moment, and at last became so violent, that covering his face with his handkerchief, be rushed out of the room; every one remained in silent astonishment; when after a few minutes had elapsed, Mr. Powel left the room in search of his visitor; he found him much agitated, but on his expressing his con cern, he exclaimed:" Oh! my dear friend, you know not the wounds in my heart the sight of that lovely young woman has made bleed afresh. Great God! what a resemblance! but, no; it cannot be !"

After some time Mr. Powel found Monsieur Valmont was the only survivor of an illustrious family in France, who had been barba rously murdered during the revolution, and that the strong resemblance of Mrs. Beriton to an only and much loved sister, who had fallea a victim with her husband in the horrid scene before-mentioned, and whose death had impressed a sorrow on his heart never to be effaced, had caused the emotions so alarming to them all.

Mr. Powel, without expressing to Monsieur Valmont his feelings, eagerly sought Mr. Beriton, to whom he communicated the intelligence, not in the least doubting his wife was in some degree related to the stranger. After calming in a trifling degree the agitation of Mrs. Beriton, whose hopes and fears were alternately expressed in her countenance, though she vainly endeavoured to disguise them, he accompanied Mr. Powel, and acquainted Monsieur Valmont with every circumstance that had first introduced Adeline

Valmburt to his uncle. No doubt seemed to remain in the breast of Monsieur Valmont of Mrs. Beriton's being indeed the daughter of his lamented sister, and who till now, he believed had shared the fate of her parents. But a few moments passed ere he clasped her with the fondest emotions to his heart, while his agita tion almost rendered his blessings inarticulate. As his fortune, though much diminished, was still afluent, he insisted upon their making his house their residence; and, deprived of every other relative, Mrs. Beriton and the little Juliet constituted his sole happiness; nor were the amiable manners and excellent character of her husband disregarded, he became likewise a sharer in his affections, and as a proof of his gratitude for his regard shewn to his beloved niece, through the interest of a friend, obtained for him a valuable living, where he constantly resided during six months of the year. Grateful to the Divine Providence that had ordered such a blissful change in their condition, and supremely happy in the affections of one an other, Mr. and Mrs. Beriton now enjoyed the reward of their resignation to their former sufferings, nor were the benevolent Mr. and Mrs. Powel forgotten, to whom they owed so much; the days never passed so happy as in their society, and united to each other by the strongest ties of love and gratitude, both families enjoyed that uninterrupted felicity their virtues so well deserved.

ELIZA.

LETTER XXV.

"Last time I was here you need not thank me for coming. I came a hunting my nephew; but I was better than, bargain; for besides finding him, I found such good welcome and good cheer at Oakwood, that now I'm come o' purpose to see you and your brother, ma'am."

I assured him I was glad to see him, and it was true; for notwithstanding the man's vul garity and ignorance, there is something about him I cannot help liking. I have asked my

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I hope I do not incommode you?" said I. "O, not at all." answered he; "I suffer up inconvenience from my neighbours; but it seems very odd to be cooped up in this narrow space so long."

"Have not you sufficient variety in the scenes which succeed each other?" said I."Dale and mountain, wood and river: if your limbs are coufined in a smaller space, your eye ranges over a multitude of objects, instead of a perpetual repetition of the same, as at Oakwood. What, for instance, can be more enchanting than this view as we descend the fell' that fertile dale below, with the village, the church, the water, and the bridge; and the mountains rising again immediately behind."

"I am sensible of all their beauties,” replied he; "but what you call being at large gives me the idea of imprisonment. I cannot stretch my legs; however, I have just thought of a way that will set me at liberty: I'll walk. Here, John, stop! I'll get out. We are only four miles," continued he, "from the place where we are to dine, and I shall not be half an hour after you."

Very surprising, indeed," cried Satterthwaite, "that a gentleman should chuse to walk, rather than ride in his own carriage! I hope he does not expect me to walk with him, for company. I am used to sit with my legs under a desk for half a day together, and they never want stretching."

Saiterthwaite, however, consumed as much time in eating as my brother did in walking. We travelled at our ease, and it was not till our second dinner that we reached the pretty httle town of Ripon.

