rude remark, Julie's heart throbbed with the sense of a different motive, something less nervous, but more painful. this reason when she should apologize for her || sensitive sensibilities! Verily, Julie, thou wouldst not crush a worm to gain a kingdom. All this ruefulness for fear of having bruised the broken read! Well, you are a dear tender-hearted little fool, and I will make your peace with Bertolini ; but do not imagine that I will follow your example: love-matters are always fair game for mirth; so as I am sure this fatal epistle comes from Bertolini's marble-breasted tyrant, I will indulge my spleen and rail at her till sunset. What must the woman be who can scorn such a heart as his ?" Troubled and irresolute, instinctively dreading to analyze her feelings any further, she was continuing to traverse a deeply-embowered path, when the voice of Francois surprized her. The hour of dinner was nigh, and he had come in search of her. Till his approach she had been shedding tears unconsciously; now she fearfully dried them, and advanced to meet him with eyes so swoln, and cheeks so pale, that Francois was not to be deceived by the more than smile with which she hailed him. Francois was the fondest of brothers, though one of the most unreflecting; easily alarmed or easily tranquillized. He inquired the cause of her distress, and by dint of intreaties at length obtained satisfaction. Julie began an incoherent detail of her fancied impertinence to Bertolini, her certainty since that his letter was likely to have been unpleasant, therefore that her fault was doubly great, &c. Francois interrupted her with a violent burst of laughter-" Defend me, Oh, Jupiter!" he cried, "from such A responsive exclamation was springing from the bosom of Julie to her lips, when recollecting its indiscretion, she blushed, and merely intreated her brother to make no illtimed addition to the apology he had pro mised to offer to Bertolini in her name. "I shall say nothing more than that you are a woman, therefore curious, and too glib of tongue," returned Francois; "Bertolini knows your sex too well not to pardon in an individual the faults of the species! there's a taste of philosophy for you."As he ended he snatched her hand, and ran with her into the chateau. (To be continued.) OAKWOOD HOUSE.-AN ORIGINAL NOVEL. LETTER IX. TO MRS. BRUDENELL. Oakwood, April 27, 1807. Italian languages, he joins the diguity of a philosopher, the modesty of a maiden, the simplicity of a child, and the forgetfulness of Parson Adams. Mr. Millichamp likes his quarters at Joba Freeman's so well, and they are so fond of their guest, that there is a tacit agreement between them to avoid all subjects which might lead to a separation. He attends the father and daughter here every night, and we find as little pleasure as they in anticipating his de I HAVE nothing to offer you, my dear friend, except the fireside pictures at this place; but we have another figure in the groupe, not unworthy your notice; a Mr. Millichamp, whom chance and a dark rainy night sent to John Freeman's door to beg a lodging. He is a young man, of appearance and manners extremely prepossessing; cir-parture. cumstances I will not forget in announcing "Sir," said John Freeman to him, last him, though you and I are no longer young|| night, "when you first came to our house, women; for these make a favourable impres- and had forgotten your whip and your horse, I sion on all women. He is the son of a clergy- || man in the south; himself educated and intended for a clergyman; but, declining the profession, he now lives with a rich manufacturing uncle, from whom he has great expectations. If being an oddity is a requisite for the society at Oakwood, he bears his testimonials about him. To the most profound erudition, to a thorough knowledge of the Hebrew, Greek and Latin, French and had a great mind to have asked you where you had left your spurs; for I observed you bad not them on." "A very natural question," said Milli. champ; "but I never wear spurs, for two rea sons. The first is, I had rather be run away with by my own thoughts than by my horse; and if I wore spurs, one would be the inevitable con. sequence of the other; for I should stick them into him inadvertently, while I was thinking of something else. The other is, I have doubts in my own mind of the propriety of wounding a poor animal, because he does not go exactly the pace I wish him." "I honour your doubts," said my brother. "I wear spurs because I have no reveries; but I never let them touch my horse. For my own part, I think we shall be answerable hereafter for our inhumanity to brutes. As they are treated they ought to be made of wood and wire. Indeed, if they were, men would be more careful not to knock the machine to pieces, than as it is made of flesh and blood." "Possibly," said Millichamp, "we may be the beasts of burthen in the next world, and our horses may ride us." "I am prepared for that," rejoined my brother; "there is not one of my horses that will not make me a good master. I'must own, when I was young, I did amuse myself sometimes with docking, nicking, and cropping them, and I have run them too far after a fox; but I never killed or maimed one, and I bave asked their pardon long ago. I never breed my horses; because if a colt did not turn out well, I could not hear to part with him to be flogged. But I never buy a horse without inquiring into his character as particularly as I would that of a coachman; for I trust my neck in the care of both; and never sell one. When he is grown old in my service his place is a sinecure; and when life is no longer an enjoyment I have him shot, and buried in his skin and shoes. I have a cemetary on purpose for horses." "I once broke a borse myself," said Millichamp.