The Children of the Abbey



The modest virtues mingled in her eyes,

Still on the ground dejected, darting all

Their humid beams into the opening flowers

Or when she thought——

Of what her faithless fortune promised once!

They, like the dewy star

Of evening, shone in tears.


Adela, on the death of her father, was taken by Belgrave to England, though the only pleasure he experienced in removing her was derived from the idea of wounding her feelings, by separating her from Mrs. Marlowe, whom he knew she was tenderly attached to. From his connections in London she was compelled to mix in society; compelled I say, for the natural gaiety of her soul was quite gone, and that solitude which permitted her to brood over the remembrance of past days, was the only happiness she was capable of enjoying. When the terrors of Belgrave drove him from the kingdom, he had her removed to Woodhouse, to which it may be remembered he had once brought Amanda, and from which the imperious woman who then ruled it was removed; but the principal domestic was equally harsh and insolent in her manner, and to her care the unfortunate Adela was consigned, with strict orders that she should not be allowed to receive any company, or correspond with any being. Accustomed from her earliest youth to the greatest tenderness, this severity plunged her into the deepest despondency, and life was a burthen she would gladly have resigned; her melancholy, or rather pathetic sweetness, at last softened the flinty nature of her governante, and she was permitted to extend her walks beyond the garden, to which they had hitherto been confined; but she availed herself of this permission only to visit the church-yard belonging to the hamlet, whose old yew trees she had often seen waving from the windows. Beneath their solemn gloom she loved to sit, while evening closed around her; and in a spot, sequestered from every human eye, weep 618 over the recollection of that father she had lost, that friend she was separated from.

She remained in the church-yard one night beyond her usual hour. The soft beams of the moon alone prevented her from being involved in darkness, and the plaintive breathing of a flute from the neighbouring hamlet first stole upon her ear. Lost in sadness, her head resting upon her hand, she forgot the progress of time; when suddenly she beheld a form rising from a neighbouring grave. She started up, screamed, but had no power to move; the form advanced to her; it was the figure of a venerable man, who gently exclaimed, “Be not afraid!” His voice dissipated the involuntary fears of Adela; but still she trembled so much she could not move. “I thought,” cried he, gazing on her, “this place had been alone the haunt of wretchedness and me.” “If sacred to sorrow,” exclaimed Adela, “I well may claim the privilege of entering it.” She spoke involuntarily, and her words seemed to affect the stranger deeply. “So young,” said he, “’tis melancholy indeed; but still the sorrows of youth are more bearable than those of age; because, like age, it has not outlived the fond ties, the sweet connections of life”—“Alas!” cried Adela, unable to repress her feelings, “I am separated from all I regarded.” The stranger leaned pensively against a tree for a few minutes, and then again addressed her; “’Tis a late hour,” said he: “suffer me to conduct you home, and also permit me to ask if I may see you here to-morrow night. Your youth, your manner, your dejection, all interest me deeply: the sorrows of youth are often increased by imagination. You will say nothing can exceed its pains; ’tis true, but it is a weakness to yield to them—a weakness which from a sensible mind will be eradicated the moment it hears of the real calamities of life; such a relation I can give you, if you meet me to-morrow night in this sad, this solitary spot; a spot I have visited every closing evening, without ever before meeting a being in it.”

His venerable looks, his gentle, pathetic manner, affected Adela inexpressibly; she gazed on him with emotion somewhat similar to those with which she used to contemplate the mild features of her father. “I will meet you,” cried she, “but my sorrows are not imaginary.” She refused to let him attend her home: and in this incident there was something affecting and romantic, which soothed and engrossed the mind.


