ther like one dead than alive. Oh heavens! what a scene did I behold at my first coming into the room! The good creature was lying behind the bolster, supporting at once both his child and his wife. He had nothing on but a thin waistcoat for his coat was spread over the bed, to supply the want of blankets. When he rose up, at my entrance, I scarce knew him. As comely a man, Mr Jones, within this fortnight, as you ever beheld; Mr Nightingale hath seen him. His eyes sunk, his face pale, with a long beard; his body shivering with cold, and worn with hunger too; for my cousin says, she can hardly prevail upon him to eat.-He told me himself, in a whisper, he told me I can't repeat it-he said, he could not bear to eat the bread his children wanted. And yet, can you believe it, gentlemen? in all this misery, his wife has as good cawdle as if she lay in in the midst of the greatest affluence; I tasted it, and I scarce ever tasted better.-The means of procuring her this, he said, he believed was sent him by an angel from heaven: I know not what he meant; for I had not spirits enough to ask a single question. -This was a love-match, as they call it, on both sides; that is, a match between two beggars. I must indeed say I never saw a fonder couple; but what is their fondness good for, but to torment each other?"-"Indeed, mamma," cries Nancy, "I have always looked on my cousin Anderson (for that was her name) as one of the happiest of women."-"I am sure," says Mrs Miller, "the case at present is much otherwise; for any one might have discerned that the tender consideration of each other's sufferings, makes the most intolerable part of their calamity, both to the husband and the wife. Compared to which, hunger and cold, as they affect their own persons only, are scarce evils. Nay, the very children, the youngest, which is not two years old, excepted, feel in the same manner; for they are a most loving family; and, if they had but a bare competency, would be the happiest people in the world."—"I never saw the least sign of misery at her house," replied Nancy; "I am sure my heart bleeds for what you now tell me." -"O child," answered the mother, "she hath always endeavoured to make the best of every thing. They have always been in great distress; but, indeed, this absolute ruin hath been brought upon them by others. The poor man was bail for the villain his brother; and about a week ago, the very day before her lying in, their goods were all carried away, and sold by an execution. He sent a letter to me of it by one of the bailiffs, which the villain never delivered.-What must he think of my suffering a week to pass before he heard of me?"

It was not with dry eyes that Jones heard this narrative; when it was ended, he took Mrs Miller apart with him into another room, and delivering her his purse, in which was the sum of £50, desired her to send as much of it as she

thought proper to these poor people. The look which Mrs Miller gave Jones on this occasion is not easy to be described. She burst into a kind of agony of transport, and cried out, “Good heavens! is there such a man in the world?"-But recollecting herself, she said, "Indeed I know one such; but can there be another ?"-" I hope, madam," cries Jones, "there are many who have common humanity: for to relieve such distresses in our fellow-creatures, can hardly be called more."-Mrs Miller then took ten guineas which were the utmost he could prevail with her to accept, and said, she would find some means of conveying them early the next morning; adding, that she had herself done some little matter for the poor people, and had not left them in quite so much misery as she found them.

They then returned to the parlour, where Nightingale expressed much concern at the dreadful situation of these wretches, whom indeed he knew; for he had seen them more than once at Mrs Miller's, He inveighed against the folly of making one's self liable for the debts of others, vented many bitter execrations against the brother, and concluded with wishing something could be done for the unfortunate family. Suppose, madam," said he, you should recommend them to Mr Allworthy? Or what think you of a collection? I will give them a guinea with all my heart."

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Mrs Miller made no answer; and Nancy, to whom her mother had whispered the generosity of Jones, turned pale upon the occasion; though, if either of them was angry with Nightingale, it was surely without reason. For the liberality of Jones, if he had known it, was not an example which he had any obligation to follow; and there are thousands who would not have contributed a single halfpenny, as indeed he did not in effect, for he made no tender of any thing; and therefore, as the others thought proper to make no demand, he kept his money in his pocket.

I have in truth observed, and shall never have a better opportunity than at present to communicate my observation, that the world are in general divided into two opinions concerning charity, which are the very reverse of each other. One party seems to hold, that all acts of this kind are to be esteemed as voluntary gifts, and however little you give (if indeed no more than your good wishes) you acquire a great degree of merit in so doing. Others, on the contrary, appear to be as firmly persuaded, that beneficence is a positive duty, and that whenever the rich fall greatly short of their ability in relieving the distresses of the poor, their pitiful largesses are so far from being meritorious, that they have only performed their duty by halves, and are in some sense more contemptible than those who have entirely neglected it.

