary's
  precautions.
  
  As is the custom, the rest of the invalids, or lodgers, sent to enquire
  after their health; and as soon as Ann left her chamber, in which her
  complaints seldom confined her the whole day, they came in person to pay
  their compliments. Three fashionable females, and two gentlemen; the
  one a brother of the eldest of the young ladies, and the other an
  invalid, who came, like themselves, for the benefit of the air. They
  entered into conversation immediately.
  
  People who meet in a strange country, and are all together in a house,
  soon get acquainted, without the formalities which attend visiting in
  separate houses, where they are surrounded by domestic friends. Ann was
  particularly delighted at meeting with agreeable society; a little
  hectic fever generally made her low-spirited in the morning, and lively
  in the evening, when she wished for company. Mary, who only thought of
  her, determined to cultivate their acquaintance, as she knew, that if
  her mind could be diverted, her body might gain strength.
  
  They were all musical, and proposed having little concerts. One of the
  gentlemen played on the violin, and the other on the german-flute. The
  instruments were brought in, with all the eagerness that attends putting
  a new scheme in execution.
  
  Mary had not said much, for she was diffident; she seldom joined in
  general conversations; though her quickness of penetration enabled her
  soon to enter into the characters of those she conversed with; and her
  sensibility made her desirous of pleasing every human creature. Besides,
  if her mind was not occupied by any particular sorrow, or study, she
  caught reflected pleasure, and was glad to see others happy, though
  their mirth did not interest her.
  
  This day she was continually thinking of Ann's recovery, and encouraging
  the cheerful hopes, which though they dissipated the spirits that had
  been condensed by melancholy, yet made her wish to be silent. The music,
  more than the conversation, disturbed her reflections; but not at first.
  The gentleman who played on the german-flute, was a handsome, well-bred,
  sensible man; and his observations, if not original, were pertinent.
  
  The other, who had not said much, began to touch the violin, and played
  a little Scotch ballad; he brought such a thrilling sound out of the
  instrument, that Mary started, and looking at him with more attention
  than she had done before, and saw, in a face rather ugly, strong lines
  of genius. His manners were awkward, that kind of awkwardness which is
  often found in literary men: he seemed a thinker, and delivered his
  opinions in elegant expressions, and musical tones of voice.
  
  When the concert was over, they all retired to their apartments. Mary
  always slept with Ann, as she was subject to terrifying dreams; and
  frequently in the night was obliged to be supported, to avoid
  suffocation. They chatted about their new acquaintance in their own
  apartment, and, with respect to the gentlemen, differed in opinion.
  
  
  
  
  CHAP. X.
  
  
  Every day almost they saw their new acquaintance; and civility produced
  intimacy. Mary sometimes left her friend with them; while she indulged
  herself in viewing new modes of life, and searching out the causes which
  produced them. She had a metaphysical turn, which inclined her to
  reflect on every object that passed by her; and her mind was not like a
  mirror, which receives every floating image, but does not retain them:
  she had not any prejudices, for every opinion was examined before it was
  adopted.
  
  The Roman Catholic ceremonies attracted her attention, and gave rise to
  conversations when they all met; and one of the gentlemen continually
  introduced deistical notions, when he ridiculed the pageantry they all
  were surprised at observing. Mary thought of both the subjects, the
  Romish tenets, and the deistical doubts; and though not a sceptic,
  thought it right to examine the evidence on which her faith was built.
  She read Butler's Analogy, and some other authors: and these researches
  made her a christian from conviction, and she learned charity,
  particularly with respect to sectaries; saw that apparently good and
  solid arguments might take their rise from different points of view; and
  she rejoiced to find that those she should not concur with had some
  reason on their side.
  
  
  
  
  CHAP. XI.
  
  
  When I mentioned the three ladies, I said they were fashionable women;
  and it was all the praise, as a faithful historian, I could bestow on
  them; the only thing in which they were consistent. I forgot to mention
  that they were all of one family, a mother, her daughter, and niece. The
  daughter was sent by her physician, to avoid a northerly winter; the
  mother, her niece, and nephew, accompanied her.
  
  They were people of rank; but unfortunately, though of an ancient
  family, the title had descended to a very remote branch--a branch they
  took care to be intimate with; and servilely copied the Countess's
  airs. Their minds were shackled with a set of notions concerning
  propriety, the fitness of things for the world's eye, trammels which
  always hamper weak people. What will the world say? was the first thing
  that was thought of, when they intended doing any thing they had not
  done before. Or what would the Countess do on such an occasion? And when
  this question was answered, the right or wrong was discovered without
  the trouble of their having any idea of the matter in their own heads.
  This same Countess was a fine planet, and the satellites observed a most
  harmonic dance around her.
  
  After this account it is scarcely necessary to add, that their minds had
  received very little cultivation. They were taught French, Italian, and
  Spanish; English was their vulgar tongue. And what did they learn?
  Hamlet will tell you--words--words. But let me not forget that they
  squalled Italian songs in the true _gusto_. Without having any seeds
  sown in their understanding, or the affections of the heart set to work,
  they were brought out of their nursery, or the place they were secluded
  in, to prevent their faces being common; like blazing stars, to
  captivate Lords.
  
  They were pretty, and hurrying from one party of pleasure to another,
  occasioned the disorder which required change of air. The mother, if we
  except her being near twenty years older, was just the same creature;
  and these additional years only served to make her more tenaciously
  adhere to her habits of folly, and decide with stupid gravity, some
  trivial points of ceremony, as a matter of the last importance; of
  which she was a competent judge, from having lived in the fashionable
  world so long: that world to which the ignorant look up as we do to the
  sun.
  
  It appears to me that every creature has some notion--or rather relish,
  of the sublime. Riches, and the consequent state, are the sublime of
  weak minds:--These images fill, nay, are too big for their narrow souls.
  
  One afternoon, which they had engaged to spend together, Ann was so ill,
  that Mary was obliged to send an apology for not attending the
  tea-table. The apology brought them on the carpet; and the mother, with
  a look of solemn importance, turned to the sick man, whose name was
  Henry, and said;
  
  "Though people of the first fashion are frequently at places of this
  kind, intimate with they know not who; yet I do not choose that my
  daughter, whose family is so respectable, should be intimate with any
  one she would blush to know elsewhere. It is only on that account, for I
  never suffer her to be with any one but in my company," added she,
  sitting more erect; and a smile of self-complacency dressed her
  countenance.
  
  "I have enquired concerning these strangers, and find that the one who
  has the most dignity in her manners, is really a woman of fortune."
  "Lord, mamma, how ill she dresses:" mamma went on; "She is a romantic
  creature, you must not copy her, miss; yet she is an heiress of the
  large fortune in ----shire, of which you may remember to have heard the
  Countess speak the night you had on the dancing-dress that was so much
  admired; but she is married."
  
  She then told them the whole story as she heard it from her maid, who
  picked it out of Mary's servant. "She is a foolish creature, and this
  friend that she pays as much attention to as if she was a lady of
  quality, is a beggar." "Well, how strange!" cried the girls.
  
  "She is, however, a charming creature," said her nephew. Henry sighed,
  and strode across the room once or twice; then took up his violin, and
  played the air which first struck Mary; he had often heard her praise
  it.
  
  The music was uncommonly melodious, "And came stealing on the senses
  like the sweet south." The well-known sounds reached Mary as she sat by
  her friend--she listened without knowing that she did--and shed tears
  almost without being conscious of it. Ann soon fell asleep, as she had
  taken an opiate. Mary, then brooding over her fears, began to imagine
  she had deceived herself--Ann was still very ill; hope had beguiled many
  heavy hours; yet she was displeased with herself for admitting this
  welcome guest.--And she worked up her mind to such a degree of anxiety,
  that she determined, once more, to seek medical aid.
  
  No sooner did she determine, than she ran down with a discomposed look,
  to enquire of the ladies who she should send for. When she entered the
  room she could not articulate her fears--it appeared like pronouncing
  Ann's sentence of death; her faultering tongue dropped some broken
  words, and she remained silent. The ladies wondered that a person of her
  sense should be so little mistress of herself; and began to administer
  some common-place comfort, as, that it was our duty to submit to the
  will of Heaven, and the like trite consolations, which Mary did not
  answer; but waving her hand, with an air of impatience, she exclaimed,
  "I cannot live without her!--I have no other friend; if I lose her, what
  a desart will the world be to me." "No other friend," re-echoed they,
  "have you not a husband?"
  
  Mary shrunk back, and was alternately pale and red. A delicate sense of
  propriety prevented her replying; and recalled her bewildered
  reason.--Assuming, in consequence of her recollection, a more composed
  manner, she made the intended enquiry, and left the room. Henry's eyes
  followed her while the females very freely animadverted on her strange
  behaviour.
  
  
  
  
  CHAP. XII.
  
  
  The physician was sent for; his prescription afforded Ann a little
  temporary relief; and they again joined the circle. Unfortunately, the
  weather happened to be constantly wet for more than a week, and confined
  them to the house. Ann then found the ladies not so agreeable; when they
  sat whole hours together, the thread-bare topics were exhausted; and,
  but for cards or music, the long evenings would have been yawned away in
  listless indolence.
  
  The bad weather had had as ill an effect on Henry as on Ann. He was
  frequently very thoughtful, or rather melancholy; this melancholy would
  of itself have attracted Mary's notice, if she had not found his
  conversation so infinitely superior to the rest of the group. When she
  conversed with him, all the faculties of her soul unfolded themselves;
  genius animated her expressive countenance and the most graceful,
  unaffected gestures gave energy to her discourse.
  
  They frequently discussed very important subjects, while the rest were
  singing or playing cards, nor were they observed for doing so, as Henry,
  whom they all were pleased with, in the way of gallantry shewed them all
  more attention than her. Besides, as there was nothing alluring in her
  dress or manner, they never dreamt of her being preferred to them.
  