—“What idea does this word broke convey?" cried he, interrrupting himself. "In its literal meaning, that of tearing the animal to pieces; in its common acceptation here, only breaking his spirit! I conceived that they who make it a trade proceeded not only upon a cruel, but upon a wrong principle. I trained my horse from a colt. I accustomed him to expressions of kindness. When I began to ride him he had never seen a whip. I did not then use one. I only made him sensible of his errors by the alteration in my tone of voice; and he had such a love of my friendship, and such a fear of my displeasure, that he became perfectly obedient." "I should wish every servant of mine, whether on two legs or four," said my brother, "to be actuated by both these motives. Love alone is not strong enough to secure obedience; and I would shoot myself rather than live only to be feared. But your method of training a horse would not be generally prac ticable. It requires a personal acquaintance with him that no horse-breaker could have with every animal that passes through his hands; and, in such a long course of educa tion, if time were allowed, patience would sometimes be wanting in the preceptor." "The time it would demand," replied Millichamp," is an objection I cannot answer. But if patience only were wanting, it would be the fault of the man, not the method. The best systems of education for our own species require uninterrupted patience." "Besides," said my brother, "I should doubt whether the fear of his master's displeasure would be strong enough always to restrain a horse, if that of corporal punishment were unknown. It might sufficiently influence your groom; because it would include the fear of losing his place, and getting But the tempers of horses differ; some require greater severity than others, Yours might be a very gentle one." a worse. "He was," said Millichamp; " and while he was in possession of himself, needed no other incitement or curb than my orders. But I shall not conceal from you, that turning a corner one day, when the whole earth was one uniform picture of snow, and seeing a woman in a large bright scarlet cloak, he refused to pass her. For the first time I struck him with the whip. He was ignorant of its meaning, and instead of using all his legs, found only the two hind ones. He kicked, and threw me. Had he had a previous knowledge of the smart, his fear of that might have been stronger than of the scarlet cloak, and impelled him to pass it. I do not mean, therefore, to recommend my method of training horses; but I think a great deal of it might, with advantage, be incorporated with a little of the old; and, in that, I am certain you will be of my opinion." "And I, too," said I.-"I believe it is undiscovered how far the intelligence between men and horses might be carried, except Gulliver discovered it, who kept no other com. pany. I had a noble beast, (and I gave a sigh to his memory), so beautiful that I was bidden to name my own price, if I would have sold him; but money could not come He carried me in competition with him. In my airings, a pillion seven years. when he reached any place where he had been accustomed to turn back, and, by a little shuffling, indicated his wish to do so, the servant who rode before me, and who had long been intimate with him, would say, in a tone of common conversation, 'No, not yet.' The creature submitted, and went on. When we arrived at a place where I chose to turn again, U hą on [1 for insisting upon your being happy with Mr. Millichamp, when I have a mind to be happy with him myself! If I really loved him, what must have been my situation, knowing him engaged to my friend? Knowing he was violating every duty every hour he stayed, and that the innocent partiality I felt for him must be checked as a deadly sin, lest it should be a step towards making me the rival of that friend? You have set my heart at ease. You ask me why I should doubt your settled affection for Mr. Marriot, when I have seen such uniform proofs of it? Forgive me, my friend, if I thought Mr. Millichamp so much his superior that you must be sensible of it, and would cease to love the lesser merit when the greater was known. the man would say, in the same unmarked You tell me I am in love! You laugh at me tone, 'Now, you may turn back, if you will;' and the horse instantly availed himself of the permission. I have travelled journies of three or four hundred miles on his back; and as I thought saddle and pillion, with their separate burthens, too heavy a lead to go safely down a steep hill, I always got off and walked. At the top of which he would, of his own accord, set himself across the road, that he might stand steady, while the man dismounted and lifted me off; and if it were a short one, and I chose to keep my seat, on his saying, No, not this bill,' he would go on. I once had him with me at a sea-bathing place. I rode on the sands regularly every day, and when my airing was finished, I always got off at a particular spot, and walked to my lodgings. The servant then flung the bridle over the horse's neck, and he followed him to his stable. It happened one day I was attracted by some beautiful sea weeds, and alighted before I came to the usual place. The man led the way towards the stable, expecting the horse to fullow, but though he cast a wishful look towards his keeper, as he receded from him, he would not leave his mistress, believing he had not yet discharged his duty. The man called him; he hesitatad what to do; but finding I did not oppose it, inclination prevailed; and he trotted off at a great rate, till he overtook his conductor, and then followed him quietly to his rack and manger." "And what became of