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trod on a viper) has long had a criminal passion for my wife; this her prudence had concealed from me; but he had lately the boldness to declare it to myself. He promised me affluence in exchange for honour; and threatened misery, as its attendant, if I kept it. I treated him with the contempt he deserved: the consequence was, that he hired a couple of bravoes, (for I am persuaded they acted under his direction,) who at tempted to assassinate me in the street; but I made such a defence as obliged them to fly, after having given me two or three stabs, none of which, however, were mortal. But his revenge was not thus to be disappointed: in the little dealings of my trade I had contracted some debts, of which he had made himself master for my ruin. I was confined here at his suit, when not yet recovered from the wounds I had received; this dear woman, and these two boys, followed me, that we might starve together; but Providence interposed, and sent Mr Mountford to our support: he has relieved my family from the gnawings of hunger, and rescued me from death, to which a fever, consequent on my wounds, and increased by the want of every necessary, had almost reduced me.'

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"Inhuman villain !' I exclaimed, lifting up my eyes to heaven. 'Inhuman indeed!' said the lovely woman who stood at my side: 'Alas! sir, what had we done to offend him? what had these little ones done, that they should perish in the toils of his vengeance?'-I reached a pen which stood in the ink-standish at the bed-side May I ask what is the amount of the sum for which you are imprisoned?'-' I was able,' he replied, to pay all but 500 crowns.'-I wrote a draught on the banker with whom I had a credit from my father for 2500, and presenting it to the stranger's wife, 'You will receive, madam, on presenting this note, a sum more than sufficient for your husband's discharge; the remainder I leave for his industry to improve.' I would have left the room: each of them laid hold of one of my hands; the children clung to my coat :-Oh! Mr Harley, methinks I feel their gentle violence at this moment; it beats here with delight inexpressible! Stay, sir,' said he, 'I do not mean attempting to thank you; (he took a pocketbook from under his pillow ;) let me but know what name I shall place here next to Mr Mountford ?'-Sedley--he writ it down-'An Englishman too, I presume.' He shall go to heaven notwithstanding,' said the boy who had been our guide. It began to be too much for me; I squeezed his hand that was clasped in mine; his wife's I pressed to my lips, and burst from the place, to give vent to the feelings that laboured within me.

"Oh! Mountford!' said I, when he had overtaken me at the door. It is time,' replied he, that we should think of our appointment; young Respino and his friends are waiting us.'

-'Damn him, damn him!' said I; let us leave Milan instantly; but soft--I will be calm; Mountford, your pencil.' I wrote on a slip of paper,

'To Signor RESPINO.

'When you receive this, I am at a distance from Milan. Accept of my thanks for the civilities I have received from you and your family. As to the friendship with which you were pleased to honour me, the prison, which I have just left, has exhibited a scene to cancel it for ever. You may possibly be merry with your companions at my weakness, as I suppose you will term it. I give you leave for derision: you may affect a triumph; I shall feel it.

EDWARD SEDLEY.'

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CAt this place had the greatest depredations of the Curate begun. There were so very few connected passages of the subsequent chapters remaining, that even the partiality of an editor could not offer them to the public. I discovered, from some scattered sentences, that they were of much the same tenor with the preceding; recitals of little adventures, in which the dispositions of a man, sensible to judge, and still more warm to feel, had room to unfold themselves. Some instruction, and some example, I make no doubt, they contained; but it is likely that many of those, whom chance has led to a perusal of what I have already presented, may have read it with little pleasure, and will feel no disappointment from the want of those parts which I have been unable to procure: to such as may have expected the intricacies of a novel, a few incidents in a life undistinguished, except by some features of the heart, cannot have afforded much entertainment.

Harley's own story, from the mutilated passages I have mentioned, as well as from some inquiries I was at the trouble of making in the country, I found to have been simple to excess. His mistress, I could perceive, was not married to Sir Harry Benson: but it would seem, by one of the following chapters, which is still entire, that Harley had not profited on the occasion by making any declaration of his own passion, after those of the other had been unsuccessful. The state of his health, for some part of this period, appears to have been such as to forbid any thoughts of that kind: he had been seized with a very dangerous fever, caught by at

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tending old Edwards in one of an infectious kind. From this he had recovered but imperfectly, and though he had no formed complaint, his health was manifestly on the decline.