  Henry was a man of learning; he had also studied mankind, and knew many
  of the intricacies of the human heart, from having felt the infirmities
  of his own. His taste was just, as it had a standard--Nature, which he
  observed with a critical eye. Mary could not help thinking that in his
  company her mind expanded, as he always went below the surface. She
  increased her stock of ideas, and her taste was improved.
  
  He was also a pious man; his rational religious sentiments received
  warmth from his sensibility; and, except on very particular occasions,
  kept it in proper bounds; these sentiments had likewise formed his
  temper; he was gentle, and easily to be intreated. The ridiculous
  ceremonies they were every day witness to, led them into what are termed
  grave subjects, and made him explain his opinions, which, at other
  times, he was neither ashamed of, nor unnecessarily brought forward to
  notice.
  
  
  
  
  CHAP. XIII.
  
  
  When the weather began to clear up, Mary sometimes rode out alone,
  purposely to view the ruins that still remained of the earthquake: or
  she would ride to the banks of the Tagus, to feast her eyes with the
  sight of that magnificent river. At other times she would visit the
  churches, as she was particularly fond of seeing historical paintings.
  
  One of these visits gave rise to the subject, and the whole party
  descanted on it; but as the ladies could not handle it well, they soon
  adverted to portraits; and talked of the attitudes and characters in
  which they should wish to be drawn. Mary did not fix on one--when
  Henry, with more apparent warmth than usual, said, "I would give the
  world for your picture, with the expression I have seen in your face,
  when you have been supporting your friend."
  
  This delicate compliment did not gratify her vanity, but it reached her
  heart. She then recollected that she had once sat for her picture--for
  whom was it designed? For a boy! Her cheeks flushed with indignation, so
  strongly did she feel an emotion of contempt at having been thrown
  away--given in with an estate.
  
  As Mary again gave way to hope, her mind was more disengaged; and her
  thoughts were employed about the objects around her.
  
  She visited several convents, and found that solitude only eradicates
  some passions, to give strength to others; the most baneful ones. She
  saw that religion does not consist in ceremonies; and that many prayers
  may fall from the lips without purifying the heart.
  
  They who imagine they can be religious without governing their tempers,
  or exercising benevolence in its most extensive sense, must certainly
  allow, that their religious duties are only practiced from selfish
  principles; how then can they be called good? The pattern of all
  goodness went about _doing_ good. Wrapped up in themselves, the nuns
  only thought of inferior gratifications. And a number of intrigues were
  carried on to accelerate certain points on which their hearts were
  fixed:
  
  Such as obtaining offices of trust or authority; or avoiding those that
  were servile or laborious. In short, when they could be neither wives
  nor mothers, they aimed at being superiors, and became the most selfish
  creatures in the world: the passions that were curbed gave strength to
  the appetites, or to those mean passions which only tend to provide for
  the gratification of them. Was this seclusion from the world? or did
  they conquer its vanities or avoid its vexations?
  
  In these abodes the unhappy individual, who, in the first paroxysm of
  grief flies to them for refuge, finds too late she took a wrong step.
  The same warmth which determined her will make her repent; and sorrow,
  the rust of the mind, will never have a chance of being rubbed off by
  sensible conversation, or new-born affections of the heart.
  
  She will find that those affections that have once been called forth and
  strengthened by exercise, are only smothered, not killed, by
  disappointment; and that in one form or other discontent will corrode
  the heart, and produce those maladies of the imagination, for which
  there is no specific.
  
  The community at large Mary disliked; but pitied many of them whose
  private distresses she was informed of; and to pity and relieve were the
  same things with her.
  
  The exercise of her various virtues gave vigor to her genius, and
  dignity to her mind; she was sometimes inconsiderate, and violent; but
  never mean or cunning.
  
  
  
  
  CHAP. XIV.
  
  
  The Portuguese are certainly the most uncivilized nation in Europe. Dr.
  Johnson would have said, "They have the least mind.". And can such serve
  their Creator in spirit and in truth? No, the gross ritual of Romish
  ceremonies is all they can comprehend: they can do penance, but not
  conquer their revenge, or lust. Religion, or love, has never humanized
  their hearts; they want the vital part; the mere body worships. Taste is
  unknown; Gothic finery, and unnatural decorations, which they term
  ornaments, are conspicuous in their churches and dress. Reverence for
  mental excellence is only to be found in a polished nation.
  
  Could the contemplation of such a people gratify Mary's heart? No: she
  turned disgusted from the prospects--turned to a man of refinement.
  Henry had been some time ill and low-spirited; Mary would have been
  attentive to any one in that situation; but to him she was particularly
  so; she thought herself bound in gratitude, on account of his constant
  endeavours to amuse Ann, and prevent her dwelling on the dreary prospect
  before her, which sometimes she could not help anticipating with a kind
  of quiet despair.
  
  She found some excuse for going more frequently into the room they all
  met in; nay, she avowed her desire to amuse him: offered to read to him,
  and tried to draw him into amusing conversations; and when she was full
  of these little schemes, she looked at him with a degree of tenderness
  that she was not conscious of. This divided attention was of use to her,
  and prevented her continually thinking of Ann, whose fluctuating
  disorder often gave rise to false hopes.
  
  A trifling thing occurred now which occasioned Mary some uneasiness. Her
  maid, a well-looking girl, had captivated the clerk of a neighbouring
  compting-house. As the match was an advantageous one, Mary could not
  raise any objection to it, though at this juncture it was very
  disagreeable to her to have a stranger about her person. However, the
  girl consented to delay the marriage, as she had some affection for her
  mistress; and, besides, looked forward to Ann's death as a time of
  harvest.
  
  Henry's illness was not alarming, it was rather pleasing, as it gave
  Mary an excuse to herself for shewing him how much she was interested
  about him; and giving little artless proofs of affection, which the
  purity of her heart made her never wish to restrain.
  
  The only visible return he made was not obvious to common observers. He
  would sometimes fix his eyes on her, and take them off with a sigh that
  was coughed away; or when he was leisurely walking into the room, and
  did not expect to see her, he would quicken his steps, and come up to
  her with eagerness to ask some trivial question. In the same style, he
  would try to detain her when he had nothing to say--or said nothing.
  
  Ann did not take notice of either his or Mary's behaviour, nor did she
  suspect that he was a favourite, on any other account than his
  appearing neither well nor happy. She had often seen that when a person
  was unfortunate, Mary's pity might easily be mistaken for love, and,
  indeed, it was a temporary sensation of that kind. Such it was--why it
  was so, let others define, I cannot argue against instincts. As reason
  is cultivated in man, they are supposed to grow weaker, and this may
  have given rise to the assertion, "That as judgment improves, genius
  evaporates."
  
  
  
  
  CHAP. XV.
  
  
  One morning they set out to visit the aqueduct; though the day was very
  fine when they left home, a very heavy shower fell before they reached
  it; they lengthened their ride, the clouds dispersed, and the sun came
  from behind them uncommonly bright.
  
  Mary would fain have persuaded Ann not to have left the carriage; but
  she was in spirits, and obviated all her objections, and insisted on
  walking, tho' the ground was damp. But her strength was not equal to her
  spirits; she was soon obliged to return to the carriage so much
  fatigued, that she fainted, and remained insensible a long time.
  
  Henry would have supported her; but Mary would not permit him; her
  recollection was instantaneous, and she feared sitting on the damp
  ground might do him a material injury: she was on that account positive,
  though the company did not guess the cause of her being so. As to
  herself, she did not fear bodily pain; and, when her mind was agitated,
  she could endure the greatest fatigue without appearing sensible of it.
  
  When Ann recovered, they returned slowly home; she was carried to bed,
  and the next morning Mary thought she observed a visible change for the
  worse. The physician was sent for, who pronounced her to be in the most
  imminent danger.
  
  All Mary's former fears now returned like a torrent, and carried every
  other care away; she even added to her present anguish by upbraiding
  herself for her late tranquillity--it haunted her in the form of a
  crime.
  
  The disorder made the most rapid advances--there was no hope!--Bereft of
  it, Mary again was tranquil; but it was a very different kind of
  tranquillity. She stood to brave the approaching storm, conscious she
  only could be overwhelmed by it.
  
  She did not think of Henry, or if her thoughts glanced towards him, it
  was only to find fault with herself for suffering a thought to have
  strayed from Ann.--Ann!--this dear friend was soon torn from her--she
  died suddenly as Mary was assisting her to walk across the room.--The
  first string was severed from her heart--and this "slow, sudden-death"
  disturbed her reasoning faculties; she seemed stunned by it; unable to
  reflect, or even to feel her misery.
  
  The body was stolen out of the house the second night, and Mary refused
  to see her former companions. She desired her maid to conclude her
  marriage, and request her intended husband to inform her when the first
  merchantman was to leave the port, as the packet had just sailed, and
  she determined not to stay in that hated place any longer than was
  absolutely necessary.
  
  She then sent to request the ladies to visit her; she wished to avoid a
  parade of grief--her sorrows were her own, and appeared to her not to
  admit of increase or softening. She was right; the sight of them did not
  affect her, or turn the stream of her sullen sorrow; the black wave
  rolled along in the same course, it was equal to her where she cast her
  eyes; all was impenetrable gloom.
  
  
  
  
  CHAP. XVI.
  
  
  Soon after the ladies left her, she received a message from Henry,
  requesting, as she saw company, to be permitted to visit her: she
  consented, and he entered immediately, with an unassured pace. She ran
  eagerly up to him--saw the tear trembling in his eye, and his
  countenance softened by the tenderest compassion; the hand which pressed
  hers seemed that of a fellow-creature. She burst into tears; and, unable
  to restrain them, she hid her face with both her hands; these tears
  relieved her, (she had before had a difficulty in breathing,) and she
  sat down by him more composed than she had appeared since Ann's death;
  but her conversation was incoherent.
  
  She called herself "a poor disconsolate creature!"--"Mine is a selfish
  grief," she exclaimed--"Yet; Heaven is my witness, I do not wish her
  back now she has reached those peaceful mansions, where the weary rest.
  Her pure spirit is happy; but what a wretch am I!"
  