Somebody says, I think it is Holcroft, that you may form an opinion of the character of a nation, from the bills which are posted on the walls. By this rule I observe we are gamblers and soldiers. The lottery holds out irresistible temptations to grow rich, at the corner of every street; and there are not fewer offers of honour, glory, and eleven guineas to all aspiring heroes, who will only just sacrifice their liberty and risk their lives in the army.

A handsome obelisk adorns the centre of

pence of Mr. Aislabie, to commemorate his having represented that borough in Parliament sixty years. As we were sitting after dinner, Pray," ," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "what may be the meaning of them gilt things at top of that pillar?"

"They are the town arms," said my brother; "a bugle horn and the rowel of a spur."

"Then I suppose the man that built the town," said Satterthwaite, was a post; such as used to blow their horns and spur their nags, before mail coaches was invented: though that was a poor trade too; I don't see how he could get money enough to build a town, unless he robbed his own mail."

"Ripon," rejoined my brother, was for. merly so famous for the manufacture of steel spurs, that they became proverbial. It is said the corporation presented a pair to James I. which even at that time cost five pounds. Possibly the rowel may allude to this manu facture."

"They've a famous manufactory yet," said Satterthwaite; "but it is of cream cheeses. In all my life I never eat such; they melt in one's mouth like a lump of butter. I've been out to ask our landlord where they are to be had, and he says there's only one dairy makes 'em, and he takes 'em all. I've bid him pack me up a dozen, to carry to Oakwood."

"They deserve your commendation," said 1; "they are like consolidated cream; but the whole country is rich; the crops of turnips are as extraordinary as the cheeses."

"I think our inn is as extraordinary as either,” said Charles :—“ I should not have expected a house like this in such an obscure corner of the world."

"It is not so obscure as you may imagine," said my brother:-"It is only eleven miles from Harrowgate, and crowds are daily coming from thence during the season, to see Studly, and dine at Ripon."

In the afternoon we went to see the Minster; but that of York was so strongly impressed on my mind, that I viewed it with indiffer ence; perhaps more than it deserved. Its spire, forty yards in height, fell down in the reign of Charles II. We were asked to see St.

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Welfrid's Needle, a celebrated narrow passage in a vault, formerly of great use in ascertaining the chastity of females. If a woman had always walked uprightly, she walked with ease through the Needle. If ever she had made a false step, she infallibly stuck by the way. Her size and shape were out of the question. Why such a wonderful test of virtue should be now laid aside I know not. The chastity of women may be either no longer suspected, or no longer considered of consequence. We did not see the Needle. In my younger days I have penetrated to the far end of Castleton and Pool's Holes, in Derbyshire; but I have done with subterranean wonders. All I see in future must be above ground.

I spent the evening with an extraordinary woman here, whom I had met with at the house of a friend in London. She has a hus

band, four children, and four servants, and her family is in the exactest order. She makes all her own clothes, and those of her children. Her drawing room is furnished with her own needle-work. They have large dinner parties, and her most admired dishes are of her own

miking. These are the common occupa. tions of women; but besides these, she is an authoress, a poetess, an actoress, and keeps up a very extensive correspondence. I asked her by what magic she performed so much. She said nothing was more easy; and every one might do it, if they pleased. Her graud secret was only to rise early, and never leave a moment unemployed. When she had finished one thing, she never lost time in considering what was to be done next; but had another in ber mind, which she set about immediately. What a pity such a woman should be tinc. tured, as she is, with vanity, affectation, and romance! I have all my life practised her secret without knowing it, and great have been my reading, writing, and needle-work; but to accomplish all she does, great strength of body is requisite. She is a large, stout Scotchwoman.

After supper we left the gentlemen at table, and she took me into her drawing-room, where she ordered away the lights, and threw open a sash. We sat at the window admiring the moon, which shone in all its splendour, and the sky, bespangled with ten thousand stars; No. XXXII. Vol. V.-N. S.

when she rang for a pipe, and began to smoke, I expressed some surprise. She told me she smoked to procure sleep; and when she was visiting in families where she could not conveuiently use tobacco, she tuok a dose of opium, for her spirits were so lively and volatile that without one or the other, she never could feel the least symptom of drowsiness. A shock. ing habit! little better than getting intoxicated to drown care. She should have submitted to her uneasy watchfulness till weary nature had furnished repose.

