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lowing case, it will appear that they are no bad imitators of the Man of Feeling.

Harriet Reid, after having tried many different names, and a great variety of circumstances, at length applied to a philanthropic gentleman, endeavouring to excite his sympathies for an ideal Harriet Minette, whose case she laid before him in a series of anonymous letters. One of these letters, and an extract from the narrative, are quoted to show the extent of pathetic power possessed by this ingenious impostor.

THE LETTER.

"The inclosed, dear L―, tedious as it is, for Heaven's sake peruse most carefully: the cause of it must at once excuse it. It contains a melancholy occurrence- indeed, one which, while it engages your attention, must cut you to the heart. Poor Mrs. Minette must soon be lost, unless immediately seen after. OL! I am all anxiety about her-in agonies until you receive this then all will be well. Heaven crown your efforts with success ! Even then, should the memory of the past be granted us, you must look down on your bounty to her with rapture.

EXTRACT FROM THE NARRATIVE.

"Poor Mrs. Minette! I shall surprise you when I tell you of what family she is by the mother's side. She is related to yourself; but I must not explain who she is or who I am at present. Oh, may Heaven in its infinite mercy avert the blow that seems now impending over this unfortunate lady. Continue your bounty to her, and you will soon learn what she is. She is thoroughly amiable, L-, and to me somewhat dear. Her mother married a man of inferior birth, and her relations discarded her. She married Minette, a villain, who has thrown her, after riding in her carriage, on the wide world in hopeless adversity. As I told you, L-, in my first letter, she is an amiable unsuspecting creature, artless, being truly warm in her friendship and love. Silly young creature as she is, we must, however, save her some pangs. Do something, dear L--, for support; recommend her to your friends. Set her up in a school, and get her some pupils; but don't let her teach Italian, as that will bring her sorrows to her mind. But now for the more immediate melancholy purport of my letter. She will be lost unless you save her; but I know you won't let her want. I am in agony of mind about her. I shudder to name the subject, but I must. On Sunday a friend of mine, on her way to church, saw Mrs. Minette walking to and fro in an unfrequented path by the side of the river. She accosted her; but the unfortunate lady appeared quite lost. It is too clear, L-, her wicked thoughts. Dear L-, watch her narrowly. Things, at all events, look black. Take her under your care, reason with her, give her books, let her have a doctor, and see her take her physic; but don't hint a word to her of what you do it might wound her sensitive feelings. She respects you, calls you her benefactor. Adopt her, then, as your protegée- let her read to you, and come to you at church, and in the vestry-room, where you can have her to yourself. Providence must surely have thrown you in her way, and made you his agent in delivering her from the fangs of Satan. Give her a few pounds, and heaven bless you!"

Harriet Reid, like many other writers of romance, failed in the management of her plot, by overloading her first invention with so many

additional inventions, that she rendered the whole a monstrous improbability. She was detected, and sent to meditate on the advantages of greater simplicity of style in the House of Correction.

From an immense mass of materials, containing details far more iniquitous and disgusting, a few of the less revolting features of pretended indigence have been selected, which are quite sufficient to show that the system of mendicant imposture is a nuisance which ought to be abated. It is also evident that this nuisance is entirely supported by mistaken benevolence; that not only are the funds, which ought to be devoted to the relief of real indigence, squandered on the idle and the profligate, but that idleness and profligacy are indefinitely propagated by the facilities afforded for their success. This is only another proof of the old aphorism, that well-meaning fools do much more mischief in the world than designing knaves. Let us not hear in reply the sentimental cant of mock and indolent charity; we shall hereafter show that the relief of real indigence demands something more than money, that it requires zeal, time, labour, and a spirit of devotedness such as is rarely found in the present age; but, in the mean time, let us strongly protest against the common calumny, that an anxiety to distinguish between real and pretended indigence is a sign of indifference to both.

The Society for the Suppression of Mendicity has been eminently successful both in detecting imposture and relieving real distress; of course it is zealously calumniated by the impostors and their dupes, for Surely the pleasure is as great

Of being cheated as to cheat.

Were we to find any fault with the institution, it would be its voluntary character; it is an association for executing duties which properly belong to the government of the country, and its existence is a standing reproach against the government for neglecting its functions. At the same time everybody knows that a legislature would never raise such a nest of hornets as would buzz, flutter, and sting, if any attempt were made to interfere with the proceedings of those self-sufficient persons who arrogate to themselves the titles of the charitable and the humane.