To reconcile these different opinions is not in my power. I shall only add, that the givers are

generally of the former sentiment, and the receivers are almost universally inclined to the latter.

CHAP. IX.

Which treats of matters of a very different kind from those in the preceding chapter.

In the evening Jones met his lady again, and a long conversation again ensued between them; but as it consisted only of the same ordinary occurrences as before, we shall avoid mentioning particulars, which we despair of rendering agree able to the reader; unless he is one whose devotion to the fair sex, like that of the Papists to their saints, wants to be raised by the help of pictures. But I am so far from desiring to exhibit such pictures to the public, that I would wish to draw a curtain over those that have been lately set forth in certain French novels; very bungling copies of which have been presented us here, under the name of translations.

Jones grew still more and more impatient to see Sophia; and finding, after repeated interviews with Lady Bellaston, no likelihood of obtaining this by her means, (for, on the contrary, the lady began to treat even the mention of the name of Sophia with resentment,) he resolved to try some other method. He made no doubt but that Lady Bellaston knew where his angel was, so he thought it most likely that some of her servants should be acquainted with the same secret. Partridge therefore was employed to get acquainted with those servants, in order to fish this secret out of them.

Few situations can be imagined more uneasy than that to which his poor master was at present reduced; for, besides the difficulties he met with in discovering Sophia, besides the fears he had of having disobliged her, and the assurances he had received from Lady Bellaston of the resolution which Sophia had taken against him, and of her having purposely concealed herself from him, which he had sufficient reason to believe might be true, he had still a difficulty to combat, which it was not in the power of his mistress to remove, however kind her inclination might have been. This was, the exposing of her to be disinherited of all her father's estate, the almost inevitable consequence of their coming together without a consent, which he had no hopes of ever obtaining.

Add to all these the many obligations which Lady Bellaston, whose violent fondness we can no longer conceal, had heaped upon him; so that by her means he was now become one of the best drest men about town; and was not only relieved from those ridiculous distresses we have before mentioned, but was actually raised to a state of affluence beyond what he had ever known.

Now, though there are many gentlemen who very well reconcile it to their consciences to possess themselves of the whole fortune of a woman, without making her any kind of return, yet to a mind, the proprietor of which doth not deserve to be hanged, nothing is, I believe, more irksome than to support love with gratitude only; especially where inclination pulls the heart a contrary way. Such was the unhappy case of Jones; for though the virtuous love he bore to Sophia, and which left very little affection for any other woman, had been entirely out of the question, he could never have been able to have made an adequate return to the generous passion of this lady, who had indeed been once an object of desire, but was now entered at least into the autumn of life, though she wore all the gaiety of youth both in her dress and manner: nay, she contrived still to maintain the roses in her cheeks; but these, like flowers forced out of season by art, had none of that lively blooming freshness with which Nature, at the proper time, bedecks her own productions. She had, besides, a certain imperfection, which renders some flowers, though very beautiful to the eye, very improper to be placed in a wilderness of sweets, and what above all others is most disagreeable to the breath of love.

Though Jones saw all these discouragements on the one side, he felt his obligations full as strongly on the other; nor did he less plainly discern the ardent passion whence those obligations proceeded, the extreme violence of which, if he failed to equal, he well knew the lady would think him ungrateful; and, what is worse, he would have thought himself so. He knew the tacit consideration upon which all her favours were conferred; and as his necessity obliged him to accept them, so his honour, he concluded, forced him to pay the price. This, therefore, he resolved to do, whatever misery it cost him, and to devote himself to her, from that great principle of justice, by which the laws of some countries oblige a debtor, who is no otherwise capable of discharging his debt, to become the slave of his creditor.

While he was meditating on these matters, he received the following note from the lady.

"A very foolish, but a very perverse accident hath happened since our last meeting, which makes it improper I should see you any more at the usual place. I will, if possible, contrive some other place by to-morrow. In the mean time, adieu.'

This disappointment, perhaps, the reader may conclude was not very great; but if it was, he was quickly relieved; for in less than an hour afterwards another note was brought him from the same hand, which contained as follows.

"I have altered my mind since I wrote ;-a change which, if you are no stranger to the tenderest of all passions, you will not wonder at. I

am now resolved to see you this evening at my own house, whatever may be the consequence. Come to me exactly at seven; I dine abroad, but will be at home by that time. A day, I find, to those that sincerely love, seems longer than I imagined.