This morning we visited Fountain's Abbey, which stands in Studley Park, about three miles from hence. I stood motionless with astonishment, when, at the end of a narrow grassy glen, with high rocks and woods on each side, the east end of the Abbey Church burst upon us; and, through its lofty pointed window, we saw a nave three hundred and fifty-one feet in length, where broken arches and spreading trees were striving for the mastery. This space has been divided in length into church and choir; in breadth, into middle and side aisles. Magnificent pillars still remain. ›

I have never seen any place which gave me so perfect an idea of the manner of living of moāks as Fountain's Abbey. One may trace them through the day. The splendid ruin I have been describing was the place where they transacted the business of their lives; I had almost said their work-shop; for prayers and praises so often repeated must have become mechanical. We next see their refectory, one hundred and thirty feet by for y-seven. Another serious business was transacted here. I could fancy the long tables, the heavy benches, the eager monks, aud the excellent fare supplied by this luxuriant country. Here I could not doubt the zeal of the good fathers. Habit could not render them indifferent to this employ. We then come to a venerable cloister, the scene of their walks, or rather lounges, for such pious men had always leisure. From this we mounted by a flight of steps, on the outside, to their dormitory, over the cloister. I had not so good an opinion of their lodging as their living. There are about ten small recesses on either side of the room, with each a dismal window. They

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were probably wainscotted out from the gallery in the middle. A larger square room occupies one end. Last scene of this not eventful history, behold their tombs! at least those of their abbots. They lie buried in the chapter-house, which is scattered with broken tiles, formerly the pavement, and broken glass which filled the windows.

The kitchen, which is forty-seven feet by twenty-one, remains entire, with its arched ribbed roof, and two capacious fire-places. The very chimney of one is whole, square at the base, and circular at top; and the mill still grinds corn which supplied the bread. I looked for the buttery, where Henry Jenkins shared the hospitality of the monks, but could not find it.

Fountain's Abbey was erected in the thirteenth century. Mr. Aislabie, the late proprietor, bought the estate of Studley, in 1766, and inclosed the Abbey in his park. He has been censured for his improvements. I, who never saw what it was, admire it as it is. But

woe to that sacrilegious hand which dares to touch cathedral, castle, or abbey! they are a race that will shortly become extinct, and nothing shall succeed them! If we cannot make them, let us not alter or destroy!

It is said one of Mr. Aislabie's improvements was to take down some of the ruined offices; perhaps the buttery for one. Another of them to remove the broken stones from the area of the church, dig it over, and lay it level. A third, to transform a court between the church and the refectory, into a flowergarden. We saw a smart trim juniper grow. ing in the middle of the nave; the gardener boasted that was one of his improvements. When I think of these things, I have but one comfort. If these interesting ruins had not been inclosed in the park, they might have suffered as much from plunderers as they have done from a mistaken attempt to mend them; and the remains of the buttery might have raised a cottage over the head of a thief. (To be continued.)

LETTER V.-HUNGARY. I MUST immediately commence by making a profound apology to the young girl whose principles I feared could not withstand the suggestions of her vanity. She shews herself, however, at all times equally modest, and equally attached to her father; she passes her days by the side of the old man's bed, and at night she sleeps in an adjoining closet, from whence she hastens to fulfil his every wish, or afford her timely succour to the most trifling pains that the sick man may experience. Indeed, my dear friend, this girl is an angel; but we men, who would rather selfishly seduce the female sex than admire them, begin always by condemning them on perceiving their most trifling foibles, if they may be called so, and ascribe faults to them on the slightest suspicion; should we not do better to observe and admire, in this most amiable part of the human species, those virtues and graces with which

nature has endowed them, for the welfare of ourselves and our children, than seek to excite in the bosoms of our youthful females those passions which we afterwards too often punish by our contempt, when we have sacrificed on the altar of our sensuality and our pride the sacred claims they had to our veneration. Ought we not, from the respect we owe to ourselves, to respect also those who are des tiued to be our companions, the mothers of our offspring, and our only real friends that remain, when after a long career we are reduced by experience and crosses uo more to reckon on the friendship of men, who but too often rival and envy us; and how can we truly respect women, when we look only at their faults? The esteem we shew to her on whom we have fixed our choice, is less a tribute to her merit than to our own sagacity: we say to ourselves that we have known how to select the first woman in the world; our penetration