She spoke, nor more her holy work delay'd; 'Twas time to lend an erring mortal aid: 'The noblest way,' she judged, 'a soul to win, Was with an act of kindness to begin, To make the sinner sure, and then t' attack the sin.' *

As the author's purpose in this Tale may be mistaken, he wishes to observe, that conduct

like that of the lady's here described must be meritorious or censurable just as the motives to it are pure or selfish; that these motives may in a great measure be concealed from the mind of the agent; and that we often take credit to our virtue for actions which spring originally from our tempers, inclinations, or our indifference. It cannot therefore be improper, much less immoral, to give an instance of such selfdeception.

The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day,
Attended with the pleasures of the world,
Is all too wanton.
King John, Act iii, Scene 3.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet,
Are of imagination all compact.

Midsummer Night's Dream, Act v, Scene 1. Oh! how the spring of love resembleth

Th' uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all her beauty to the sun, And by and by a cloud bears all away. Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act i, Scene 3. And happily I have arrived at last Unto the wished haven of my bliss.

Taming of the Shrew, Act v, Scene 1.

IT is the soul that sees; the outward eyes
Present the object, but the mind descries;
And thence delight, disgust, or cool indiff'-
rence rise:

When minds are joyful, then we look around,
And what is seen is all on fairy ground;
Again they sicken, and on every view
Cast their own dull and melancholy hue;
Or, if absorb'd by their peculiar cares,
The vacant eye on viewless matter glares,
Our feelings still upon our views attend,
And their own natures to the objects lend;
Sorrow and joy are in their influence sure,
Long as the passion reigns th' effects endure;
But love in minds his various changes makes,
And clothes each object with the change he
takes;

His light and shade on every view he throws,
And on each object, what he feels, bestows.
Fair was the morning, and the month was
June,

When rose a lover; love awakens soon; Brief his repose, yet much he dreamt the while Of that day's meeting, and his Laura's smile;

| Fancy and love that name assign'd to her,
Call'd Susan in the parish-register;
And he no more was John-his Laura gave
The name Orlando to her faithful slave.

Bright shone the glory of the rising day, When the fond traveller took his favourite way;

He mounted gaily, felt his bosom light,
And all he saw was pleasing in his sight.

'Ye hours of expectation, quickly fly, And bring on hours of blest reality; When I shall Laura see, beside her stand, Hear her sweet voice, and press her yielded hand.'

First o'er a barren heath beside the coast Orlando rode, and joy began to boast.

'This neat low gorse,' said he,' with golden

way,

Where dew-press'd yet the dog-rose bends the spray;

Fresh herbs the fields, fair shrubs the banks adorn,

thorn;

No fostering hand they need, no sheltering wall,

They spring uncultured and they bloom for all.'

The lover rode as hasty lovers ride, And reach'd a common pasture wild and wide; Small black-legg'd sheep devour with hunger keen

The meagre herbage, fleshless, lank, and lean; Such o'er thy level turf, Newmarket! stray, And there, with other black-legs find their prey: He saw some scatter'd hovels; turf was piled In square brown stacks; a prospect bleak and wild!

A mill, indeed, was in the centre found, With short sear herbage withering all around; A smith's black shed opposed a wright's long shop,

And join'd an inn where humble travellers stop.

'Ay, this is Nature,' said the gentle 'squire; 'This ease, peace, pleasure-who would not admire?

With what delight these sturdy children play, And joyful rustics at the close of day; Sport follows labour, on this even space Will soon commence the wrestling and the

The place approaching where th' attraction lies;

When next appear'd a dam-so call the place

Where lies a road confined in narrow space;
A work of labour, for on either side
Is level fen, a prospect wild and wide,
With dikes on either hand by ocean's self
supplied:

Far on the right the distant sea is seen,
And salt the springs that feed the marsh
between ;
Beneath an ancient bridge, the straiten'd
flood

Rolls through its sloping banks of slimy mud;
Near it a sunken boat resists the tide,
That frets and hurries to th' opposing side;
The rushes sharp, that on the borders
grow,

Bend their brown flow'rets to the stream below,

Impure in all its course, in all its progress slow :

Here a grave*Flora scarcely deigns to bloom; Nor wears a rosy blush, nor sheds perfume;