"If you should accidentally be a few moments before me, bid them shew you into the drawingroom."

To confess the truth, Jones was less pleased with this last epistle than he had been with the former, as he was prevented by it from complying with the earnest entreaties of Mr Nightingale, with whom he had now contracted much intimacy and friendship. These entreaties were to go with that young gentleman and his company to a new play, which was to be acted that evening, and which a very large party had agreed to damn, from some dislike they had taken to the author, who was a friend to one of Mr Nightingale's acquaintance. And this sort of fun, our hero, we are ashamed to confess, would willingly have preferred to the above kind appointment, but his honour got the better of his inclination.

Before we attend him to this intended interview with the lady, we think proper to account for both the preceding notes, as the reader may possibly be not a little surprised at the imprudence of Lady Bellaston in bringing her lover to the very house where her rival was lodged. First, then, the mistress of the house where these lovers had hitherto met, and who had been for some years a pensioner to that lady, was now become a methodist, and had that very morning waited upon her ladyship, and, after rebuking her very severely for her past life, had positively declared, that she would, on no account, be instrumental in carrying on any of her affairs for the future.

The hurry of spirits into which this accident threw the lady, made her despair of possibly finding any other convenience to meet Jones that evening; but as she began a little to recover from her uneasiness at the disappointment, she set her thoughts to work, when luckily it came into her head to propose to Sophia to go to the play, which was immediately consented to, and a proper lady provided for her companion. Mrs Honour was likewise dispatched with Mrs Etoff on the same errand of pleasure; and thus her own house was left free for the safe reception of Mr Jones, with whom she promised herself two or three hours of uninterrupted conversation, after her return from the place where she dined, which was at a friend's house in a pretty distant part of the town, near her old place of assignation, where she had engaged herself before she was well apprized of the revolution that had happened in the mind and morals of her late confidante.

CHAP. X.

A chapter which, though short, may draw tears from some eyes.

MR JONES was just dressed to wait on Lady Bellaston, when Mrs Miller rapped at his door; and, being admitted, very earnestly desired his company below stairs to drink tea in the parlour.

Upon his entrance into the room, she presently introduced a person to him, saying, " This, sir, is my cousin, who hath been so greatly be holden to your goodness, for which he begs to return you his sincerest thanks."

The man had scarce entered upon that speech which Mrs Miller had so kindly prefaced, when both Jones and he, looking stedfastly at each other, shewed at once the utmost tokens of surprise. The voice of the latter began instantly to fauiter; and, instead of finishing his speech, he sunk down into a chair, crying, “It is so, I am convinced it is so!"

"Bless me, what's the meaning of this!" cries Mrs Miller, " you are not ill, I hope, cousin? Some water-a dram this instant."

"Be not frighted, madam," cries Jones, "I have almost as much need of a dram as your cousin. We are equally surprised at this unexpected meeting. Your cousin is an acquaintance of mine, Mrs Miller."

"An acquaintance!" cries the man. "Oh Heaven!"

"Ay, an acquaintance," repeated Jones, "and an honoured acquaintance too. When I do not love and honour the man who dares venture every thing to preserve his wife and children from instant destruction, may I have a friend capable of disowning me in adversity!"

"O you are an excellent young man," cries Mrs Miller-" yes, indeed, poor creature! he hath ventured every thing; if he had not had one of the best of constitutions, it must have killed him.”

"Cousin," cries the man, who had now pretty well recovered himself, "this is the angel from heaven whom I meant. This is he to whom, before I saw you, I owed the preservation of my Peggy. He it was to whose generosity every comfort-every support which I have procured for her was owing. He is indeed the worthiest, bravest, noblest, of all human beings. O, cousin, I have obligations to this gentleman of such a nature"

"Mention nothing of obligations," cries Jones eagerly, "not a word, I insist upon it, not a word, (meaning, I suppose, that he would not have him betray the affair of the robbery to any person.) If, by the trifle you have received from

me, I have preserved a whole family, sure pleasure was never bought so cheap."

