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is probable he would have made no objection, but he very foolishly sent a peremptory refusal, for which he was dismissed for ever. In a short time afterwards your father fell in love with a young lady of great personal attractions, and supposed to possess a large fortune. To deceive her he pretended to be the heir to the earldom, and, after a hasty courtship, they ran off, and were married. When they compared notes, which they soon did, it was discovered that on his side, he had nothing but the pay of a subaltern, and on hers, that she had not one shilling. Your father stormed, and called his wife an impostor; she recriminated, and the second morning after the marriage was passed in tears on her side, and oaths and revilings on his. The lady, however, appeared the most sensible party of the two. Their marriage was not known, she had run away on a pretence to visit a relative, and it was actually supposed in the country town where she resided, that such was the case. Why should we quarrel in this way?' observed she. You, Edmund, wished to marry a fortune, and not me-I may plead guilty to the same duplicity. We have made a mistake; but it is not too late. It is supposed that I am on a visit to "" and that you are on furlough for a few days. Did you confide your secret to any of your brother officers ?' Not one,' muttered my father. Well, then, let us part as if nothing had happened, and nobody will be the wiser. We are equally interested in keeping the secret. Is it agreed?' Your father immediately consented. He accompanied your mother to the house at she was expected, and she framed a story for her delay, by having met such a very polite young man. Your father returned to his regiment, and thus did they, like two privateers, who, when they meet and engage, as soon as they find out their mistake, hoist their colours, and sheer off by mutual consent."

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"I can't say much for my mother's affection or delicacy," observed I.

"The less you say the better, Japhet-however, that is your father's story. And now to proceed. It appears that about two months afterwards, your father received a letter from your mother, acquainting him that their short intercourse had been productive of certain results, and requesting that he would take the necessary steps to provide for the child, and avoid exposure, or that she would be obliged to confess her marriage. By what means they contrived to avoid exposure until the period of her confinement, I know not, but your father states that the child was born in a house in London, and by agreement was instantly put into his hands; that he, with the consent of his wife, left you at the door of the asylum, with the paper and the bank note, from which you received the name of Newland. At the time he had no idea of reclaiming you himself, but the mother had, for heartless as she appears to have been, yet a mother must feel for her child. Your father's regiment was then ordered out to the East Indies, and he was rapidly promoted for his gallantry and good conduct during the war in the Mysore territory. Once only has he returned home on furlough, and then he did make inquiries after you; not, it appears, with a view of finding you out on his own account, but from a promise which he made your mother."

"My mother! what, have they met since ?"

"Yes; your mother went out to India on speculation, passing off as a single girl, and was very well married there, I was going to say; however, she committed a very splendid bigamy."

"Good heavens! how totally destitute of principle !"

"Your father asserts that your mother was a free-thinker, Japhet; her father had made her one; without religion a woman has no stay. Your father was in the up country during the time that your mother arrived, and was married to one of the council at Calcutta. Your father says that they met at a ball at Government House. She was still a very handsome woman, and much admired. When your father recognised her, and was told that she was lately married to the honourable Mr. he was quite electrified, and would have quitted the room; but she had perceived him, and walking up to him with the greatest coolness, claimed him as an old acquaintance in England, and afterwards they often met, but she never adverted to what had passed between them, until the time for his departure to England on leave, and she then sent for him, and begged that he would make some inquiries after you, Japhet. He did so, and you know the result. On his return to India he found that your mother had been carried off by the prevailing pestilence. At that period your father was not rich, but he was then appointed to the chief command in the Carnatic, and reaped a golden harvest in return for his success and bravery. It appears, as far as I could obtain it from him, that as long as your mother was alive, he felt no interest about you, but her death, and the subsequent wealth which poured upon him, has now induced him to find out an heir, to whom it may be bequeathed.

"Such, Japhet, are the outlines of your father's history; and I must point out that he has no feelings of affection for you at present. The conduct of your mother is ever before him, and if it were not that he wishes an heir, I should almost say that his feelings are those of dislike. You may create an interest in his heart, it is true; and he may be gratified by your personal appearance; but you will have a very difficult task, as you will have to submit to his caprices and fancies, and I am afraid that, to a high spirit like yours, they will be almost unbearable."

"Really, sir, I begin to feel that the fondest anticipations are seldom realized, and almost to wish that I had not been sought for by my father. I was happy and contented, and now I do not see any chance of having to congratulate myself on the change."

"On one or two points I also wish to question you. It appears that you have entered into the sect denominated Quakers. Tell me candidly, do you subscribe heartily and sincerely to their doctrines? And I was going to add, is it your intention to remain with them? I perceive much difficulty in all this."

"The tenets of the sect I certainly do believe to be more in accordance with the Christian religion than any other; and I have no hesitation in asserting, from my knowledge of those who belong to that sect, that they, generally speaking, lead better lives. There are some points connected with their worship, which, at first, I considered ridiculous: the feeling has, however, worn off. As to their quaint

manner of speaking, that has been grossly exaggerated. Their dress is a part of their religion."

"Why so, Japhet ?"

"I can reply to you in the words of Susannah Temple, when I made the same interrogatory. You think the peculiarity of our dress is an outward form which is not required. It was put on to separate us from others, and as a proof that we had discarded vanity. I am aware that it is not a proof of our sincerity; but still the discarding of the dress is a proof of insincerity. We consider, that to admire the person is vain, and our creed is humility. It is therefore an outward and visible sign, that we would act up to those tenets which we profess. It is not all who wear the dress who are Quakers in heart or conduct; but we know that when it is put aside, that the tenets of our persuasion are at the same time renounced, therefore do we consider it essential. I do not mean to say but that the heart may be as pure, and the faith continue as steadfast without such signs outwardly, but it is a part of our creed, and we must not choose, but either reject all or none.'

