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to deprive their own children of a portion of their h; earned bread to give it to her. She was hurt at 11 and made an attempt to escape from them: they detected her in this undertaking, and, for a long til watched her more strictly than ever. She was however, upon quitting them, and made her with her little boy in her arms. From that time, to the hour when I was so fortunate as to meet her, all appears like a dream to the poor wretch. She remembers nothing but walking in a constant round, from morning till night, with her baby in her arms, and resting at the several inns whenever the call of hunger demanded her stay. She had found very great humanity from every one, but had taken care not io render herself burthendome, by never taking up her lodging in the same house above once a month.

She remembers being obliged to lie, all one snowy, stormy night, under an oak tree. When she awoke in the morning, she found her baby cold and stift': the poor child had perished through the inclemency of the weather. She would never believe that the child was dead.

Once at an inn, the master and mistress of the house proposed to bury it: shocked at the idea, she refused to consent. The people executed their purpose while she was asleep. She rose early the next morning, and disappeared with the child's clothes, carefully wrapped up in her apron, resolving never more to approach the spot where she thought they wished to bury her baby-alive, and to keep it concealed from every eye in future.

"This," said Hayward, " is all her shattered memory would allow her to unfold; and this account, imperfect


as it is, she related with great difficulty, and at manjr different intervals. What remains* is easily told. I ordered her to be kept, with every care, at the inn, which we are approaching, and sent for an able physician from Oxford to attend her. I came to London t» zee how your heart was disposed towards her. If I had not found some reason to imagine that sorrow had softened it, trust me, my good Sir, I had never sought you out. I candidly confess that your former life, your ardour in the pursuit of money, had so disgusted me, that nothing but your misfortunes could ever have interested me in your behalf. You have had many solemn lessons. It would be a barbarity in me to add to them by unavailing regrets or fruitless admonitions*."

HereHayward concluded. The rest of the journey was passed in a melancholy manner. When they arrived at the inn where Martina lay confined, the waiter informed Hayward that the lady had been attended according to his directions, that she was now much worse than when he left her, and that the doctor was at present with her. When the physician came down stairs the toars were in his eyes: he declared he had never been more truly interested for a patient in the whole course of his practice; that if ever there was a true penitent in the world,

» Dives, a year after his daughter had quitted him, had experienced sad reverses of fortune: his business had fallen into decline, one of his agents had run away many thousands in arrear, his name had appeared in the Gazette, and several of his creditors obstinately refusing to sign his certificate, he had lived many months in all the apprehensions of a gaol. H .

she was one, but that he feared he had paid his last visit; she was speechless, though still sensible: within an hour, said he, and pain and suffering will be to her no more.

"Thank God!" fervently ejaculated the mournful Father; then I shall yet bless her before she dies. The goodness of the Almighty is infinite! He is merciful even in his chastisements. This is more than I deserve."

He then implored that he might be led to the chamber of Martina. Hayward vehemently opposed this proposition, but the physician declared that he could do no harm, and that it would be an act of mercy to the dying girl, who had reconciled herself to her heavenly father, to know that she had made her peace with her earthly parent also.

He conducted the mournful Dives to an apartment, and made him wait at the door till he had communicated the tidings to his patient, who, though in great pain, still was sensible of all that was passing around her. She kissed the doctor's extended hand, when she learned the good tidings he had brought her; tranquil tears rolled down her woe-wan cheek, and she looked towards the door with a placid, yet an anxious expectation. The physician came to Dives, and, after giving him many cautions to repress the vehemence of his feelings, bid him enter. He approached the bed, drew aside the curtains—there was Martina; but so altered! the beauty which had charmed him was fled; her eye was hollow, her cheek was pale; still it was his child; and while the angel of death had altered her features, those feature? to him were lovely yet. He let fall * shower of tears on her pillow as he kissed her pallid

cheek; then, seating himself by her side, he took her

hand. Her languid eyes that moment were illumined

with two streams of animated fire: he looked at her

earnestly; they were rivetted eye to eye above an hour.

As he prayed to her and blessed her, she smiled with

angel sweetness on his face. The convulsive agonies

of death came on: the physician begged him to quit

the room; but she clasped his hand so hard, and gave

him a look of such expression, that he sobbed out,

"Oh! impossible!"

Convulsions rent her delicate frame; she struggled, but still quitted not the hand of her father; at last, with the violent effort of pain, she raised herself on her bed, cried in agony—" now, now." A smile played on her face as she murmured, " I go—my sins are forgiven! Father, bless...."

With this last word she left her grasp, but left it not till the last breath of life had passed her lips, and the once-loved child was now cold and lifeless.

Hayward tore the father from the corpse. A hearse was ordered to convey the body to London, whither, in two days afterwards, they all set forward.

The procession was a sad one. The spirits of both were so dejected, that the friend, the benevolent, the good Hayward was unable to console the afflicted. He groaned inwardly at the melancholy scenes he had witnessed; yet such, said he to himself, are the daily consequences of unlawful love! and wilful man still perseveres.

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De la nuit pale souveraine,
Que 1'amour invoque tout bas,

Lorsque ta lueur incertaiiie
Vers le plaisir, guide ses pas:

Satisfais mon ame inquietej
Divine Cynthie, apprens-tnoi,

Si 1'objet que mortcoeur regrette,
Te prend pour temoin de sa foi.

Veille t'il quand ton regne sombre
Occupe la voute des cieux?
Aime-t'il £ suivre des yeux,

Le cours que tu traces dans 1'ombre?

Errant dans ces climats lointains, Ou dardent les traits de ton frere, Sait-il a sa vive lumiere,

Preferer tes feux argentins?

Ou dans la pompe d'une fete, Fuit-il 1'eclat de cent flambeaux, Pour s'egarer sous les berceaux,

Ou perce ta clarte discrete?

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