It appears that the sagacity of some friend had at length pointed out to his aunt a cause from which this might be supposed to proceed, to wit, his hopeless love for Miss Walton; for, according to the conceptions of the world, the love of a man of Harley's fortune for the heiress of 40007. a-year, is indeed desperate. Whether it was so in this case may be gathered from the next chapter, which, with the two subsequent, concluding the performance, have escaped those accidents that proved fatal to the rest.

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When I entered his apartment, I found him sitting on a couch, leaning on his hand, with his eye turned upwards in the attitude of thoughtful inspiration. His look had always an open benignity, which commanded esteem; there was now something more-a gentle triumph in it.

He rose, and met me with his usual kindness. When I gave him the good accounts I had had from his physician," I am foolish enough," said he, "to rely but little, in this instance, upon physic: my presentiment may be false; but I think I feel myself approaching to my end, by steps so easy, that they woo me to approach it.

"There is a certain dignity in retiring from life at a time when the infirmities of age have not sapped our faculties. This world, my dear Charles, was a scene in which I never much delighted. I was not formed for the bustle of the busy, nor the dissipation of the gay; a thousand things occurred, where I blushed for the impropriety of my conduct when I thought on the world, though my reason told me I should have blushed to have done otherwise. It was a scene of dissimulation, of restraint, of disappointment. I leave it to enter on that state, which I have learned to believe is replete with the genuine happiness attendant upon virtue. look back on the tenor of my life, with the con

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sciousness of few great offences to account for. There are blemishes, I confess, which deform in some degree the picture. But I know the benignity of the Supreme Being, and rejoice at the thoughts of its exercise in my favour. My mind expands at the thought that I shall enter into the society of the blessed, wise as angels, with the simplicity of children." He had, by this time, clasped my hand, and found it wet by a tear which had just fallen upon it. His eye began to moisten too—we sat for some time silent. At last, with an attempt to a look of more composure, "There are some remembrances," said Harley, "which rise involuntarily on my heart, and make me almost wish to live. I have been blessed with a few friends, who redeem my opinion of mankind. I recollect, with the tenderest emotion, the scenes of pleasure I have passed among them; but we shall meet again, my friend, never to be separated. There are some feelings, which, perhaps, are too tender to be suffered by the world. The world is in general selfish, interested, and unthinking, and throws the imputation of romance, or melancholy, on every temper more susceptible than its own. I cannot think but in those regions which I contemplate, if there is any thing of mortality left about us, that these feelings will subsist:-they are called, perhaps they areweaknesses here;-but there may be some better modifications of them in heaven, which may deserve the name of virtues." He sighed as he spoke these last words. He had scarcely finished them, when the door opened, and his aunt appeared, leading in Miss Walton. My dear," says she," here is Miss Walton, who has been so kind as to come and inquire for you herself." I could observe a transient glow upon his face. He rose from his seat-"If to know Miss Walton's goodness," said he, " be a title to deserve it, I have some claim." She begged him to resume his seat, and placed herself on the sofa beside him. I took my leave. Mrs Margery accompanied me to the door. He was left with Miss Walton alone. She inquired anxiously about his health. "I believe," said he, “from the accounts which my physicians unwillingly give me, that they have no great hopes of my recovery."-She started as he spoke; but, recollecting herself immediately, endeavoured to flatter him into a belief that his apprehensions were groundless. "I know," said he, " that it is usual with persons at my time of life to have these hopes, which your kindness suggests; but I would not wish to be deceived. To meet death as becomes a man, is a privilege bestowed on few. I would endeavour to make it mine; nor do I think that I can ever be better prepared for it than now:-It is that chiefly which determines the fitness of its approach."-" Those sentiments," answered Miss Walton, are just; but your good sense, Mr Harley, will own, that life has its proper value.