  Henry forgot his cautious reserve. "Would you allow me to call you
  friend?" said he in a hesitating voice. "I feel, dear girl, the tendered
  interest in whatever concerns thee." His eyes spoke the rest. They were
  both silent a few moments; then Henry resumed the conversation. "I have
  also been acquainted with grief! I mourn the loss of a woman who was not
  worthy of my regard. Let me give thee some account of the man who now
  solicits thy friendship; and who, from motives of the purest
  benevolence, wishes to give comfort to thy wounded heart."
  
  "I have myself," said he, mournfully, "shaken hands with happiness, and
  am dead to the world; I wait patiently for my dissolution; but, for
  thee, Mary, there may be many bright days in store."
  
  "Impossible," replied she, in a peevish tone, as if he had insulted her
  by the supposition; her feelings were so much in unison with his, that
  she was in love with misery.
  
  He smiled at her impatience, and went on. "My father died before I knew
  him, and my mother was so attached to my eldest brother, that she took
  very little pains to fit me for the profession to which I was destined:
  and, may I tell thee, I left my family, and, in many different stations,
  rambled about the world; saw mankind in every rank of life; and, in
  order to be independent, exerted those talents Nature has given me:
  these exertions improved my understanding; and the miseries I was
  witness to, gave a keener edge to my sensibility. My constitution is
  naturally weak; and, perhaps, two or three lingering disorders in my
  youth, first gave me a habit of reflecting, and enabled me to obtain
  some dominion over my passions. At least," added he, stifling a sigh,
  "over the violent ones, though I fear, refinement and reflection only
  renders the tender ones more tyrannic.
  
  "I have told you already I have been in love, and disappointed--the
  object is now no more; let her faults sleep with her! Yet this passion
  has pervaded my whole soul, and mixed itself with all my affections and
  pursuits.--I am not peacefully indifferent; yet it is only to my violin
  I tell the sorrows I now confide with thee. The object I loved forfeited
  my esteem; yet, true to the sentiment, my fancy has too frequently
  delighted to form a creature that I could love, that could convey to my
  soul sensations which the gross part of mankind have not any conception
  of."
  
  He stopped, as Mary seemed lost in thought; but as she was still in a
  listening attitude, continued his little narrative. "I kept up an
  irregular correspondence with my mother; my brother's extravagance and
  ingratitude had almost broken her heart, and made her feel something
  like a pang of remorse, on account of her behaviour to me. I hastened to
  comfort her--and was a comfort to her.
  
  "My declining health prevented my taking orders, as I had intended; but
  I with warmth entered into literary pursuits; perhaps my heart, not
  having an object, made me embrace the substitute with more eagerness.
  But, do not imagine I have always been a die-away swain. No: I have
  frequented the cheerful haunts of men, and wit!--enchanting wit! has
  made many moments fly free from care. I am too fond of the elegant arts;
  and woman--lovely woman! thou hast charmed me, though, perhaps, it would
  not be easy to find one to whom my reason would allow me to be constant.
  
  "I have now only to tell you, that my mother insisted on my spending
  this winter in a warmer climate; and I fixed on Lisbon, as I had before
  visited the Continent." He then looked Mary full in the face; and, with
  the most insinuating accents, asked "if he might hope for her
  friendship? If she would rely on him as if he was her father; and that
  the tenderest father could not more anxiously interest himself in the
  fate of a darling child, than he did in her's."
  
  Such a crowd of thoughts all at once rushed into Mary's mind, that she
  in vain attempted to express the sentiments which were most predominant.
  Her heart longed to receive a new guest; there was a void in it:
  accustomed to have some one to love, she was alone, and comfortless, if
  not engrossed by a particular affection.
  
  Henry saw her distress, and not to increase it, left the room. He had
  exerted himself to turn her thoughts into a new channel, and had
  succeeded; she thought of him till she began to chide herself for
  defrauding the dead, and, determining to grieve for Ann, she dwelt on
  Henry's misfortunes and ill health; and the interest he took in her fate
  was a balm to her sick mind. She did not reason on the subject; but she
  felt he was attached to her: lost in this delirium, she never asked
  herself what kind of an affection she had for him, or what it tended to;
  nor did she know that love and friendship are very distinct; she thought
  with rapture, that there was one person in the world who had an
  affection for her, and that person she admired--had a friendship for.
  
  He had called her his dear girl; the words might have fallen from him by
  accident; but they did not fall to the ground. My child! His child,
  what an association of ideas! If I had had a father, such a father!--She
  could not dwell on the thoughts, the wishes which obtruded themselves.
  Her mind was unhinged, and passion unperceived filled her whole soul.
  Lost, in waking dreams, she considered and reconsidered Henry's account
  of himself; till she actually thought she would tell Ann--a bitter
  recollection then roused her out of her reverie; and aloud she begged
  forgiveness of her.
  
  By these kind of conflicts the day was lengthened; and when she went to
  bed, the night passed away in feverish slumbers; though they did not
  refresh her, she was spared the labour of thinking, of restraining her
  imagination; it sported uncontrouled; but took its colour from her
  waking train of thoughts. One instant she was supporting her dying
  mother; then Ann was breathing her last, and Henry was comforting her.
  
  The unwelcome light visited her languid eyes; yet, I must tell the
  truth, she thought she should see Henry, and this hope set her spirits
  in motion: but they were quickly depressed by her maid, who came to tell
  her that she had heard of a vessel on board of which she could be
  accommodated, and that there was to be another female passenger on
  board, a vulgar one; but perhaps she would be more useful on that
  account--Mary did not want a companion.
  
  As she had given orders for her passage to be engaged in the first
  vessel that sailed, she could not now retract; and must prepare for the
  lonely voyage, as the Captain intended taking advantage of the first
  fair wind. She had too much strength of mind to waver in her
  determination but to determine wrung her very heart, opened all her old
  wounds, and made them bleed afresh. What was she to do? where go? Could
  she set a seal to a hasty vow, and tell a deliberate lie; promise to
  love one man, when the image of another was ever present to her--her
  soul revolted. "I might gain the applause of the world by such mock
  heroism; but should I not forfeit my own? forfeit thine, my father!"
  
  There is a solemnity in the shortest ejaculation, which, for a while,
  stills the tumult of passion. Mary's mind had been thrown off its poise;
  her devotion had been, perhaps, more fervent for some time past; but
  less regular. She forgot that happiness was not to be found on earth,
  and built a terrestrial paradise liable to be destroyed by the first
  serious thought: when, she reasoned she became inexpressibly sad, to
  render life bearable she gave way to fancy--this was madness.
  
  In a few days she must again go to sea; the weather was very
  tempestuous--what of that, the tempest in her soul rendered every other
  trifling--it was not the contending elements, but _herself_ she feared!
  
  
  
  
  CHAP. XVII.
  
  
  In order to gain strength to support the expected interview, she went
  out in a carriage. The day was fine; but all nature was to her a
  universal blank; she could neither enjoy it, nor weep that she could
  not. She passed by the ruins of an old monastery on a very high hill she
  got out to walk amongst the ruins; the wind blew violently, she did not
  avoid its fury, on the contrary, wildly bid it blow on, and seemed glad
  to contend with it, or rather walk against it. Exhausted she returned to
  the carriage was soon at home, and in the old room.
  
  Henry started at the sight of her altered appearance; the day before her
  complexion had been of the most pallid hue; but now her cheeks were
  flushed, and her eyes enlivened with a false vivacity, an unusual fire.
  He was not well, his illness was apparent in his countenance, and he
  owned he had not closed his eyes all night; this roused her dormant
  tenderness, she forgot they were so soon to part-engrossed by the
  present happiness of seeing, of hearing him.
  
  Once or twice she essayed to tell him that she was, in a few days, to
  depart; but she could not; she was irresolute; it will do to-morrow;
  should the wind change they could not sail in such a hurry; thus she
  thought, and insensibly grew more calm. The Ladies prevailed on her to
  spend the evening with them; but she retired very early to rest, and sat
  on the side of her bed several hours, then threw herself on it, and
  waited for the dreaded to-morrow.
  
  
  
  
  CHAP. XVIII.
  
  
  The ladies heard that her servant was to be married that day, and that
  she was to sail in the vessel which was then clearing out at the
  Custom-house. Henry heard, but did not make any remarks; and Mary called
  up all her fortitude to support her, and enable her to hide from the
  females her internal struggles. She durst not encounter Henry's glances
  when she found he had been informed of her intention; and, trying to
  draw a veil over her wretched state of mind, she talked incessantly, she
  knew not what; flashes of wit burst from her, and when she began to
  laugh she could not stop herself.
  
  Henry smiled at some of her sallies, and looked at her with such
  benignity and compassion, that he recalled her scattered thoughts; and,
  the ladies going to dress for dinner, they were left alone; and remained
  silent a few moments: after the noisy conversation it appeared solemn.
  Henry began. "You are going, Mary, and going by yourself; your mind is
  not in a state to be left to its own operations--yet I cannot, dissuade
  you; if I attempted to do it, I should ill deserve the title I wish to
  merit. I only think of your happiness; could I obey the strongest
  impulse of my heart, I should accompany thee to England; but such a step
  might endanger your future peace."
  
  Mary, then, with all the frankness which marked her character, explained
  her situation to him and mentioned her fatal tie with such disgust that
  he trembled for her. "I cannot see him; he is not the man formed for me
  to love!" Her delicacy did not restrain her, for her dislike to her
  husband had taken root in her mind long before she knew Henry. Did she
  not fix on Lisbon rather than France on purpose to avoid him? and if Ann
  had been in tolerable health she would have flown with her to some
  remote corner to have escaped from him.
  
  "I intend," said Henry, "to follow you in the next packet; where shall I
  hear of your health?" "Oh! let me hear of thine," replied Mary. "I am
  well, very well; but thou art very ill--thy health is in the most
  precarious state." She then mentioned her intention of going to Ann's
  relations. "I am her representative, I have duties to fulfil for her:
  during my voyage I have time enough for reflection; though I think I
  have already determined."
  