Indolence has been mentioned as the second form of false indigence; persons of this class doubtless suffer great privations; but they should be regarded as idle rather than as necessitous; they are wanting to themselves; their privations are self-imposed. This indigence in some degree belongs to the former class; its destitution is a falsehood, for it possesses resources which it refuses to use. Pretended benevolence has extended its mischievous protection to this class also: such indolence is not unfrequently described as "contented poverty," which, of course, ranks in the category of virtues. Discontent, almost in its worst form, is far preferable to such a species of content. This apathy is sometimes the effect of education, sometimes of temperament; it soon becomes a confirmed, and, what is worse, a contagious habit, and both circumstances prolong and propagating it, render it more pernicious to society. It is generally associated with feebleness of moral energy, and a degradation of character which necessarily aggravate its evil results.

Cases of indigence directly resulting from vice are abundant. Intoxication, gambling, and debauchery, are naturally enough found associated with extreme destitution. Take one case from the Mendicity Reports, -"No. 32,887.-W. C. a man of tolerably decent appearance, applied

for relief, urging that he, his wife and child, were reduced to a state of starvation by want of employment. It turned out upon inquiry that he had for many years pursued the calling of a law-writer; but that his distress, although apparently great, was wholly attributable to his propensity to drinking, and that to indulge in this abominable vice he had resorted to the most disgraceful and fraudulent means; and had, in fact, been intoxicated every day for the fortnight preceding that of his application."

This third class of false indigence requires a separate examination, because vice is not less frequently a consequence than a cause of indigence, and because the mistakenly benevolent have often done as much injury to this class, by refusing opportunities and means of repentance, as they have to the preceding classes by lavish rewards.

To distinguish between true and false indigence is not merely an act of justice, it is pre-eminently an act of mercy: it is not only mercy to the really indigent, by saving for them the resources squandered on the fraudulent, the idle, and the profligate; it is mercy to the impostors themselves, whose ruinous career will be checked when encouragement is withheld; it is mercy to the benevolent dupes, by showing them the difference between misfortunes which command respect and impostures which require punishment. On this distinction the whole system of true benevolence must be based, it alone can ensure its benefits, and prevent its abuses.*

• In the discussion of this subject the author has laid himself under obligations to the writings of several eminent publicists; more especially to those of the Baron de Gerando, and the Archbishop of Dublin.

TO MARIE !

MARIE! 'tis now a twelvemonth nigh
Since first I saw thy gentle face :

I well remember the deep sigh

That made me turn to thee and trace
The sweetest, saddest mind portray'd
In thy dark eyes, my gentle maid!
Marie! I lov'd thee from that hour,

Though vain and hopeless it may be;

But 'tis not in my reason's power

To change that love one thought from thee!
E'en could I change it, what might prove

A recompense for such a love?

'Tis my heart's nature, my soul's life,

Life worthless but that thine imparts

A music to it through the strife

Of jarring tongues, and hollow hearts,
That lullabies it far from this,
Into a dreamy world of bliss!

Marie! they'd wake me from my dream-
They say 'tis wrong to think of thee:
But if my heart in Love's deep stream
Perchance may drown not, it must be
Still onward borne in quest of thine,
Lit with the hope of "one day mine!"
Oh! Marie! if that day were now-

Nay, turn not from me-give one sign
To tell my aching bosom how,

Or if 'twould glad thee to be mine:
Nothing but tears! Stay, stay!-yet go
'Tis madness yet thy love to know!

W.

584

THE TOLEDO RAPIER.

A TALE.

BY R. B. PEAKE.

CHAPTER IV.

MONSIEUR PERPIGNAN, after watering his mignionette, went to inspect several trees of his wall-fruit, which had not yet become ripe. Now, an amateur gardener generally counts his nectarines and peaches; so Perpignan counted the specimens, and discovered that about five-and-thirty of his unripe darlings had vanished."Who can be the thief?" thought he. "It is very disagreeable to suspect anybody; but I will lay in wait for the petty robbers."