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As the province of virtue, life is ennobled: as such, it is to be desired. To virtue has the Supreme Director of all things assigned rewards enough even here to fix its attachment." The subject began to overpower her. Harley lifted his eyes from the ground-" There are," said he, in a very low voice, "there are attachments, Miss Walton-” His glance met hers-They both betrayed a confusion, and were both instantly withdrawn.-He paused some moments-" I am in such a state as calls for sincerity, let that also excuse it-It is perhaps the last time we shall ever meet. I feel something particularly solemn in the acknowledgment, yet my heart swells to make it, awed as it is by a sense of my presumption, by a sense of your perfections"-He paused again" Let it not offend you, to know their power over one so unworthy-it will, I believe, soon cease to beat, even with that feeling which it shall lose the latest.To love Miss Walton could not be a crime ;-if to declare it is one-the expiation will be made."-Her tears were now flowing without control.-"Let me intreat you," said she," to have better hopes-Let not life be so indifferent to you; if my wishes can put any value on it-I will not pretend to misunderstand you I know your worth-I have known it long-I have esteemed it-What would you have me to say ?-I have loved it as it deserved."He seized her hand-a languid colour reddened his cheek—a smile brightened faintly in his eye. As he gazed on her, it grew dim, it fixed, it closed-He sighed and fell back on his seat-Miss Walton screamed at the sight His aunt and the servants rushed into the room -They found them lying motionless together. -His physician happened to call at that instant. Every art was tried to recover themWith Miss Walton they succeeded-But Har ley was gone for ever!

CHAP. LVI.

The Emotions of the Heart.

I ENTERED the room where his body lay; I approached it with reverence, not fear; I looked; the recollection of the past crowded upon me. I saw that form which, but a little before, was animated with a soul which did honour to humanity, stretched without sense or feeling before me. 'Tis a connexion we cannot easily for get:-I took his hand in mine; I repeated his name involuntarily ;-I felt a pulse in every vein at the sound. I looked earnestly in his face; his eye was closed, his lip pale and mo

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tionless. There is an enthusiasm in sorrow that forgets impossibility; I wondered that it was The sight drew a prayer from my heart: it was the voice of frailty and of man! the confusion of my mind began to subside into thought; I had time to weep.

I turned with the last farewell upon my lips, when I observed old Edwards standing behind me. I looked him full in the face; but his eye was fixed on another object: he pressed between me and the bed, and stood gazing on the breathless remains of his benefactor. I spoke to him I know not what; but he took no notice of what I said, and remained in the same attitude as before. He stood some minutes in that posture, then turned and walked towards the door. He paused as he went ;-he returned a second time: I could observe his lips move as he looked; but the voice they would have uttered was lost. He attempted going again; and a third time he returned as before.-I saw him wipe his cheek; then, covering his face with his hands, his breast heaving with the most convulsive throbs, he flung out of the

room.

THE CONCLUSION.

He had hinted that he should like to be buried in a certain spot near the grave of his mother. This is a weakness; but it is universally incident to humanity: 'tis at least a memorial for those who survive: for some indeed slender memorial will serve; and the soft affections, when they are busy that way, will build their structures, were it but on the paring of a nail.

He was buried in the place he had desired. It was shaded by an old tree, the only one in the church-yard, in which was a cavity worn by time. I have sat with him in it, and counted the tombs. The last time we passed there, methought he looked wistfully on the tree: there was a branch of it, that bent towards us, waving in the wind; he waved his hand, as he mimicked its motion. There was something predictive in his look! perhaps it is foolish to remark it; but there are times and places when I am a child in those things.

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I sometimes visit his grave; I sit in the hollow of the tree. It is worth a thousand homilies; every noble feeling rises within me! every beat of my heart awakens virtue!--but it will make you hate the world—No: there is such an air of gentleness around, that I can hate nothing; but, as to the world-I pity the men of it.

THE END OF THE MAN OF FEELING.

THE

MAN OF THE WORLD.

IN TWO PARTS.

BY HENRY MACKENZIE, Esq.

Virginibus Puerisque Canto.-HOR.

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