  "Be not too hasty, my child," interrupted Henry; "far be it from me to
  persuade thee to do violence to thy feelings--but consider that all thy
  future life may probably take its colour from thy present mode of
  conduct. Our affections as well as our sentiments are fluctuating; you
  will not perhaps always either think or feel as you do at present: the
  object you now shun may appear in a different light." He paused. "In
  advising thee in this style, I have only thy good at heart, Mary."
  
  She only answered to expostulate. "My affections are involuntary--yet
  they can only be fixed by reflection, and when they are they make quite
  a part of my soul, are interwoven in it, animate my actions, and form
  my taste: certain qualities are calculated to call forth my sympathies,
  and make me all I am capable of being. The governing affection gives its
  stamp to the rest--because I am capable of loving one, I have that kind
  of charity to all my fellow-creatures which is not easily provoked.
  Milton has asserted, That earthly love is the scale by which to heavenly
  we may ascend."
  
  She went on with eagerness. "My opinions on some subjects are not
  wavering; my pursuit through life has ever been the same: in solitude
  were my sentiments formed; they are indelible, and nothing can efface
  them but death--No, death itself cannot efface them, or my soul must be
  created afresh, and not improved. Yet a little while am I parted from
  my Ann--I could not exist without the hope of seeing her again--I could
  not bear to think that time could wear away an affection that was
  founded on what is not liable to perish; you might as well attempt to
  persuade me that my soul is matter, and that its feelings arose from
  certain modifications of it."
  
  "Dear enthusiastic creature," whispered Henry, "how you steal into my
  soul." She still continued. "The same turn of mind which leads me to
  adore the Author of all Perfection--which leads me to conclude that he
  only can fill my soul; forces me to admire the faint image-the shadows
  of his attributes here below; and my imagination gives still bolder
  strokes to them. I knew I am in some degree under the influence of a
  delusion--but does not this strong delusion prove that I myself 'am _of
  subtiler essence than the trodden clod_' these flights of the
  imagination point to futurity; I cannot banish them. Every cause in
  nature produces an effect; and am I an exception to the general rule?
  have I desires implanted in me only to make me miserable? will they
  never be gratified? shall I never be happy? My feelings do not accord
  with the notion of solitary happiness. In a state of bliss, it will be
  the society of beings we can love, without the alloy that earthly
  infirmities mix with our best affections, that will constitute great
  part of our happiness.
  
  "With these notions can I conform to the maxims of worldly wisdom? can
  I listen to the cold dictates of worldly prudence and bid my tumultuous
  passions cease to vex me, be still, find content in grovelling pursuits,
  and the admiration of the misjudging crowd, when it is only one I wish
  to please--one who could be all the world to me. Argue not with me, I am
  bound by human ties; but did my spirit ever promise to love, or could I
  consider when forced to bind myself--to take a vow, that at the awful
  day of judgment I must give an account of. My conscience does not smite
  me, and that Being who is greater than the internal monitor, may approve
  of what the world condemns; sensible that in Him I live, could I brave
  His presence, or hope in solitude to find peace, if I acted contrary to
  conviction, that the world might approve of my conduct--what could the
  world give to compensate for my own esteem? it is ever hostile and armed
  against the feeling heart!
  
  "Riches and honours await me, and the cold moralist might desire me to
  sit down and enjoy them--I cannot conquer my feelings, and till I do,
  what are these baubles to me? you may tell me I follow a fleeting good,
  an _ignis fatuus_; but this chase, these struggles prepare me for
  eternity--when I no longer see through a glass darkly I shall not reason
  about, but _feel_ in what happiness consists."
  
  Henry had not attempted to interrupt her; he saw she was determined, and
  that these sentiments were not the effusion of the moment, but well
  digested ones, the result of strong affections, a high sense of honour,
  and respect for the source of all virtue and truth. He was startled, if
  not entirely convinced by her arguments; indeed her voice, her gestures
  were all persuasive.
  
  Some one now entered the room; he looked an answer to her long harangue;
  it was fortunate for him, or he might have been led to say what in a
  cooler moment he had determined to conceal; but were words necessary to
  reveal it? He wished not to influence her conduct--vain precaution; she
  knew she was beloved; and could she forget that such a man loved her, or
  rest satisfied with any inferior gratification. When passion first
  enters the heart, it is only a return of affection that is sought after,
  and every other remembrance and wish is blotted out.
  
  
  
  
  CHAP. XIX.
  
  
  Two days passed away without any particular conversation; Henry, trying
  to be indifferent, or to appear so, was more assiduous than ever. The
  conflict was too violent for his present state of health; the spirit was
  willing, but the body suffered; he lost his appetite, and looked
  wretchedly; his spirits were calmly low--the world seemed to fade
  away--what was that world to him that Mary did not inhabit; she lived
  not for him.
  
  He was mistaken; his affection was her only support; without this dear
  prop she had sunk into the grave of her lost--long-loved friend;--his
  attention snatched her from despair. Inscrutable are the ways of
  Heaven!
  
  The third day Mary was desired to prepare herself; for if the wind
  continued in the same point, they should set sail the next evening. She
  tried to prepare her mind, and her efforts were not useless she appeared
  less agitated than could have been expected, and talked of her voyage
  with composure. On great occasions she was generally calm and collected,
  her resolution would brace her unstrung nerves; but after the victory
  she had no triumph; she would sink into a state of moping melancholy,
  and feel ten-fold misery when the heroic enthusiasm was over.
  
  The morning of the day fixed on for her departure she was alone with
  Henry only a few moments, and an awkward kind of formality made them
  slip away without their having said much to each other. Henry was
  afraid to discover his passion, or give any other name to his regard but
  friendship; yet his anxious solicitude for her welfare was ever breaking
  out-while she as artlessly expressed again and again, her fears with
  respect to his declining health.
  
  "We shall soon meet," said he, with a faint smile; Mary smiled too; she
  caught the sickly beam; it was still fainter by being reflected, and not
  knowing what she wished to do, started up and left the room. When she
  was alone she regretted she had left him so precipitately. "The few
  precious moments I have thus thrown away may never return," she
  thought-the reflection led to misery.
  
  She waited for, nay, almost wished for the summons to depart. She could
  not avoid spending the intermediate time with the ladies and Henry; and
  the trivial conversations she was obliged to bear a part in harassed her
  more than can be well conceived.
  
  The summons came, and the whole party attended her to the vessel. For a
  while the remembrance of Ann banished her regret at parting with Henry,
  though his pale figure pressed on her sight; it may seem a paradox, but
  he was more present to her when she sailed; her tears then were all his
  own.
  
  "My poor Ann!" thought Mary, "along this road we came, and near this
  spot you called me your guardian angel--and now I leave thee here! ah!
  no, I do not--thy spirit is not confined to its mouldering tenement!
  Tell me, thou soul of her I love, tell me, ah! whither art thou fled?"
  Ann occupied her until they reached the ship.
  
  The anchor was weighed. Nothing can be more irksome than waiting to say
  farewel. As the day was serene, they accompanied her a little way, and
  then got into the boat; Henry was the last; he pressed her hand, it had
  not any life in it; she leaned over the side of the ship without looking
  at the boat, till it was so far distant, that she could not see the
  countenances of those that were in it: a mist spread itself over her
  sight--she longed to exchange one look--tried to recollect the
  last;--the universe contained no being but Henry!--The grief of parting
  with him had swept all others clean away. Her eyes followed the keel of
  the boat, and when she could no longer perceive its traces: she looked
  round on the wide waste of waters, thought of the precious moments
  which had been stolen from the waste of murdered time.
  
  She then descended into the cabin, regardless of the surrounding
  beauties of nature, and throwing herself on her bed in the little hole
  which was called the state-room--she wished to forget her existence. On
  this bed she remained two days, listening to the dashing waves, unable
  to close her eyes. A small taper made the darkness visible; and the
  third night, by its glimmering light, she wrote the following fragment.
  
  "Poor solitary wretch that I am; here alone do I listen to the whistling
  winds and dashing waves;--on no human support can I rest--when not lost
  to hope I found pleasure in the society of those rough beings; but now
  they appear not like my fellow creatures; no social ties draw me to
  them. How long, how dreary has this day been; yet I scarcely wish it
  over--for what will to-morrow bring--to-morrow, and to-morrow will only
  be marked with unvaried characters of wretchedness.--Yet surely, I am
  not alone!"
  
  Her moistened eyes were lifted up to heaven; a crowd of thoughts darted
  into her mind, and pressing her hand against her forehead, as if to bear
  the intellectual weight, she tried, but tried in vain, to arrange them.
  "Father of Mercies, compose this troubled spirit: do I indeed wish it to
  be composed--to forget my Henry?" the _my_, the pen was directly drawn
  across in an agony.
  
  
  
  
  CHAP. XX.
  
  
  The mate of the ship, who heard her stir, came to offer her some
  refreshment; and she, who formerly received every offer of kindness or
  civility with pleasure, now shrunk away disgusted: peevishly she desired
  him not to disturb her; but the words were hardly articulated when her
  heart smote her, she called him back, and requested something to drink.
  After drinking it, fatigued by her mental exertions, she fell into a
  death-like slumber, which lasted some hours; but did not refresh her, on
  the contrary, she awoke languid and stupid.
  
  The wind still continued contrary; a week, a dismal week, had she
  struggled with her sorrows; and the struggle brought on a slow fever,
  which sometimes gave her false spirits.
  
  The winds then became very tempestuous, the Great Deep was troubled, and
  all the passengers appalled. Mary then left her bed, and went on deck,
  to survey the contending elements: the scene accorded with the present
  state of her soul; she thought in a few hours I may go home; the
  prisoner may be released. The vessel rose on a wave and descended into a
  yawning gulph--Not slower did her mounting soul return to earth,
  for--Ah! her treasure and her heart was there. The squalls rattled
  amongst the sails, which were quickly taken down; the wind would then
  die away, and the wild undirected waves rushed on every side with a
  tremendous roar. In a little vessel in the midst of such a storm she
  was not dismayed; she felt herself independent.
  