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"O, sir," cries the man, "I wish you could this instant see my house. If any person had ever a right to the pleasure you mention, I am convinced it is yourself. My cousin tells me she acquainted you with the distress in which she found us. That, sir, is all greatly removed, and chiefly by your goodness. My children have now a bed to lie on; and they have-they have eternal blessings reward you for it-they have bread to eat. My little boy is recovered my wife is out of danger-and I am happy. All, all, owing to you, sir, and to my cousin here, one of the best of women. Indeed, sir, I must see you at my house. Indeed my wife must see you, and thank you. My children too must express their gratitude. Indeed, sir, they are not without a sense of their obligation; but what is my feeling when I reflect to whom I owe, that they are now capable of expressing their gratitude. O, sir! the little hearts which you have warmed had now been cold as ice without your assist

ance.

Here Jones attempted to prevent the poor man from proceeding; but indeed the overflowing of his own heart would of itself have stopped his words. And now Mrs Miller likewise began to pour forth thanksgivings, as well in her own name as in that of her cousin; and concluded with saying, she doubted not but such goodness would meet a glorious reward.

Jones answered, he had been sufficiently rewarded already. "Your cousin's account, madam," said he," hath given me a sensation more pleasing than I have ever known. He must be a wretch who is unmoved at hearing such a story; how transporting then must be the thought of having happily acted a part in this scene! If there are men who cannot feel the delight of giving happiness to others, I sincerely pity them, as they are incapable of tasting what is, in my opinion, a greater honour, a higher interest, and a sweeter pleasure, than the ambitious, the avaricious, or the voluptuous man can ever obtain."

The hour of appointment being now come, Jones was forced to take a hasty leave, but not before he had heartily shaken his friend by the hand, and desired to see him again as soon as possible; promising that he would himself take the first opportunity of visiting him at his own house. He then stept into his chair, and proceeded to Lady Bellaston's, greatly exulting in the happiness which he had procured to this poor family; nor could he forbear reflecting without horror on the dreadful consequences which must have attended them, had he listened rather to the voice of strict justice than to that of mercy, when he was attacked on the high road.

Mrs Miller sung forth the praises of Jones during the whole evening; in which Mr Anderson,

while he stayed, so passionately accompanied her, that he was often on the very point of mentioning the circumstances of the robbery. However, he luckily recollected himself, and avoided an indiscretion which would have been so much the greater, as he knew Mrs Miller to be extremely strict and nice in her principles. He was likewise well apprized of the loquacity of this lady; and yet such was his gratitude, that it had almost got the better both of discretion and shame; and made him publish that which would have defamed his own character, rather than omit any circumstances which might do the fullest honour to his benefactor.

CHAP. XI.

In which the Reader will be surprised.

MR JONES was rather earlier than the time appointed, and earlier than the lady, whose arrival was hindered not only by the distance of the place where she dined, but by some other cross accidents, very vexatious to one in her situation of mind. He was accordingly shewn into the drawing-room, where he had not been many minutes before the door opened, and in came no other than Sophia herself, who had left the play before the end of the first act; for this, as we have already said, being a new play, at which two large parties met, the one to damn, and the other to applaud, a violent uproar, and an engagement between the two parties, had so terrified our heroine, that she was glad to put herself under the protection of a young gentleman, who safely conveyed her to her chair.

As Lady Bellaston had acquainted her that she should not be at home till late, Sophia, expecting to find no one in the room, came hastily in, and went directly to a glass which almost fronted her, without once looking towards the upper end of the room, where the statue of Jones now stood motionless. In this glass it was, after contemplating her own lovely face, that she first discovered the said statue; when, instantly turning about, she perceived the reality of the vision; upon which she gave a violent scream, and scarce preserved herself from fainting, till Jones was able to move to her and support her in his arms.

To paint the looks or thoughts of either of these lovers is beyond my power. As their sensations, from their mutual silence, may be judged to have been too big for their own utterance, it cannot be supposed that I should be able to express them; and the misfortune is, that few of my readers have been enough in love to feel by their own hearts what past at this time in theirs.

After a short pause, Jones, with faultering accents, said, "I see, madam, you are surprised." "Surprise!" answered she; "Oh heavens!