"Very well argued by the little Quakeress; and now, Japhet, I should like to put another question to you. Are you very much attached to this young puritan ?"

I love her sincerely."

"I will not deny but that I am. "Does your love carry you so far, that you would for her sake continue a Quaker, and marry her?"

"I have asked myself that question at least a hundred times during the last twenty-four hours, and I cannot decide. If she would dress as others do, and allow me to do the same, I would marry her tomorrow; whether I shall ever make up my mind to adhere to the persuasion, and live and die a Quaker for her sake, is quite another matter-but I am afraid not-I am too worldly-minded. The fact is, I am in a very awkward position with respect to her. I have never acknowledged my affection, or asked for a return, but she knows that I love her, and I know that she loves me."

"Like all vain boys, you flatter yourself."

"I leave you to judge, sir," replied I, repeating to him our parting tête-à-tête, and how I had returned, and found her in tears.

"All that certainly is very corroborative evidence; but tell me, Japhet, do you think she loves you well enough to abandon all for your sake?"

"No, nor never will, sir, she is too high-principled, too highminded. She might suffer greatly, but she never would swerve from what she thought was right."

"She must be a fine character, Japhet, but you will be in a dilemma: indeed, it appears to me, that your troubles are now commencing instead of ending, and that you would have been much happier where you were, than you will be by being again brought out into the world. Your prospect is not over cheerful. You have an awkward father to deal with; you will be under a strong check, I've a notion, and I am afraid you will find that, notwithstanding you will be once more received into society, all is vanity and vexation of spirit."

"I am afraid you are right, sir," replied I," but at all events, it will be something gained to be acknowledged to the world by a father of good family, whatever else I may have to submit to. I have been the sport of fortune all my life, and probably she has not yet done playing with me; but it is late, and I will now wish you good night."

"Good night, Japhet; if I have any intelligence I will let you know. Lady de Clare's address is No. 13, Park Street. You will, of course, go there as soon as you can."

"I will, sir, after I have written my letters to my friends at Reading."

I returned home to reflect upon what Mr. Masterton had told me, and I must say that I was not very well pleased with his various information. His account of my mother, although she was no more, distressed me, and from the character which he gave of my father, I felt convinced that my happiness would not be at all increased by my having finally attained the long-desired object of my wishes. Strange to say, I had no sooner discovered my father, but I wished that he had never turned up; and when I compared the peaceful and happy state of existence which I had lately passed with the prospects of what I had in future to submit to, I bitterly repented that the advertisement had been seen by Timothy; still, on one point I was peculiarly anxious, without hardly daring to anatomize my feelings; it was relative to Cecilia de Clare, and what Mr. Masterton had mentioned in the course of our conversation. The next morning I wrote to Timothy and to Mr. Cophagus, giving them a short detail of what I had been informed of by Mr. Masterton, and expressing a wish, which I then really did feel, that I had never been summoned away from them.

(To be continued.)

THE DEVIL'S DYKE.

It is a common, and significant practice, to hitch the name-the venerabile nomen-of his Satanic Majesty, to every thing extraordinary in a particular sense. Especially is it applied to external objects of irregular fashion, or Titanean dimensions: thus, we have the Devil's Dyke, the Devil's Bridge, the Devil's Punch Bowl, the Devil's Cavern, the Devil's this, the Devil's that. As if with a wish of im pressing the mind with the idea of something imposing-something out of the way, we place the ominous ownership upon the shoulders of that mysterious and unmentionable personage, confident-the perhaps unjust affiliation once completed-that for ever after a proper influence will be exercised over prepossession and imagination. The devil, indeed, is dragged into connexion with all the eccentricities, stray things, and odds and ends in the world; he is a capital resource, upon whom you can always count: set any thing afloat under his illustrious sanction, and you are at least certain of its receiving a respectful reception. He has held for so long a time so extensive a dominion in this world of sin and wickedness, that, under shelter of his name, nothing fails of being elevated into dignity. You can never be at a loss for an attribute, while one so available and advantageous exists. Men entertain a deprecating and involuntary reverence for what they fear, therefore get that for which you are interested under a protection so influential, and you cannot do better.

We have often wondered-the above general reason apart-why so fearful an addition was annexed to the celebrated Dyke in the vicinity of Brighton. Conceiving that there must have been something particular in its origin, we have always looked upon the matter with a certain degree of interest, and felt dissatisfied with attributing it merely to the popular habit. A place so remarkable in itself, thought we, may have been the scene of some particular traditionary elucidations, and in some future time it may be our gratifying fate to unravel the matter. How we eventually succeeded in obtaining a partial developement of that of which we were in search, it does not matter; suffice it to say, that at the time of impartment, it was satisfactory to our own minds, and will probably prove equally so to those of our readers.

Somewhere about the year 1709, there lived an old woman named Mabel Dodd, in a crazy wood and earth hut, on the western side of the Devil's Dyke. Her tenement was in such an extremely ruinous condition, and stood in so exposed and bleak a situation, that when the November gales blew from seaward, with more than usual violence, it might have been felt to rock to its very foundation. Over the parting and rusty thatch, that waved and rustled above the weatherbeaten and decaying roof, the wind nightly wailed and whistled in most dreary continuance. The walls, composed of sods, and shattered bricks, plastered with clay, held together so loosely, that they every minute threatened to fall to the ground; a mouldering door, blackened, and splitting through age, slung by rusty hinges, creaked and clattered to the blast, admitting light to the interior, through numberless interstices; and the rents in the roof, and the gaps in the outside, let in the driving rain so plentifully, that in winter the floor was no

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