She was punctual the next evening to the appointed hour. The stranger was already in the church-yard; he seated her at the head of the grave from which she had seen him rise the preceding night, and which was only distin­guished from the others by a few flowering shrubs planted around it, and began his promised narrative. He had not proceeded far ere Adela began to tremble with emotion—as it continued, it increased.—

At last suddenly catching his hand, with wildness she exclaimed—“She lives, the wife so bitterly lamented still lives, a solitary mourner for your sake. Oh never! never did she injure you as you suppose. Oh dear inestimable Mrs. Marlowe, what happiness to the child of your care, to think that through her means you will regain the hearing you have so tenderly regretted; regain him with a heart open to receive you.” The deep convulsive sobs of her companion now pierced her ear; for many minutes he was unable to speak: at last, raising his eyes, “Oh Providence! I thank thee,” he exclaimed; “again shall my arms fold to my heart its best beloved object. Oh, my Fanny, how have I injured thee! Learn from me,” he continued, turning to Adela, “Oh learn from me never to yield to rashness; had I allowed myself time to inquire into the parti­culars of my wife’s conduct; had I resisted, instead of obeying the violence of passion, what years of lingering misery should I have saved us both. But tell me where I shall find my solitary mourner as you call her.” Adela gave him the desired information and also told him her own situation. “The wife of Belgrave!” he repeated “then I wonder not,” continued he, as if involuntarily, “at your sorrows.” It was indeed to Howell, the unfortunate father of Juliana, the regretted husband of Mrs. Marlowe, that Adela had been addressing herself. He checked himself, however, and told her, that the being by whose grave they sat, had been hurried through the villany of Belgrave, to that grave. Adela told him of the prohibition against her writing: but at the same time assured him, ere the following night she would find an opportunity of writing a letter, which he should bring to Mrs Marlowe, who, by its contents, would be prepared for his appearance, as it was to be sent in to her. But Adela was prevented from putting her intention into execution by an event as solemn as unexpected.

The ensuing morning she was disturbed from sleep by a violent noise in the house, as if people running backwards and forwards in 620 confusion and distress. She was hurrying on her clothes to go and inquire into the cause of it, when a servant rushed into the room, and in a hasty manner told her that Colonel Belgrave was dead. Struck with horror and amazement, Adela stood petrified, gazing on her; the maid repeated her words, and added that he had died abroad, and his remains were brought over to Woodhouse for interment, attended by a French gentleman, who looked like a priest. The various emotions which assailed the heart of Adela at this moment were too much for her weak frame, and she would have fallen to the floor but for the maid; it was some time ere she recovered her insensi­bility, and when she did regain it she was still so agitated as to be unable to give those directions, which the domestics, now looking up to her in a very different light from what they had hitherto done, demanded from her. All she could desire was, that the steward should pay every respect and attention to the gentleman who attended the remains of his master, and have every honour that was due to those remains. To suppose that she regretted Belgrave would be unnatural; but she felt horror, mingled with a degree of pity, for his untimely fate, at the idea of his dying abroad, without one connexion, one friend near him.

His last moments were indeed more wretched than she could conceive. Overwhelmed with terror and grief he had quitted England: terror, at the supposition of a crime which in reality he had not committed, and grief for the fate of Amanda. He sought to lose his horrors in inebriety, but this, joined to the agitation of the mind, brought on a violent fever, by the time he had landed at Calais, in the paroxysm of which, had the attendants understood his language, they would have been shocked at the crimes he revealed. His senses were restored a short time before he died; but what excruciating anguish, as well as horror did he suffer, from their restoration; he knew from his own feelings as well as from the looks of his attendants, that his last moments were approaching; and the recollection of past actions made him shudder at these moments. Oh, Howell; how were you amply revenged for all the pangs he made you suffer. Now did the pale image of your shrouded Juliana seem to stand beside his bed, reproaching his barbarity. Every treacherous action now rose to view, and trembling, he groaned with terror at the spectres which a guilty conscience raised around him. Death would 621 have been a release, could he have consi­dered it as an annihi­lation of all existence; but that future world he had always derided, that world was opening in all its awful horrors to his view. Already he saw himself before its sacred Judge, surrounded by the accusing spirits of those he had injured, he desired a clergyman to be brought to him; a priest was sent for—their faiths were different, but still, as a man of God, Belgrave applied to him for an alleviation of his tortures; the priest was super­stitious, and ere he tried to comfort he wished to convert; but scarcely had he commenced the attempt, ere the wretched being before him clasped his hands together in a strong convulsion, and expired. The English servant who attended Belgrave, informed the people of the hotel of his rank and fortune, and the priest offered to accompany his remains to England, he was, by the direction of Adela, who had not resolution to see him, amply rewarded for his attention; and in two days after their arrival at Woodhouse, the remains of Belgrave were consigned to their kindred earth. From a sequestered corner of the church-yard, Howell witnessed his interment; when all had departed, he approached the grave of his daughter.—“He is gone!”—he exclaimed, “my Juliana, your betrayer is gone; at the tribunal of his God he now answers for his cruelty to you. But oh! may he find mercy from that God; may he pardon him at this solemn moment. I have done—my enmity lives not beyond the grave.”