* The ditches of a fen so near the ocean are

lined with irregular patches of a coarse and stained lava; a muddy sediment rests on the horse-tail and other perennial herbs, which in part conceal the shallowness of the stream; a fat-leaved pale-flowering scurvy-grass appears early in the year, and the razor-edged bull-rush in the summer and autumn. The fen itself has a dark and saline herbage; there are rushes and arrow-head, and in a few patches the flakes of the sea-aster, the dullest of that numerous and hardy cotton-grass are seen, but more commonly the genus; a thrift, blue in flower, but withering and remaining withered till the winter scatters kinds of grass changed by their soil and atmoit; the saltwort, both simple and shrubby; a few sphere, and low plants of two or three denominations undistinguished in a general view of the it is at a small distance from the ocean; and in scenery-such is the vegetation of the fen when this case there arise from it effluvia strong and peculiar, half-saline, half-putrid, which would be considered by most people as offensive, and by singularity of taste or association of ideas has some as dangerous; but there are others to whom rendered it agreeable and pleasant.

spread

Partake the nature of their fenny bed;
Here on its wiry stem, in rigid bloom,
Grows the salt lavender that lacks perfume
Here the dwarf sallows creep, the septfoil
harsh,

And the soft slimy mallow of the marsh;
Low on the ear the distant billows sound,
And just in view appears their stony bound;
No hedge nor tree conceals the glowing sun,
Birds, save a wat'ry tribe, the district shun,
Nor chirp among the reeds where bitter waters

run.

'Various as beauteous, Nature, is thy face,' Exclaim'd Orlando: 'all that grows has grace; All are appropriate-bog, and marsh, and fen, Are only poor to undiscerning men; Here may the nice and curious eye explore How Nature's hand adorns the rushy moor; Here the rare moss in secret shade is found, Here the sweet myrtle of the shaking ground; Beauties are these that from the view retire, But well repay th' attention they require; For these my Laura will her home forsake, And all the pleasures they afford partake.'

Again the country was enclosed, a wide And sandy road has banks on either side; Where, lo! a hollow on the left appear'd, And there a gipsy-tribe their tent had rear'd; 'Twas open spread, to catch the morning sun, And they had now their early meal begun, When two brown boys just left their grassy seat,

The early trav'ller with their pray'rs to greet:
While yet Orlando held his pence in hand,
He saw their sister on her duty stand;
Some twelve years old, demure, affected, sly,
Prepared the force of early powers to try;
Sudden a look of languor he descries,
And well-feign'd apprehension in her eyes;
Train'd but yet savage, in her speaking face
He mark'd the features of her vagrant race;
When a light laugh and roguish leer express'd
The vice implanted in her youthful breast:
Forth from the tent her elder brother came,
Who seem'd offended, yet forbore to blame
The young designer, but could only trace
The looks of pity in the trav❜ller's face:
Within, the father, who from fences nigh
Had brought the fuel for the fire's supply,
Watch'd now the feeble blaze, and stood
dejected by:

And by the hand of coarse indulgence fed,
In dirty patchwork negligently dress'd,
Reclined the wife, an infant at her breast;
In her wild face some touch of grace remain'd,
Of vigour palsied and of beauty stain'd;
Her blood-shot eyes on her unheeding mate
Were wrathful turn'd, and seem'd her wants
to state,

Cursing his tardy aid-her mother there
With gipsy-state engross'd the only chair;
Solemn and dull her look; with such she
stands,

And reads the milk-maid's fortune in her hands,

Tracing the lines of life; assumed through years,

Each feature now the steady falsehood wears;
With hard and savage eye she views the food,
And grudging pinches their intruding brood;
Last in the group, the worn-out grandsire
sits

Neglected, lost, and living but by fits;
Useless, despised, his worthless labours done,
And half protected by the vicious son,
Who half supports him; he with heavy glance
Views the young ruffians who around him
dance;

And, by the sadness in his face, appears
To trace the progress of their future years:
Through what strange course of misery, vice,
deceit,

Must wildly wander each unpractised cheat! What shame and grief, what punishment and pain,

Sport of fierce passions, must each child sustain

Ere they like him approach their latter end, Without a hope, a comfort, or a friend!

But this Orlando felt not; 'Rogues,' said he,

'Doubtless they are, but merry rogues they be;

They wander round the land, and be it true, They break the laws-then let the laws pursue The wanton idlers; for the life they live, Acquit I cannot, but I can forgive.'

This said, a portion from his purse was thrown,

And every heart seem'd happy like his own. He hurried forth, for now the town was

nigh

'The happiest man of mortal men am I.'