Indeed, I am surprised. I almost doubt whether you are the person you seem."-"Indeed," cries he, “my Sophia,-pardon me, madam, for this once calling you so, I am that very wretched Jones, whom Fortune, after so many disappointments, hath, at last, kindly conducted to you. Oh! my Sophia, did you know the thousand torments I have suffered in this long, fruitless pursuit!"-" Pursuit of whom?" said Sophia, a little recollecting herself, and assuming a reserved air." Can you be so cruel to ask that question?" cries Jones, "need I say of you?" "Of me!" answered Sophia; "Hath Mr Jones then any such important business with me?"—"To some, madam," cries Jones, "this might seem an important business," (giving her the pocket-book.) I hope, madam, you will find it of the same value as when it was lost." Sophia took the pocket-book, and was going to speak, when he interrupted her thus ; "Let us not, I beseech you, lose one of those precious moments which Fortune hath so kindly sent us. O my Sophia, I have business of a much superior kind. Thus, on my knees, let me ask your pardon."-" My pardon?" cries she; "sure, sir, after what is past-you cannot expect after what I have heard-" "I scarce know what I say," answered Jones. By heavens! I scarce wish you would pardon me. O my Sophia, henceforth never cast away a thought on such a wretch as If any remembrance of me should ever intrude to give a moment's uneasiness to that tender bosom, think of my unworthiness; and let the remembrance of what passed at Upton blot me for ever from your mind."

I am.

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Sophia stood trembling all this while. Her face was whiter than snow, and her heart was throbbing through her stays. But at the mention of Upton, a blush arose in her cheeks, and her eyes, which before she had scarce lifted up, were turned upon Jones with a glance of disdain. He understood this silent reproach, and replied to it thus: "O my Sophia, my only love, you cannot hate or despise me more for what happened there than I do myself: but yet do me the justice to think, that my heart was never unfaithful to you. That had no share in the folly I was guilty of; it was even then unalterably yours. Though I despaired of possessing you, nay, almost of ever seeing you more, I doated still on your charming idea, and could seriously love no other woman. But if my heart had not been engaged, she, into whose company I accidentally fell at that cursed place, was not an object of serious love. Believe me, my angel, I never have seen her from that day to this; and never intend, or desire, to see her again.' Sophia, in her heart, was very glad to hear this; but forcing into her face an air of more coldness than she had yet assumed, "Why," said she, "Mr Jones, do you take the trouble to make a defence, where you are not accused? If I thought it worth while to accuse you, I have a charge of

an unpardonable nature indeed."-" What is that, for Heaven's sake?" answered Jones, trembling and pale, expecting to hear of his amour with Lady Bellaston.-"Oh," said she," how is it possible! can every thing noble, and every thing base, be lodged together in the same bosom?" Lady Bellaston, and the ignominious circumstance of having been kept, rose again in his mind, and stopt his mouth from any reply. "Could I have expected," proceeded Sophia, "such treatment from you? nay, from any gentleman, from any man of honour? To have my name traduced in public-in inns among the meanest vulgar! to have any little favours that my unguarded heart may have too lightly betrayed me to grant, boasted of there! nay, even to hear that you had been forced to fly from my love!"

Nothing could equal Jones's surprise at these words of Sophia; but yet, not being guilty, he was much less embarrassed how to defend himself, than if she had touched that tender string at which his conscience had been alarmed. By some examination he presently found, that her supposing him guilty of so shocking an outrage against his love, and her reputation, was entirely owing to Partridge's talk at the inns, before landlords and servants; for Sophia confessed to him, it was from them that she received her intelligence. He had no very great difficulty to make her believe that he was entirely innocent of an offence so foreign to his character; but she had a great deal to hinder him from going instantly home, and putting Partridge to death, which he more than once swore he would do. This point being cleared up, they soon found themselves so well pleased with each other, that Jones quite forgot he had begun the conversation with conjuring her to give up all thoughts of him; and she was in a temper to have given ear to a petition of a very different nature; for, before they were aware, they had both gone so far, that he let fall some words that sounded like a proposal of marriage. To which she replied, that did not her duty to her father forbid her to follow her own inclinations, ruin with him would be more welcome to her, than the most affluent fortune with another man. At the mention of the word ruin he started-let drop her hand, which he had held for some time, and striking his breast with his own, cried out, "Oh, Sophia, can I then ruin thee? No; by heavens, no! I will never act so base a part. Dearest Sophia, whatever it costs me, I will renounce you-I will give you up-I will tear all such hopes from my heart as are inconsistent with your real good. My love I will ever retain, but it shall be in silence

it shall be at a distance from you-it shall be in some foreign land-from whence no voice, no sigh of my despair, shall ever reach or disturb your ears. And when I am dead"—He would have gone on, but was stopt by a flood of tears, which Sophia let fall in his bosom, upon which