REASON.

O Reason; Heaven-born Reason; image of Supreme Intelligence which

created the world, never will I forsake thy altars; but to continue

faithful to thee, will disdain alike the hatred of some, the ingratitude

of others, and the injustice of all. Reason, whose empire is so

congenial and so pleasing to souls of feeling, and hearts of true

elevation: Reason, celestial Reason, our guide and support in the

labyrinth of life; alas! whither wilt thou fly in this season of discord

and maddening fury? The oppressors will have nothing to say to thee, and

thou art rejected by the oppressed. Come then, since the world abandons

thee, to inhabit the retreat of the sage; dwell there protected by his

vigilance, and honoured by the expressive silence of his worship. One

day thou wilt appear again attired in all thy glory, while imposition

and deceit shall vanish into nothing. At that period perhaps I shall be

no more; yet permit the shade of thy departed advocate to rest in full

assurance of thy pre-eminence and glorious reign:---The hope, the

pleasing anticipation of the happiness that will then be diffused

through the world, affords me consolations of the most soothing and

satisfactory nature.

* * * * *

* * * *

[[For sources, see the end of the second installment.]]

+The SCHOOL for LIBERTINES,+

A Story, Founded on Facts.

If the heart hitherto satisfied and happy in the long-preserved ideas of

rectitude and honour, rational enjoyment, and the sweets of domestic

felicity, should now, strongly tempted by the fatal fascinations of

vice, be meditating a departure from virtue, and this relation prove the

means of preserving its owner from error and delusion, the wishes of the

writer will be accomplished: or if those already engaged in pursuits

that, however brilliant and alluring to the giddy votaries of false

enjoyment, must eventually terminate in confusion, and the loss of every

thing that ought to be held dear, become, from this story convinced of

the necessity of an altered conduct, well repaid, indeed, will be the

recorder of scenes, which, for the sake of society at large, he hopes

will be found less and less frequent in the present age of true

refinement and unaffected sensibility.

Mr. Alton, once amply possessed of the gifts of fortune, and surrounded

with every earthly blessing, suddenly left his weeping lady, then

pregnant, and an infant son, and fled from the pursuit of justice.

He had violated the laws of religion, honour and his country, by

seducing from her duty the wife of his friend; a duel was the

consequence, and the injured husband lost his life in the fatal

rencounter.

Immediate flight was Mr. Alton’s only resource; therefore, regardless of

every feeling but such as arose for his own safety, he precipitately

left his native country, completely wretched, and loaded with all the

horrors of guilt and dismay.

A short time after his arrival in Italy, his means of support failed;

extravagance and dissipation had ruined his fortunes, and he must soon

have fled from importunate creditors, had not this still more dreadful

cause forced him from his wretched family.

As he had acquired the art of becoming fortunate at play, his talents

that way were now brought forward, and an uncommon run of success soon

enabled him to shine forth again in a foreign country with the same

splendour he once displayed in his own.

Again engaged in frivolous pursuits of expence and pleasure, his light

and worthless heart soon dismissed every trace of remorse for the

distress and anguish he had occasioned in the family of his murdered

friend, and the utter ruin brought on his deserted wife and children.

Possessing every art of genteel address, an elegant person, assisted

with all the powers of soft persuasion, he soon (under the name of

Freeman, not daring to use his real one) won upon the heart of a young

lady of exalted birth, whom he privately married.

Her friends at first forbade them their presence, but the young and

beautiful Italian being a much-loved and only child, they soon yielded

to excuses and professions which he too well knew how to frame, and at

length received them to favour and protection.

Many years passed on without a returning thought of former connections

he had heard long since, by private means, that his first lady had

fallen a victim to a broken heart, leaving the care of a son and

daughter to her afflicted father, who had little remaining to support

them, the necessities of the unprincipled and unfeeling Alton having

almost drained his once ample fortune.

And here it is necessary to inform the reader, that the poor old

gentleman did not long survive the loss of his child. But heaven raised

up a friend to her offspring: this friend, who delighted in acts of

mercy, adopted the two innocents, as his own, making over to them his

estate and _his name_.

A young gentleman of the name of Easton, often visited at Mr. Freeman’s,

whose house was always open to people of fashion; and though their years

did not correspond, yet the former still carried an appearance of youth

and gaiety, assisted by an uncommon share of health, and a heart

feelingly alive to every call of pleasure.

Alike dissolute in manners and inclination, an intimacy soon commenced

between them. The present Mrs. Freeman, who, before her marriage,

experienced every indulgence and attention from parents who adored her,

had too early an occasion to lament her misplaced love, and unhappy

choice.

Never, but in the hours of inebriation, did she experience any thing

like attention and kindness from the man who owed every thing to her.

Then, indeed, he would utter rhapsodies of affection, alike destitute of

sincerity as of reason.

And now, their only child (a beautiful young lady who had just attained

her 13th year, the only companion of her pensive mother, to whom she was

indeed a real comfort, dutiful affection and endearing sensibility

having lightened many a painful day) was visited by a fever, which

robbed her afflicted parent of her sole remaining blessing. This

calamity deeply affected them both. The impression made on Mrs. Freeman

brought on a decline, which proved fatal--bereft of every earthly

happiness, she looked up to that heaven she had been long preparing for,

and in a short time obtained dismission from a world, from which she had

been weaned by trouble, and the unkind neglect of a husband she had

loved but too well.