  Just then one of the crew perceived a signal of distress; by the help of
  a glass he could plainly discover a small vessel dismasted, drifted
  about, for the rudder had been broken by the violence of the storm.
  Mary's thoughts were now all engrossed by the crew on the brink of
  destruction. They bore down to the wreck; they reached it, and hailed
  the trembling wretches; at the sound of the friendly greeting, loud
  cries of tumultuous joy were mixed with the roaring of the waves, and
  with ecstatic transport they leaped on the shattered deck, launched
  their boat in a moment, and committed themselves to the mercy of the
  sea. Stowed between two casks, and leaning on a sail, she watched the
  boat, and when a wave intercepted it from her view--she ceased to
  breathe, or rather held her breath until it rose again.
  
  At last the boat arrived safe along-side the ship, and Mary caught the
  poor trembling wretches as they stumbled into it, and joined them in
  thanking that gracious Being, who though He had not thought fit to still
  the raging of the sea, had afforded them unexpected succour.
  
  Amongst the wretched crew was one poor woman, who fainted when she was
  hauled on board: Mary undressed her, and when she had recovered, and
  soothed her, left her to enjoy the rest she required to recruit her
  strength, which fear had quite exhausted. She returned again to view the
  angry deep; and when she gazed on its perturbed state, she thought of
  the Being who rode on the wings of the wind, and stilled the noise of
  the sea; and the madness of the people--He only could speak peace to
  her troubled spirit! she grew more calm; the late transaction had
  gratified her benevolence, and stole her out of herself.
  
  One of the sailors, happening to say to another, "that he believed the
  world was going to be at an end;" this observation led her into a new
  train of thoughts: some of Handel's sublime compositions occurred to
  her, and she sung them to the grand accompaniment. The Lord God
  Omnipotent reigned, and would reign for ever, and ever!--Why then did
  she fear the sorrows that were passing away, when she knew that He would
  bind up the broken-hearted, and receive those who came out of great
  tribulation. She retired to her cabin; and wrote in the little book that
  was now her only confident. It was after midnight.
  
  "At this solemn hour, the great day of judgment fills my thoughts; the
  day of retribution, when the secrets of all hearts will be revealed;
  when all worldly distinctions will fade away, and be no more seen. I
  have not words to express the sublime images which the bare
  contemplation of this awful day raises in my mind. Then, indeed, the
  Lord Omnipotent will reign, and He will wipe the tearful eye, and
  support the trembling heart--yet a little while He hideth his face, and
  the dun shades of sorrow, and the thick clouds of folly separate us from
  our God; but when the glad dawn of an eternal day breaks, we shall know
  even as we are known. Here we walk by faith, and not by sight; and we
  have this alternative, either to enjoy the pleasures of life which are
  but for a season, or look forward to the prize of our high calling, and
  with fortitude, and that wisdom which is from above, endeavour to bear
  the warfare of life. We know that many run the race; but he that
  striveth obtaineth the crown of victory. Our race is an arduous one! How
  many are betrayed by traitors lodged in their own breasts, who wear the
  garb of Virtue, and are so near akin; we sigh to think they should ever
  lead into folly, and slide imperceptibly into vice. Surely any thing
  like happiness is madness! Shall probationers of an hour presume to
  pluck the fruit of immortality, before they have conquered death? it is
  guarded, when the great day, to which I allude, arrives, the way will
  again be opened. Ye dear delusions, gay deceits, farewel! and yet I
  cannot banish ye for ever; still does my panting soul push forward, and
  live in futurity, in the deep shades o'er which darkness hangs.--I try
  to pierce the gloom, and find a resting-place, where my thirst of
  knowledge will be gratified, and my ardent affections find an object to
  fix them. Every thing material must change; happiness and this
  fluctating principle is not compatible. Eternity, immateriality, and
  happiness,--what are ye? How shall I grasp the mighty and fleeting
  conceptions ye create?"
  
  After writing, serenely she delivered her soul into the hands of the
  Father of Spirits; and slept in peace.
  
  
  
  
  CHAP. XXI.
  
  
  Mary rose early, refreshed by the seasonable rest, and went to visit the
  poor woman, whom she found quite recovered: and, on enquiry, heard that
  she had lately buried her husband, a common sailor; and that her only
  surviving child had been washed over-board the day before. Full of her
  own danger, she scarcely thought of her child till that was over; and
  then she gave way to boisterous emotions.
  
  Mary endeavoured to calm her at first, by sympathizing with her; and she
  tried to point out the only solid source of comfort but in doing this
  she encountered many difficulties; she found her grossly ignorant, yet
  she did not despair: and as the poor creature could not receive comfort
  from the operations of her own mind, she laboured to beguile the hours,
  which grief made heavy, by adapting her conversation to her capacity.
  
  There are many minds that only receive impressions through the medium of
  the senses: to them did Mary address herself; she made her some
  presents, and promised to assist her when they should arrive in England.
  This employment roused her out of her late stupor, and again set the
  faculties of her soul in motion; made the understanding contend with the
  imagination, and the heart throbbed not so irregularly during the
  contention. How short-lived was the calm! when the English coast was
  descried, her sorrows returned with redoubled vigor.--She was to visit
  and comfort the mother of her lost friend--And where then should she
  take up her residence? These thoughts suspended the exertions of her
  understanding; abstracted reflections gave way to alarming
  apprehensions; and tenderness undermined fortitude.
  
  
  
  
  CHAP. XXII.
  
  
  In England then landed the forlorn wanderer. She looked round for some
  few moments--her affections were not attracted to any particular part of
  the Island. She knew none of the inhabitants of the vast city to which
  she was going: the mass of buildings appeared to her a huge body without
  an informing soul. As she passed through the streets in an
  hackney-coach, disgust and horror alternately filled her mind. She met
  some women drunk; and the manners of those who attacked the sailors,
  made her shrink into herself, and exclaim, are these my fellow
  creatures!
  
  Detained by a number of carts near the water-side, for she came up the
  river in the vessel, not having reason to hasten on shore, she saw
  vulgarity, dirt, and vice--her soul sickened; this was the first time
  such complicated misery obtruded itself on her sight.--Forgetting her
  own griefs, she gave the world a much indebted tear; mourned for a world
  in ruins. She then perceived, that great part of her comfort must arise
  from viewing the smiling face of nature, and be reflected from the view
  of innocent enjoyments: she was fond of seeing animals play, and could
  not bear to see her own species sink below them.
  
  In a little dwelling in one of the villages near London, lived the
  mother of Ann; two of her children still remained with her; but they did
  not resemble Ann. To her house Mary directed the coach, and told the
  unfortunate mother of her loss. The poor woman, oppressed by it, and her
  many other cares, after an inundation of tears, began to enumerate all
  her past misfortunes, and present cares. The heavy tale lasted until
  midnight, and the impression it made on Mary's mind was so strong, that
  it banished sleep till towards morning; when tired nature sought
  forgetfulness, and the soul ceased to ruminate about many things.
  
  She sent for the poor woman they took up at sea, provided her a lodging,
  and relieved her present necessities. A few days were spent in a kind of
  listless way; then the mother of Ann began to enquire when she thought
  of returning home. She had hitherto treated her with the greatest
  respect, and concealed her wonder at Mary's choosing a remote room in
  the house near the garden, and ordering some alterations to be made, as
  if she intended living in it.
  
  Mary did not choose to explain herself; had Ann lived, it is probable
  she would never have loved Henry so fondly; but if she had, she could
  not have talked of her passion to any human creature. She deliberated,
  and at last informed the family, that she had a reason for not living
  with her husband, which must some time remain a secret--they stared--Not
  live with him! how will you live then? This was a question she could not
  answer; she had only about eighty pounds remaining, of the money she
  took with her to Lisbon; when it was exhausted where could she get more?
  I will work, she cried, do any thing rather than be a slave.
  
  
  
  
  CHAP. XXIII.
  
  
  Unhappy, she wandered about the village, and relieved the poor; it was
  the only employment that eased her aching heart; she became more
  intimate with misery--the misery that rises from poverty and the want of
  education. She was in the vicinity of a great city; the vicious poor in
  and about it must ever grieve a benevolent contemplative mind.
  
  One evening a man who stood weeping in a little lane, near the house she
  resided in, caught her eye. She accosted him; in a confused manner, he
  informed her, that his wife was dying, and his children crying for the
  bread he could not earn. Mary desired to be conducted to his
  habitation; it was not very distant, and was the upper room in an old
  mansion-house, which had been once the abode of luxury. Some tattered
  shreds of rich hangings still remained, covered with cobwebs and filth;
  round the ceiling, through which the rain drop'd, was a beautiful
  cornice mouldering; and a spacious gallery was rendered dark by the
  broken windows being blocked up; through the apertures the wind forced
  its way in hollow sounds, and reverberated along the former scene of
  festivity.
  
  It was crowded with inhabitants: som were scolding, others swearing, or
  singing indecent songs. What a sight for Mary! Her blood ran cold; yet
  she had sufficient resolution to mount to the top of the house. On the
  floor, in one corner of a very small room, lay an emaciated figure of a
  woman; a window over her head scarcely admitted any light, for the
  broken panes were stuffed with dirty rags. Near her were five children,
  all young, and covered with dirt; their sallow cheeks, and languid eyes,
  exhibited none of the charms of childhood. Some were fighting, and
  others crying for food; their yells were mixed with their mother's
  groans, and the wind which rushed through the passage. Mary was
  petrified; but soon assuming more courage, approached the bed, and,
  regardless of the surrounding nastiness, knelt down by the poor wretch,
  and breathed the most poisonous air; for the unfortunate creature was
  dying of a putrid fever, the consequence of dirt and want.
  