him at last?" said Margaret. "I kept him two years after he was unable to work," replied I; " and in that time he never lay down. Towards the last, he grew so weak that he fell, when asleep, and could not get up again without the assistance of two meu. Having done so several times, a kind friend took the opportunity of my absence to order him to be shot; and he lies buried in my garden." "And what did you say to it?" asked Margaret. I am now conjuring up another set of mousters. If I love Mr. Millichamp, which I do not believe I do, I am still in a miserable situation. Though I no longer regard him as the destined husband of my friend, I have no reason to believe he loves me. The lovers I have hitherto had, and you know they have not been few, from the parson of the parish, to the farmer in his barn, have all sought an opportunity to assure me of their regard. He has daily opportunities, and never glances at the subject. That I am a favourite with him, I cannot doubt, every look and every action prove it; but so are my father and mother; so are Mr. and Mrs. Oakwood. With regard to myself, what is this love? It is unknown to me. I will describe my symptoms, and you, whom experience bas instructed, shall judge; shall tell me if I am so unfortunate and imprudent as to love where no professions of love have been made to me. I know every thing Mr. Millichamp likes, and he has it, or it is done. I have seen him cut a crust at dinner; he has always one laid by his plate. I saw one of his pillows laid on the other; he finds it so when he goes to rest. I saw a hole in his night-cap; it is darned, and se “I thanked my friend very sincerely, and neatly that he will never perceive it. All this shed bitter tears over my horse." LETTER X. TO MISS CARADINE. Oakwood, May 5, 1807. Cruel, hard-hearted Maria, what a week have you made me pass! You have suffered me to turn all the pleasure I receive from Mr. Millichamp's company into self-reproach! I do for my father and mother. He has had a slight indisposition since he has been here; I have been his nurse, and never failed to present his medicine at the appointed hour, or remind him of his great coat, if he were going ont. All this, and more, I should have done for my father. I am almost afraid to go on. If we walk out alone he offers me his arm; I take it, and am happy. If we are with Mrs. Oak. wood, he offers it her; I feel a little sullen, and sometimes loiter behind, though I would not take it from her for the world. This I should not feel if Mrs. Oakwood had my father's arm.-I do not know how it is, but one thing I am sure of, that when I believed you were destined for each other, I most sincerely wished him gone, though I dreaded, and still dread, the taking leave. I will have done with this subject, which puzzles and distresses me, and give you love in another form. I yesterday took a solitary walk to the ruins of the old Abbey, and taking Thompson's Seasons out of my pocket, sat down on a broken stone to read. Mr. Oakwood never lets man, woman, or child apply to him for work in vain. His grounds are so large there is employment for all. Once, indeed, it happened there was not, and he set two strangers to remove a large stack of kids to a distant place, and, as soon as they had finished, ordered them to bring them back;|| neither suffering them to eat the bread of idleness, or to go without any bread at all. He was giving orders for the third removal, when he was told the men had left his service. This I did not mean to tell you. I was only going to say, that about three years ago, a young stout rustic solicited employment, and after labouring some time in the fields, he proved so industrious, attentive, and honest, that he was promoted to the rank of waggoner at the farmhouse. He now appeared; and from an opposite quarter advanced one of the footmen belonging to the Hall. They were very near me; but I was concealed by a broken arch. "Tom," says the footman," how came you to follow Molly, the kitchen-maid, last night, when she had been down to the farm-house for some eggs." "Mun nubbuddy fullo nubbuddy without axing yore leave?" said Tom, who is a native of Derbyshire. "Nobody shall follow Molly without asking my leave, and having it too," replied the footman. "And if so bee I wunnot ax it, whot then?" "Why then I'll knock you down.” “An whot mun oi be doing th' whoile?" "Doing, you scoundrel! why, doing your best. Do you think I fear what such a clodhopper as yon can do?" "May be you dunnot; no moor nor oi moind a laced cote an a shouder-knot. My frock's my own, an yo conna say that o' yore 245 cote; an oi believe there's no bigger a skoundril under't nor there is i' yore yaller westcot." "I shall give you one piece of advice, however," returned the footman; "and that is that you let Molly alone, or you'll come by the worst on't." "Beleddy that's moor nor tha know'st, foin as tha art. Oi could double thee up, and put thee in an auger hole. An oi'd doot tew; only I think my mester would na loik me th' bet. ter for geeing thee a black oye or a bluddy nose; and, beside, he's so koind I should be loath t'anger 'im. Tha'rt mistekken i thy mon; an oi think tha'rt mistekken i' th' wench. Its my mind to hae her, lu' thee; and hes bia ony toime this ten year. Ma'happen its thin t'pley wee her, an then fo'sake her.” "What my mind is, is nothing to you. Molly knows my mind, and that's enough." "If Mally purtends to loike thee, hur's a fause jade; an tha' mest hae her to thy sen, for oi'll gee her o'er,” "You may give her over then, I'll promise you." "Bur oi shanna tek thoi wud for't. Oi'll speak to her my sen, an oi'll sey, Mally, says oi, Robbut says yo loiken him; an if you dun, sesso, an oi'll gee my sen no moor trubble abaute