Mr. Freeman put on the outward “trappings and the suits of woe”--but

wanted “that within,” which goes beyond every external appearance.

Pomp and parade, indeed, attended her remains to the silent tomb; but

these were not accompanied with the husband’s tear. The monument was

raised on which his sorrows were recorded, but, cold and senseless as

the marble which received that record, his heart was a stranger to those

feelings that dignify the husband, the father, and the man.

(_To be concluded in our next._)

* * * * *

* * * *

+The HISTORY of Mrs. MORDAUNT.+

[Written by Herself.]

(Continued from our last.)

The first instant I could retire, I retreated to my chamber, my mind

embarrassed with the cruelest sensations: grief and astonishment at his

mean situation. I wished, yet durst not go to the garden; unconscious of

art, I feared I might betray unguardedly the too fond sentiments of my

soul. The next day my maid brought me a beautious bouquet; she said the

gardener had culled it from the choicest of his flowers---a sigh heaved

my bosom at this present---I dismist her---a paper was rolled round,

a presentiment struck me it might contain something interesting==I

hastily tore it from the flowers, and read the following lines:

“Will the loveliest of her sex pardon the presumption of an unfortunate

man, the early victim of calamity?==will she deign to peruse a relation

of those woes which have reduced him to the disgraceful station he now

fills==an irresistible impulse prompts this request; if ’tis granted,

write a line and drop it in the garden==in expectation of such a favour,

I will keep in sight, and then by the first opportunity transmit my

narrative to you.”

Tears gushed from me on perusing this note, heavens! what anguish rent

my breast at my inability to succour him. Without the smallest

hesitation, I complied with his request, and instantly wrote the note he

desired. The next day, concealed in a basket of fruit which he sent me,

I found the ardently desired paquet, containing the history of his life.

“Prompted by an inclination not to be supprest, I sit down to relate a

tale full of woe to her, whose gentle heart will yield the soft tribute

of sensibility.

“Early in life fortune loured on my parents, and their misfortunes are,

I fear, entailed upon their wretched offspring. My father’s name was

Harland, he was descended from a noble family, whose possessions tho’

large, could keep no pace with unbounded prodigality; the fortune was so

dissipated, that but a residue remained sufficient to purchase him a

commission. Courage glowed in his breast and he distinguished himself by

many a gallant action in a tedious war which England undertook against

France. At the expiration of it he married a woman, rich only in

rectitude and beauty, and retired from a profession which had but ill

rewarded his activity. For some time they struggled against

adversity---the fell adversary at length overcame. Two children of whom

I was the eldest, aggravated the horrors of their condition; he could

scarcely support them, as his half-pay afforded but a few of even the

necessaries of life. In this situation he was discovered by a friend,

possessed of affluence, who was single; as he had always exprest an

aversion to matrimony, he inherited pride enough however to wish his

name might be continued. Actuated by this wish, he made a proposal to my

parents which they gladly embraced---it was adopting me for his heir.

I was then five years old, he shortly brought me to his estate for he

had only made an occasional visit to the shire where my father resided;

his understanding was rather weak, his chief foible a credulous

susceptibility to flattery; he treated me however, with tenderness, and

I was considered by every one as his future heir. At a proper age, he

sent me to Oxford to complete my studies; I made a proficiency there

that pleased him, and he declared I should be indulged in chusing a

profession. Every vacation I spent with him. In one, ere I was an hour

arrived, he mentioned with peculiar pleasure an acquisition his

neighbourhood had lately received from a most agreeable family settling

in it. Mr. and Mrs. Wilford with their two sons, he affirmed, I should

like; but he was mistaken, a servility ran thro’ the family highly

disgusting to a liberal mind; I found them all replete with flattery and

meanness. A domestic who had ever evinced the strongest partiality for

me, cautioned me against them; he said he was acquainted with their

arts, and bid me beware, as they were almost continually with his

master, wheedling and indulging his favourite foible. Unskilled in the

treachery of man, I neglected this caution, I judged of them by myself,

I imagined them all as free from guile. Fatal experience however, that

school of wisdom, undeceived me. I thought also it was impossible any

person could be so perfidious, as after promising protection, to

withdraw it without cause. Mr. T---- convinced me such perfidy existed.

By the next vacation my studies were completed, and I returned full of

pleasing expectations, that my adopted father would now indulge me in

chusing a profession, which of all others I admired--a military life,

for like Douglas, I longed to follow to the field some warlike lord.