At this moment Monsieur Dominique, the harlequin, (who had been requested by Madame Perpignan to come very early to the château, as she wished to put him in possession of the names, professions, and scandal appertaining to some of her particular friends, and so to enliven the masked ball by Dominique's sallies,) arrived. He had just stepped out of a hired fiacre from Paris, and was attired in his harlequin's dress; but this was quite hid by a cloak in which he was wrapped. He wore a slouched hat over his bound-up black head, to which his black mask was attached with a moveable spring, and he had a long pair of boots reaching beyond his knees over his patch-work legs and russet shoes. As Perpignan was pondering on the fate of the nectarines, he suddenly beheld this extraordinary figure, with a very pale face, and evidently disguised. Perpignan, determined to watch, retreated behind the angle of a wall. Dominique seated himself on a garden-bench, and sighed very deeply. He was perfectly within the hearing and sight of Monsieur Perpignan. Dominique rested his chin on his hand, and uttered in a melancholy tone.

Domi

"Is there on earth a greater wretch than I am? The gate open, any thief might walk in as I did." Perpignan was excited, but prudently remained in concealment, listening with all his ears. nique sighed again, and said, "Our house is closed to-night, so the whole troop are at leisure: none of them know that I am engaged here."

"The fellow has come again after my nectarines," thought Perpig

nan.

Dominique resumed-" I am an hour before my time; but, in my state of mind, if I had remained any longer in Paris, I should have cut my throat!

"Then I wish you had stayed there," thought Perpignan.

"But what does it avail," said Dominique, again sighing deeply, "that I have escaped from all their traps and tricks, and have come into the country? To-morrow I must go back again to the same wretched business!"

Perpignan felt that he was unarmed. hedge shears? Dominique continued,

Where had he left his

"The doors will be opened; I shall swindle the public, as usual; there will be their money; but, what is that to me!" and another heavy hypochondrical sigh was heaved.

"He is not to share in the spoil," opined Perpignan.

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However, one must work to live, though life is hardly bearable. Five louis will be the fruits of my exertion this evening!" "Fruits!" exclaimed Perpignan, aroused. "Five louis! he means to steal all my remaining peaches and plums,” and he made his appearance from behind the wall.

Dominique turned his head on seeing Perpignan, and said,

"Some one — -O! only the old gardener! No one shall see my miserable face," and he instantly pulled down his black mask. Perpignan observing this, muttered, "Disguised himself! What a wretch to have in the garden!" Here Dominique accidentally dropped his wooden bat from under his cloak, and picked it up again. "What housebreaking implement is that?" reflected Perpignan. "I will seek for assistance."

He then perceived Justine coming into the garden very prettily attired for the fête; so, making towards her, he ordered her to keep her eye on the strange person on the bench, until he could procure help to take him into custody.

"Pray," said Dominique, pushing his mask up, "at what hour do your revels commence ?"

Justine burst into a peal of uncontrollable laughter at the mistake of her master, and immediately went up to Dominique, and welcomed him, hoping that he was well.

"As I never had a moment's health in my life," said Dominique, "how is it possible that I can ever be well?

Justine replied, "La! let me look at your patched jacket. A prodigious favourite of the public, as you are, constantly exciting the merriment of your audience, ought never to be ill."

Dominique gave another of his lengthened sighs.

"Alas! I have been in a fit of hypochondria for these five years past. Medicine will not touch my disorder. Would you credit it? It was but yesterday I went to a celebrated physician, who did not know my person off the stage; and described to him the depression of my spirits; says the doctor, you lead too lonely a life; you want excitement; you must amuse yourself; visit the theatre; go where you can laugh; go and laugh at the comic harlequin, Dominique. Alas! doctor,' said I, I am Dominique !'" "I cannot help smiling at you," replied Justine; "for your very grief is comic."

6

Dominique made a grin-horrible.

"What very white teeth she has! Do you know, my dear, if anything ever makes me forget my misery, it is the sight of a pretty girl."

"La! Monsieur Dominique," simpered Justine. "Nothing gives me so much pleasure as to relieve the unhappy; besides, I would not have you melancholy to-night for the world."

Dominique approached Justine, and said,

"One kiss on this little hand would cheer me!" (he saluted it) "I am better! One kiss more on that sweet cherry cheek would drive away twenty blue devils." And here, instead of one, he gave Justine a dozen, who, on turning her head, discovered Monsieur Perpignan, with two labourers with stout sticks in their hands. Justine screamed, and scampered into the château. Perpignan, brandishing a bill-hook, stood before Dominique, and demanded who

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