  Their state did not require much explanation. Mary sent the husband for
  a poor neighbour, whom she hired to nurse the woman, and take care of
  the children; and then went herself to buy them some necessaries at a
  shop not far distant. Her knowledge of physic had enabled her to
  prescribe for the woman; and she left the house, with a mixture of
  horror and satisfaction.
  
  She visited them every day, and procured them every comfort; contrary to
  her expectation, the woman began to recover; cleanliness and wholesome
  food had a wonderful effect; and Mary saw her rising as it were from the
  grave. Not aware of the danger she ran into, she did not think of it
  till she perceived she had caught the fever. It made such an alarming
  progress, that she was prevailed on to send for a physician; but the
  disorder was so violent, that for some days it baffled his skill; and
  Mary felt not her danger, as she was delirious. After the crisis, the
  symptoms were more favourable, and she slowly recovered, without
  regaining much strength or spirits; indeed they were intolerably low:
  she wanted a tender nurse.
  
  For some time she had observed, that she was not treated with the same
  respect as formerly; her favors were forgotten when no more were
  expected. This ingratitude hurt her, as did a similar instance in the
  woman who came out of the ship. Mary had hitherto supported her; as her
  finances were growing low, she hinted to her, that she ought to try to
  earn her own subsistence: the woman in return loaded her with abuse.
  
  Two months were elapsed; she had not seen, or heard from Henry. He was
  sick--nay, perhaps had forgotten her; all the world was dreary, and all
  the people ungrateful.
  
  She sunk into apathy, and endeavouring to rouse herself out of it, she
  wrote in her book another fragment:
  
  "Surely life is a dream, a frightful one! and after those rude,
  disjointed images are fled, will light ever break in? Shall I ever feel
  joy? Do all suffer like me; or am I framed so as to be particularly
  susceptible of misery? It is true, I have experienced the most rapturous
  emotions--short-lived delight!--ethereal beam, which only serves to shew
  my present misery--yet lie still, my throbbing heart, or burst; and my
  brain--why dost thou whirl about at such a terrifying rate? why do
  thoughts so rapidly rush into my mind, and yet when they disappear
  leave such deep traces? I could almost wish for the madman's happiness,
  and in a strong imagination lose a sense of woe.
  
  "Oh! reason, thou boasted guide, why desert me, like the world, when I
  most need thy assistance! Canst thou not calm this internal tumult, and
  drive away the death-like sadness which presses so sorely on me,--a
  sadness surely very nearly allied to despair. I am now the prey of
  apathy--I could wish for the former storms! a ray of hope sometimes
  illumined my path; I had a pursuit; but now _it visits not my haunts
  forlorn_. Too well have I loved my fellow creatures! I have been wounded
  by ingratitude; from every one it has something of the serpent's tooth.
  
  "When overwhelmed by sorrow, I have met unkindness; I looked for some
  one to have pity on me; but found none!--The healing balm of sympathy is
  denied; I weep, a solitary wretch, and the hot tears scald my cheeks. I
  have not the medicine of life, the dear chimera I have so often chased,
  a friend. Shade of my loved Ann! dost thou ever visit thy poor Mary?
  Refined spirit, thou wouldst weep, could angels weep, to see her
  struggling with passions she cannot subdue; and feelings which corrode
  her small portion of comfort!"
  
  She could not write any more; she wished herself far distant from all
  human society; a thick gloom spread itself over her mind: but did not
  make her forget the very beings she wished to fly from. She sent for the
  poor woman she found in the garret; gave her money to clothe herself
  and children, and buy some furniture for a little hut, in a large
  garden, the master of which agreed to employ her husband, who had been
  bred a gardener. Mary promised to visit the family, and see their new
  abode when she was able to go out.
  
  
  
  
  CHAP. XXIV.
  
  
  Mary still continued weak and low, though it was spring, and all nature
  began to look gay; with more than usual brightness the sun shone, and a
  little robin which she had cherished during the winter sung one of his
  best songs. The family were particularly civil this fine morning, and
  tried to prevail on her to walk out. Any thing like kindness melted her;
  she consented.
  
  Softer emotions banished her melancholy, and she directed her steps to
  the habitation she had rendered comfortable.
  
  Emerging out of a dreary chamber, all nature looked cheerful; when she
  had last walked out, snow covered the ground, and bleak winds pierced
  her through and through: now the hedges were green, the blossoms adorned
  the trees, and the birds sung. She reached the dwelling, without being
  much exhausted and while she rested there, observed the children
  sporting on the grass, with improved complexions. The mother with tears
  thanked her deliverer, and pointed out her comforts. Mary's tears flowed
  not only from sympathy, but a complication of feelings and recollections
  the affections which bound her to her fellow creatures began again to
  play, and reanimated nature. She observed the change in herself, tried
  to account for it, and wrote with her pencil a rhapsody on sensibility.
  
  "Sensibility is the most exquisite feeling of which the human soul is
  susceptible: when it pervades us, we feel happy; and could it last
  unmixed, we might form some conjecture of the bliss of those
  paradisiacal days, when the obedient passions were under the dominion of
  reason, and the impulses of the heart did not need correction.
  
  "It is this quickness, this delicacy of feeling, which enables us to
  relish the sublime touches of the poet, and the painter; it is this,
  which expands the soul, gives an enthusiastic greatness, mixed with
  tenderness, when we view the magnificent objects of nature; or hear of a
  good action. The same effect we experience in the spring, when we hail
  the returning sun, and the consequent renovation of nature; when the
  flowers unfold themselves, and exhale their sweets, and the voice of
  music is heard in the land. Softened by tenderness; the soul is
  disposed to be virtuous. Is any sensual gratification to be compared to
  that of feelings the eves moistened after having comforted the
  unfortunate?
  
  "Sensibility is indeed the foundation of all our happiness; but these
  raptures are unknown to the depraved sensualist, who is only moved by
  what strikes his gross senses; the delicate embellishments of nature
  escape his notice; as do the gentle and interesting affections.--But it
  is only to be felt; it escapes discussion."
  
  She then returned home, and partook of the family meal, which was
  rendered more cheerful by the presence of a man, past the meridian of
  life, of polished manners, and dazzling wit. He endeavoured to draw Mary
  out, and succeeded; she entered into conversation, and some of her
  artless flights of genius struck him with surprise; he found she had a
  capacious mind, and that her reason was as profound as her imagination
  was lively. She glanced from earth to heaven, and caught the light of
  truth. Her expressive countenance shewed what passed in her mind, and
  her tongue was ever the faithful interpreter of her heart; duplicity
  never threw a shade over her words or actions. Mary found him a man of
  learning; and the exercise of her understanding would frequently make
  her forget her griefs, when nothing else could, except benevolence.
  
  This man had known the mistress of the house in her youth; good nature
  induced him to visit her; but when he saw Mary he had another
  inducement. Her appearance, and above all, her genius, and cultivation
  of mind, roused his curiosity; but her dignified manners had such an
  effect on him, he was obliged to suppress it. He knew men, as well as
  books; his conversation was entertaining and improving. In Mary's
  company he doubted whether heaven was peopled with spirits masculine;
  and almost forgot that he had called the sex "the pretty play things
  that render life tolerable."
  
  He had been the slave of beauty, the captive of sense; love he ne'er had
  felt; the mind never rivetted the chain, nor had the purity of it made
  the body appear lovely in his eyes. He was humane, despised meanness;
  but was vain of his abilities, and by no means a useful member of
  society. He talked often of the beauty of virtue; but not having any
  solid foundation to build the practice on, he was only a shining, or
  rather a sparkling character: and though his fortune enabled him to
  hunt down pleasure, he was discontented.
  
  Mary observed his character, and wrote down a train of reflections,
  which these observations led her to make; these reflections received a
  tinge from her mind; the present state of it, was that kind of painful
  quietness which arises from reason clouded by disgust; she had not yet
  learned to be resigned; vague hopes agitated her.
  
  "There are some subjects that are so enveloped in clouds, as you
  dissipate one, another overspreads it. Of this kind are our reasonings
  concerning happiness; till we are obliged to cry out with the Apostle,
  _That it hath not entered into the heart of man to conceive in what it
  could consist_, or how satiety could be prevented. Man seems formed for
  action, though the passions are seldom properly managed; they are
  either so languid as not to serve as a spur, or else so violent, as to
  overleap all bounds.
  
  "Every individual has its own peculiar trials; and anguish, in one shape
  or other, visits every heart. Sensibility produces flights of virtue;
  and not curbed by reason, is on the brink of vice talking, and even
  thinking of virtue.
  
  "Christianity can only afford just principles to govern the wayward
  feelings and impulses of the heart: every good disposition runs wild, if
  not transplanted into this soil; but how hard is it to keep the heart
  diligently, though convinced that the issues of life depend on it.
  
  "It is very difficult to discipline the mind of a thinker, or reconcile
  him to the weakness, the inconsistency of his understanding; and a
  still more laborious task for him to conquer his passions, and learn to
  seek content, instead of happiness. Good dispositions, and virtuous
  propensities, without the light of the Gospel, produce eccentric
  characters: comet-like, they are always in extremes; while revelation
  resembles the laws of attraction, and produces uniformity; but too often
  is the attraction feeble; and the light so obscured by passion, as to
  force the bewildered soul to fly into void space, and wander in
  confusion."
  
  
  
  
  CHAP. XXV.
  
  
  A few mornings after, as Mary was sitting ruminating, harassed by
  perplexing thoughts, and fears, a letter was delivered to her: the
  servant waited for an answer. Her heart palpitated; it was from Henry;
  she held it some time in her hand, then tore it open; it was not a long
  one; and only contained an account of a relapse, which prevented his
  sailing in the first packet, as he had intended. Some tender enquiries
  were added, concerning her health, and state of mind; but they were
  expressed in rather a formal style: it vexed her, and the more so, as it
  stopped the current of affection, which the account of his arrival and
  illness had made flow to her heart--it ceased to beat for a moment--she
  read the passage over again; but could not tell what she was hurt
  by--only that it did not answer the expectations of her affection. She
  wrote a laconic, incoherent note in return, allowing him to call on her
  the next day--he had requested permission at the conclusion of his
  letter.
  