you. Ma'happen oi ma fret a bit at fust; but oi shall think oin a good miss. Bur if you dunna loike him, nor hanna loiked him, by gost, oi'm afraid i' shall knock him down i' good arnst; and sarten sure oi shall, if iver he's aater you agen." Here they parted, Robert muttering, if the girl might chuse, she would not be a fool; but I thought he did not seem eutirely satisfied with the reference. In this village scene appear the characters of higher life. The real lover is a waggoner; the man of gallantry is a footman; and, I suppose, the coquet in the kitchenmaid. Your forgetful swain is still here; unheeding, or not seeming to heed, the vows bis uncle has made for him. What will be the end of it, God knows; but now I know his stay prolongs your happiness, as well as my own, it shall meet with no interruption from me. I have just discovered that the darn is cut out of the night-cap, and the hole left bigger than before. I wonder whether he expects me to mend it again. (To be continued.) MR. EDITOR, LANCELOT LASTHOPE.-THE BACHELOR. I HAVE to thank you for your insertion of my last letter, and from the number of answers with which I have been favoured, it certainly must be my own fault if I do not commence Benedict. But I must honestly own that those of my fair correspondents whom I have seen were not any of them women who would be likely to tempt a reasonable man to com. mit matrimony; and lest you should suspect me of being a fastidious fellow, I will relate to you the particulars of a few visits I paid to ladies whose humanity and kindness would have induced them to relieve me from the disgrace of celibacy. The first letter I opened came from a lady who signed herself Clarinda. She said that after mature deliberation (by the bye the letter was dated on the very day your Magazine is published), she could not help thinking it was a pity that a man so apparently amiable and well disposed should remain a bachelor; and if I would call at No., in street, I should see a lady who might perhaps console me for the disappointments I had met with. I have given you the substance of the letter, Mr. Editor, but I confess I was not highly pleased with it, for the spelling was terribly incorrect, and the style neither easy nor grammatical. However, as the lady had so frankly appointed a meeting, I thought it would be ill-bred to disappoint her, and accordingly I immediately repaired to the place of assignation. || I spake since, to be candid with you, the embarrassment was ou my side, for I did not know how to put an end to my visit without coming to an explanation that must hurt her feelings; I therefore pretended to be duped by her affected delicacy; and saying that I was sorry to see her so agitated, and that I would for the present wish her a good morning, I snatched up my hat, and made my exit in spite of her assurances that she had conquered her confusion. The next epistle I received was calculated to put me equally in good humour with myself and with its fair writer. After some very pretty and well turned compliments on the style in which I had related my adventures, the lady, who called herself Clelia, appointed an interview on the following day. She did not say a single syllable about her own quali fications, but her letter proved that her mental ones were much superior to the generality of her sex, and in the hope that I should find her person as amiable as her understanding was excellent, I dressed myself next day with more than my usual care, and waited upon her. "If the gem within answers but to the casket," thought I as she entered, "all will be well;" for I was very much struck with her. Yet she was far from handsome, but there was an indescribable something in her countenance that prepossessed me in her favour. Her figure was extremely genteel, and there was a grace and lightness in her motions that, to me, was more pleasing than the most exact symI was ushered into a very elegant apartment, metry, and half an hour's conversation deterand in a few minutes a lady entered, who was mined me (if she was what she appeared) to apparently turned of sixty. I must do her the make her my wife. Nothing could be more justice to say, that she was an excellent artist, || sprightly, easy, and captivating than her for her face and neck were enamelled in a very manner, which was equally free from levity or finished style; and her frizeur is certainly one || prudery; but just as I was about to take my of the first people in his way, for her flaxen leave, a smart rat-tat at the door made her wig would, on a younger woman, have passed turn pale, and the next moment I heard a for a natural head of hair. Picture to yourself, masculine voice say:"Not at home? all Mr. Editor, a woman of the age I have describ-sham, know better, suppose there's some one ed, and of a tall, robust, bony figure, dressed with her, walk up and see, however;" and in (though in the morning) in a frock which dis- spite of the maid's assurances that, upon her played her bosom and arms; and softening honour her mistress was that very moment goue her naturally harsh and masculine voice into out, a gentleman entered the room where we an affected lisp, while she hoped I would excuse her being so very much flurried, but she was naturally so timid, and she thought proper to favour me with a long harangue on the difficulty she had to bring herself to write to me, and the cruel embarrassment into which the sight of me had thrown her. On that biut || were. As the expressions I had heard were sufficient to explain to me the nature of his visit to Clelia, I made a hasty retreat as soon as he entered; and on making inquiries in the neigh bourhood, I learned that my fair intended was at present under this gentleman's protection ; |