“Mr. T----’s reception surprized me, it was cold and reserved; whenever

his eyes met mine, a guilty confusion covered his face. Base, worthless

man! no wonder. Two days after my arrival, he sent for me to his

library, for some moments he was silent, then in hesitating accents

began a long preamble of his generosity to my father, in so long

supporting me, and giving me an education suitable to the first man in

the kingdom, of which he supposed I must be sensible; an assenting bow

was my only reply: and he continued: his relations, he said, began with

justice to murmer, at the intention he had conceived of bequeathing me

his fortune, to whom no tie connected him, that he had discarded the

idle idea of adopting me, and added, my education was such as to inspire

me with hopes of a speedy establishment; to forward which, he would give

two hundred pounds, and on every occasion I might depend upon his

friendly interest. He stopt; amazement harrowed my soul, and indignation

tied my tongue. But on repeating his words, and offering me the money,

I dashed it from his hand, and in a phrenzy of fury rushed from the

house. I guessed full well the authors of my misery, the vile Wilfords,

who, in my absence, by the most servile arts, ingratiated themselves

with Mr. T----. He abandoned me for their sons. Hours I continued

walking about his demesne almost unconscious of my being; the insult I

had received, the disappointment of all my hopes was too much for a

naturally impetuous temper. When reason a little calmed my passion,

I resolved immediately to repair to my parents. I had not seen them

since my infancy, though my wishes to behold them were great. Mr. T----

always prevented my gratifying them, as they lived at an extreme

distance from him. Nothing will intimidate a youthful mind when bent on

executing a favourite project; on foot, therefore, without

consideration, I began my journey; no pleasing thoughts soothed my

breast or beguiled the tedious way. The third day I conjectured I must

be pretty near their habitation; filial piety sprung in my breast and

quickened my steps at the idea; a pleasing calm diffused itself over my

soul in anticipating the rapture of the paternal embrace---a dusky hue

was beginning to steal along the expanse, and sober evening had taken

‘her wonted station in the middle air.’

“A Church-yard lay on one side of the road, and the only separation

between them was a slight broom hedge. I thought I heard the plaintive

voice of woe. I looked and discerned a venerable man, whose figure must

have moved even the sullen apathy of the stoic. He was seated on a

new-made grave--his grey locks displayed his age, and he appeared

bending beneath the pressure of misfortune--his eyes were now watering

the grave, now cast up to heaven, with a settled look of despair.

I could not pass him unnoticed--I entered this mournful receptacle of

death--too much absorbed, he had not heeded me, till a sigh burst from

my oppressed heart. Without starting, he raised his head, and cried, who

seeks this dreary spot?--One, I replied, pierced by adversity, who is

hastening to a parent’s bosom, where his wounds may receive the balm of

consolation. Struck by your distress, I could not pass you, a secret

impulse rose in my soul, I wished to hear your woes. Alas! young man, he

answered, my woes are of the severest kind. I indulged hope, I listened

to its idle prattle, I thought to have spent the remnant of my days in

peace--but the shafts of affliction were let loose against me--they

pierced this aged breast---it once had courage, resolution---I now can

boast of none---grief has subdued it---yesterday’s sun beheld the

darling of my age consigned to the earth---the worm will soon begin to

feast upon the beautious cheek I have so often kist with all the

idolizing warmth of a parent; but she is happy, an angel---his voice

faultered---Nature demands those tears from me as her just tribute---the

virtues of my child too--he could not proceed, a sob stifled his

words---after an interval, he continued. I have a wife, she is dying,

blest release from misery, yet frail fortitude would not enable me to

see her depart. She raved for her child---I wept---she called for

food---I shuddered---I had none---I crawled from the house to this

grave---it has been watered with my tears. Unhappy man! ill-fated

Harland--------Harland! repeated I with emotion---Great God! pardon me,

had you a son?---Yes, the hopes of his happiness mitigates my despair.

A friend adopted him, and promised to shelter his youthful head from the

misery I feel. Since the five first years of his life I have not beheld

him. Now, cried I, catching him in my arms, you behold him ---blasted

his ardent expectations, returned a beggar to you. For a moment he was

silent, then raising his hands to heaven, exclaimed, thy will be done,

Almighty Father! this is the final stroke. How fallacious are the

promises of men. Well does the holy book of infinite wisdom advise---Put

not your trust in princes or the children of men.

“Come, my child, my poor deceived son, let us hasten to your mother,

perhaps she lives, you may receive her blessing. But why should I

minutely dwell on this melancholy subject? No, amiable Miss Blandford,

I will not pain your generously susceptible heart. In a fortnight I paid

the last mournful tribute to both my parents. Half insensible of

existence, I continued till a happy destiny conducted me to the spot

where so providentially I assisted in saving you---again I was the

instrument of preserving a life so infinitely precious. Oh, Miss

Blandford! at your sight sensations unknown before rose in my breast!

Pardon my presumption. My mind open to each soft impression---such a

form, such sweetness, no wonder. The keenest distress reduced me to my

present situation. I had no friends to whom I could apply for

assistance. In my tranquil days I had taken pleasure in cultivating

small spots of ground, and rearing

All the lowly children of the vale.

In this situation I mix not with the other domestics---that indeed I

could not bear. Fortune in degrading my rank has left my spirit

unsubdued. Pardon me, Madam, for having engrossed so much of your time.

I could not resist the wish of acquainting you with the occurrences that

have reduced me to this station. Farewell, most amiable of women, may

smiling peace ever hover round you, prays