  Her mind was then painfully active; she could not read or walk; she
  tried to fly from herself, to forget the long hours that were yet to run
  before to-morrow could arrive: she knew not what time he would come;
  certainly in the morning, she concluded; the morning then was anxiously
  wished for; and every wish produced a sigh, that arose from expectation
  on the stretch, damped by fear and vain regret.
  
  To beguile the tedious time, Henry's favorite tunes were sung; the books
  they read together turned over; and the short epistle read at least a
  hundred times.--Any one who had seen her, would have supposed that she
  was trying to decypher Chinese characters.
  
  After a sleepless night, she hailed the tardy day, watched the rising
  sun, and then listened for every footstep, and started if she heard the
  street door opened. At last he came, and she who had been counting the
  hours, and doubting whether the earth moved, would gladly have escaped
  the approaching interview.
  
  With an unequal, irresolute pace, she went to meet him; but when she
  beheld his emaciated countenance, all the tenderness, which the
  formality of his letter had damped, returned, and a mournful
  presentiment stilled the internal conflict. She caught his hand, and
  looking wistfully at him, exclaimed, "Indeed, you are not well!"
  
  "I am very far from well; but it matters not," added he with a smile of
  resignation; "my native air may work wonders, and besides, my mother is
  a tender nurse, and I shall sometimes see thee."
  
  Mary felt for the first time in her life, envy; she wished
  involuntarily, that all the comfort he received should be from her. She
  enquired about the symptoms of his disorder; and heard that he had been
  very ill; she hastily drove away the fears, that former dear bought
  experience suggested: and again and again did she repeat, that she was
  sure he would soon recover. She would then look in his face, to see if
  he assented, and ask more questions to the same purport. She tried to
  avoid speaking of herself, and Henry left her, with, a promise of
  visiting her the next day.
  
  Her mind was now engrossed by one fear--yet she would not allow herself
  to think that she feared an event she could not name. She still saw his
  pale face; the sound of his voice still vibrated on her ears; she tried
  to retain it; she listened, looked round, wept, and prayed.
  
  Henry had enlightened the desolate scene: was this charm of life to fade
  away, and, like the baseless fabric of a vision, leave not a wreck
  behind? These thoughts disturbed her reason, she shook her head, as if
  to drive them out of it; a weight, a heavy one, was on her heart; all
  was not well there.
  
  Out of this reverie she was soon woke to keener anguish, by the arrival
  of a letter from her husband; it came to Lisbon after her departure:
  Henry had forwarded it to her, but did not choose to deliver it
  himself, for a very obvious reason; it might have produced a
  conversation he wished for some time to avoid; and his precaution took
  its rise almost equally from benevolence and love.
  
  She could not muster up sufficient resolution to break the seal: her
  fears were not prophetic, for the contents gave her comfort. He informed
  her that he intended prolonging his tour, as he was now his own master,
  and wished to remain some time on the continent, and in particular to
  visit Italy without any restraint: but his reasons for it appeared
  childish; it was not to cultivate his taste, or tread on classic ground,
  where poets and philosophers caught their lore; but to join in the
  masquerades, and such burlesque amusements.
  
  These instances of folly relieved Mary, in some degree reconciled her
  to herself added fuel to the devouring flame--and silenced something
  like a pang, which reason and conscience made her feel, when she
  reflected, that it is the office of Religion to reconcile us to the
  seemingly hard dispensations of providence; and that no inclination,
  however strong, should oblige us to desert the post assigned us, or
  force us to forget that virtue should be an active principle; and that
  the most desirable station, is the one that exercises our faculties,
  refines our affections, and enables us to be useful.
  
  One reflection continually wounded her repose; she feared not poverty;
  her wants were few; but in giving up a fortune, she gave up the power of
  comforting the miserable, and making the sad heart sing for joy.
  
  Heaven had endowed her with uncommon humanity, to render her one of His
  benevolent agents, a messenger of peace; and should she attend to her
  own inclinations?
  
  These suggestions, though they could not subdue a violent passion,
  increased her misery. One moment she was a heroine, half determined to
  bear whatever fate should inflict; the next, her mind would recoil--and
  tenderness possessed her whole soul. Some instances of Henry's
  affection, his worth and genius, were remembered: and the earth was only
  a vale of tears, because he was not to sojourn with her.
  
  
  
  
  CHAP. XXVI.
  
  
  Henry came the next day, and once or twice in the course of the
  following week; but still Mary kept up some little formality, a certain
  consciousness restrained her; and Henry did not enter on the subject
  which he found she wished to avoid. In the course of conversation,
  however, she mentioned to him, that she earnestly desired to obtain a
  place in one of the public offices for Ann's brother, as the family were
  again in a declining way.
  
  Henry attended, made a few enquiries, and dropped the subject; but the
  following week, she heard him enter with unusual haste; it was to inform
  her, that he had made interest with a person of some consequence, whom
  he had once obliged in a very disagreeable exigency, in a foreign
  country; and that he had procured a place for her friend, which would
  infallibly lead to something better, if he behaved with propriety. Mary
  could not speak to thank him; emotions of gratitude and love suffused
  her face; her blood eloquently spoke. She delighted to receive benefits
  through the medium of her fellow creatures; but to receive them from
  Henry was exquisite pleasure.
  
  As the summer advanced, Henry grew worse; the closeness of the air, in
  the metropolis, affected his breath; and his mother insisted on his
  fixing on some place in the country, where she would accompany him. He
  could not think of going far off, but chose a little village on the
  banks of the Thames, near Mary's dwelling: he then introduced her to his
  mother.
  
  They frequently went down the river in a boat; Henry would take his
  violin, and Mary would sometimes sing, or read, to them. She pleased his
  mother; she inchanted him. It was an advantage to Mary that friendship
  first possessed her heart; it opened it to all the softer sentiments of
  humanity:--and when this first affection was torn away, a similar one
  sprung up, with a still tenderer sentiment added to it.
  
  The last evening they were on the water, the clouds grew suddenly black,
  and broke in violent showers, which interrupted the solemn stillness
  that had prevailed previous to it. The thunder roared; and the oars
  plying quickly, in order to reach the shore, occasioned a not
  unpleasing sound. Mary drew still nearer Henry; she wished to have
  sought with him a watry grave; to have escaped the horror of surviving
  him.--She spoke not, but Henry saw the workings of her mind--he felt
  them; threw his arm round her waist--and they enjoyed the luxury of
  wretchedness.--As they touched the shore, Mary perceived that Henry was
  wet; with eager anxiety she cried, What shall I do!--this day will kill
  thee, and I shall not die with thee!
  
  This accident put a stop to their pleasurable excursions; it had injured
  him, and brought on the spitting of blood he was subject to--perhaps it
  was not the cold that he caught, that occasioned it. In vain did Mary
  try to shut her eyes; her fate pursued her! Henry every day grew worse
  and worse.
  
  
  
  
  CHAP. XXVII.
  
  
  Oppressed by her foreboding fears, her sore mind was hurt by new
  instances of ingratitude: disgusted with the family, whose misfortunes
  had often disturbed her repose, and lost in anticipated sorrow, she
  rambled she knew not where; when turning down a shady walk, she
  discovered her feet had taken the path they delighted to tread. She saw
  Henry sitting in his garden alone; he quickly opened the garden-gate,
  and she sat down by him.
  
  "I did not," said he, "expect to see thee this evening, my dearest Mary;
  but I was thinking of thee. Heaven has endowed thee with an uncommon
  portion of fortitude, to support one of the most affectionate hearts in
  the world. This is not a time for disguise; I know I am dear to
  thee--and my affection for thee is twisted with every fibre of my
  heart.--I loved thee ever since I have been acquainted with thine: thou
  art the being my fancy has delighted to form; but which I imagined
  existed only there! In a little while the shades of death will encompass
  me--ill-fated love perhaps added strength to my disease, and smoothed
  the rugged path. Try, my love, to fulfil thy destined course--try to add
  to thy other virtues patience. I could have wished, for thy sake, that
  we could have died together--or that I could live to shield thee from
  the assaults of an unfeeling world! Could I but offer thee an asylum in
  these arms--a faithful bosom, in which thou couldst repose all thy
  griefs--" He pressed her to it, and she returned the pressure--he felt her
  throbbing heart. A mournful silence ensued! when he resumed the
  conversation. "I wished to prepare thee for the blow--too surely do I
  feel that it will not be long delayed! The passion I have nursed is so
  pure, that death cannot extinguish it--or tear away the impression thy
  virtues have made on my soul. I would fain comfort thee--"
  
  "Talk not of comfort," interrupted Mary, "it will be in heaven with thee
  and Ann--while I shall remain on earth the veriest wretch!"--She grasped
  his hand.
  
  "There we shall meet, my love, my Mary, in our Father's--" His voice
  faultered; he could not finish the sentence; he was almost
  suffocated--they both wept, their tears relieved them; they walked
  slowly to the garden-gate (Mary would not go into the house); they could
  not say farewel when they reached it--and Mary hurried down the lane; to
  spare Henry the pain of witnessing her emotions.
  
  When she lost sight of the house she sat down on the ground, till it
  grew late, thinking of all that had passed. Full of these thoughts, she
  crept along, regardless of the descending rain; when lifting up her eyes
  to heaven, and then turning them wildly on the prospects around, without
  marking them; she only felt that the scene accorded with her present
  state of mind. It was the last glimmering of twilight, with a full moon,
  over which clouds continually flitted. Where am I wandering, God of
  Mercy! she thought; she alluded to the wanderings of her mind. In what a
  labyrinth am I lost! What miseries have I already encountered--and what
  a number lie still before me.
  
  Her thoughts flew rapidly to something. I could be happy listening to
  him, soothing his cares.--Would he not smile upon me--call me his own
  Mary? I am not his--said she with fierceness--I am a wretch! and she
  heaved a sigh that almost broke her heart, while the big tears rolled
  down her burning cheeks; but still her exercised mind, accustomed to
  think, began to observe its operation, though the barrier of reason was
  almost carried away, and all the faculties not restrained by her, were
  running into confusion. Wherefore am I made thus? Vain are my
  efforts--I cannot live without loving--and love leads to madness.--Yet
  I will not weep; and her eyes were now fixed by despair, dry and
  motionless; and then quickly whirled about with a look of distraction.
  
  She looked for hope; but found none--all was troubled waters.--No where
  could she find rest. I have already paced to and fro in the earth; it is
  not my abiding place--may I not too go home! Ah! no. Is this complying
  with my Henry's request, could a spirit thus disengaged expect to
  associate with his? Tears of tenderness strayed down her relaxed
  countenance, and her softened heart heaved more regularly. She felt the
  rain, and turned to her solitary home.
  
  Fatigued by the tumultuous emotions she had endured, when she entered
  the house she ran to her own room, sunk on the bed; and exhausted
  nature soon closed her eyes; but active fancy was still awake, and a
  thousand fearful dreams interrupted her slumbers.
  
  Feverish and languid, she opened her eyes, and saw the unwelcome sun
  dart his rays through a window, the curtains of which she had forgotten
  to draw. The dew hung on the adjacent trees, and added to the lustre;
  the little robin began his song, and distant birds joined. She looked;
  her countenance was still vacant--her sensibility was absorbed by one
  object.
  
  Did I ever admire the rising sun, she slightly thought, turning from the
  Window, and shutting her eyes: she recalled to view the last night's
  scene. His faltering voice, lingering step, and the look of tender woe,
  were all graven on her heart; as were the words "Could these arms
  shield thee from sorrow--afford thee an asylum from an unfeeling world."
  The pressure to his bosom was not forgot. For a moment she was happy;
  but in a long-drawn sigh every delightful sensation evaporated.
  Soon--yes, very soon, will the grave again receive all I love! and the
  remnant of my days--she could not proceed--Were there then days to come
  after that?
  
  
  
  
  CHAP. XXVIII.
  
  
  Just as she was going to quit her room, to visit Henry, his mother
  called on her.
  
  "My son is worse to-day," said she, "I come to request you to spend not
  only this day, but a week or two with me.--Why should I conceal any
  thing from you? Last night my child made his mother his confident, and,
  in the anguish of his heart, requested me to be thy friend--when I shall
  be childless. I will not attempt to describe what I felt when he talked
  thus to me. If I am to lose the support of my age, and be again a
  widow--may I call her Child whom my Henry wishes me to adopt?"
  
  This new instance of Henry's disinterested affection, Mary felt most
  forcibly; and striving to restrain the complicated emotions, and sooth
  the wretched mother, she almost fainted: when the unhappy parent forced
  tears from her, by saying, "I deserve this blow; my partial fondness
  made me neglect him, when most he wanted a mother's care; this neglect,
  perhaps, first injured his constitution: righteous Heaven has made my
  crime its own punishment; and now I am indeed a mother, I shall loss my
  child--my only child!"
  
  When they were a little more composed they hastened to the invalide; but
  during the short ride, the mother related several instances of Henry's
  goodness of heart. Mary's tears were not those of unmixed anguish; the
  display of his virtues gave her extreme delight--yet human nature
  prevailed; she trembled to think they would soon unfold themselves in a
  more genial clime.
  
  
  
  
  CHAP. XXIX.
  
  
  She found Henry very ill. The physician had some weeks before declared
  he never knew a person with a similar pulse recover. Henry was certain
  he could not live long; all the rest he could obtain, was procured by
  opiates. Mary now enjoyed the melancholy pleasure of nursing him, and
  softened by her tenderness the pains she could not remove. Every sigh
  did she stifle, every tear restrain, when he could see or hear them. She
  would boast of her resignation--yet catch eagerly at the least ray of
  hope. While he slept she would support his pillow, and rest her head
  where she could feel his breath. She loved him better than herself--she
  could not pray for his recovery; she could only say, The will of Heaven
  be done.
  
  While she was in this state, she labored to acquire fortitude; but one
  tender look destroyed it all--she rather labored, indeed, to make him
  believe he was resigned, than really to be so.
  
  She wished to receive the sacrament with him, as a bond of union which
  was to extend beyond the grave. She did so, and received comfort from
  it; she rose above her misery.
  
  His end was now approaching. Mary sat on the side of the bed. His eyes
  appeared fixed--no longer agitated by passion, he only felt that it was
  a fearful thing to die. The soul retired to the citadel; but it was not
  now solely filled by the image of her who in silent despair watched for
  his last breath. Collected, a frightful calmness stilled every turbulent
  emotion.
  
  The mother's grief was more audible. Henry had for some time only
  attended to Mary--Mary pitied the parent, whose stings of conscience
  increased her sorrow; she whispered him, "Thy mother weeps, disregarded
  by thee; oh! comfort her!--My mother, thy son blesses thee.--" The
  oppressed parent left the room. And Mary _waited_ to see him die.
  
  She pressed with trembling eagerness his parched lips--he opened his
  eyes again; the spreading film retired, and love returned them--he gave
  a look--it was never forgotten. My Mary, will you be comforted?
  
  Yes, yes, she exclaimed in a firm voice; you go to be happy--I am not a
  complete wretch! The words almost choked her.
  
  He was a long time silent; the opiate produced a kind of stupor. At
  last, in an agony, he cried, It is dark; I cannot see thee; raise me up.
  Where is Mary? did she not say she delighted to support me? let me die
  in her arms.
  
  Her arms were opened to receive him; they trembled not. Again he was
  obliged to lie down, resting on her: as the agonies increased he leaned
  towards her: the soul seemed flying to her, as it escaped out of its
  prison. The breathing was interrupted; she heard distinctly the last
  sigh--and lifting up to Heaven her eyes, Father, receive his spirit, she
  calmly cried.
  
  The attendants gathered round; she moved not, nor heard the clamor; the
  hand seemed yet to press hers; it still was warm. A ray of light from
  an opened window discovered the pale face.
  
  She left the room, and retired to one very near it; and sitting down on
  the floor, fixed her eyes on the door of the apartment which contained
  the body. Every event of her life rushed across her mind with wonderful
  rapidity--yet all was still--fate had given the finishing stroke. She
  sat till midnight.--Then rose in a phrensy, went into the apartment, and
  desired those who watched the body to retire.
  
  She knelt by the bed side;--an enthusiastic devotion overcame the
  dictates of despair.--She prayed most ardently to be supported, and
  dedicated herself to the service of that Being into whose hands, she had
  committed the spirit she almost adored--again--and again,--she prayed
  wildly--and fervently--but attempting to touch the lifeless hand--her
  head swum--she sunk--
  
  
  
  
  CHAP. XXX.
  
  
  Three months after, her only friend, the mother of her lost Henry began
  to be alarmed, at observing her altered appearance; and made her own
  health a pretext for travelling. These complaints roused Mary out of her
  torpid state; she imagined a new duty now forced her to exert herself--a
  duty love made sacred!--
  
  They went to Bath, from that to Bristol; but the latter place they
  quickly left; the sight of the sick that resort there, they neither of
  them could bear. From Bristol they flew to Southampton. The road was
  pleasant--yet Mary shut her eyes;--or if they were open, green fields
  and commons, passed in quick succession, and left no more traces behind
  than if they had been waves of the sea.
  
  Some time after they were settled at Southampton, they met the man who
  took so much notice of Mary, soon after her return to England. He
  renewed his acquaintance; he was really interested in her fate, as he
  had heard her uncommon story; besides, he knew her husband; knew him to
  be a good-natured, weak man. He saw him soon after his arrival in his
  native country, and prevented his hastening to enquire into the reasons
  of Mary's strange conduct. He desired him not to be too precipitate, if
  he ever wished to possess an invaluable treasure. He was guided by him,
  and allowed him to follow Mary to Southampton, and speak first to her
  friend.
  
  This friend determined to trust to her native strength of mind, and
  informed her of the circumstance; but she overrated it: Mary was not
  able, for a few days after the intelligence, to fix on the mode of
  conduct she ought now to pursue. But at last she conquered her disgust,
  and wrote her _husband_ an account of what had passed since she had
  dropped his correspondence.
  
  He came in person to answer the letter. Mary fainted when he approached
  her unexpectedly. Her disgust returned with additional force, in spite
  of previous reasonings, whenever he appeared; yet she was prevailed on
  to promise to live with him, if he would permit her to pass one year,
  travelling from place to place; he was not to accompany her.
  
  The time too quickly elapsed, and she gave him her hand--the struggle
  was almost more than she could endure. She tried to appear calm; time
  mellowed her grief, and mitigated her torments; but when her husband
  would take her hand, or mention any thing like love, she would instantly
  feel a sickness, a faintness at her heart, and wish, involuntarily, that
  the earth would open and swallow her.
  
  
  
  
  CHAP. XXXI.
  
  
  Mary visited the continent, and sought health in different climates; but
  her nerves were not to be restored to their former state. She then
  retired to her house in the country, established manufactories, threw
  the estate into small farms; and continually employed herself this way
  to dissipate care, and banish unavailing regret. She visited the sick,
  supported the old, and educated the young.
  
  These occupations engrossed her mind; but there were hours when all her
  former woes would return and haunt her.--Whenever she did, or said, any
  thing she thought Henry would have approved of--she could not avoid
  thinking with anguish, of the rapture his approbation ever conveyed to
  her heart--a heart in which there was a void, that even benevolence and
  religion could not fill. The latter taught her to struggle for
  resignation; and the former rendered life supportable.
  
  Her delicate state of health did not promise long life. In moments of
  solitary sadness, a gleam of joy would dart across her mind--She thought
  she was hastening to that world _where there is neither marrying_, nor
  giving in marriage.
  