Adela now sent for Howell, and after their first emotions had subsided, informed him she meant immediately to return to Ireland; the expectation of her doing so had alone prevented his going before. They accordingly commenced their journey the ensuing day, and in less than a week reached the dear and destined spot, so inter­esting to both; they had previously settled on the manner in which the discovery should be revealed to Mrs. Marlowe, and Adela went alone to her cottage: sad and solitary, as Mrs. Marlowe said in her letter to Oscar, did Adela find her in her parlour; but it was a sadness which vanished the moment she beheld her. With all the tenderness of a mother she clasped Adela to her breast, and in the sudden transports of joy and surprise, for many minutes did not notice her dress; but when she did observe it, what powerful emotions did it excite in her breast! Adela, scarcely less agitated than she was, could not, for many minutes, relate all that had happened; at last the idea of the 622 state in which she had left Howell, made her endeavour to compose herself. Mrs. Marlowe wept while she related her sufferings; but when she mentioned Howell, surprise suspended her tears; a surprise increased when she began the story; but when she came to that part where she herself had betrayed such emotion, while listening to Howell, Mrs. Marlowe started and turned pale. “Your feelings are similar to mine,” said Adela, “at this period I became agitated. Yes,” she continued, “it was at this period I laid my trembling hand on his, and exclaimed, she lives!” “Merciful heaven!” cried Mrs. Marlowe, “what do you mean?” “Oh! let me now,” cried Adela, clasping her arms around her, “repeat to you the same expression; he lives! that husband so beloved and regretted lives!” “Oh bring him to me!” said Mrs. Marlowe in a faint voice, “let me behold him while I have reason myself to enjoy the blessing.” Adela flew from the room; Howell was near the door. He approached—he entered the room. He tottered forward, and in one moment was at the feet and in the arms of his wife, who transfixed to the chair, could only open her arms to receive him. The mingled pain and pleasure of such a re-union cannot be described: both with tears of grateful transport, blest the power which had given such comfort to their closing days. “But my children,” exclaimed Mrs. Marlowe, suddenly, “ah! when shall I behold my children! why did they not accompany you? ah! did they deem me then unworthy of bestowing a mother’s blessing?” Howell trembled and turned pale. “I see,” said Mrs. Marlowe inter­preting his emotion, “I am a wife but not a mother.” Howell recovering his fortitude, took her hand and pressed it to his bosom: “Yes,” he replied, “you are a mother; one dear, one amiable child remains. Heaven be praised!” he paused, and a tear fell to the memory of Juliana. “But heaven,” he resumed, “has taken the other to its eternal rest. Inquire not concerning her at present, I entreat! soon will I conduct you to the grave, there will I relate her fate, and together will we mourn it—then shall the tears that never yet bedewed the grave, the precious tears of mother embalm her sacred dust.”

Mrs. Marlowe wept, but she complied with her husband’s request; she inquired in a broken voice about her son, and the knowledge of his happiness gradually cheered her mind.

Adela consented to stay that night in the cottage, but the next day 623 she determined on going to Woodlawn: to think she should again wander through it, again linger in the walks she had trodden with those she loved, gave to her mind a melancholy pleasure. The next morning, attended by her friend, she repaired to it, and was inexpressibly affected by reviewing scenes endeared by tender remembrances of happy hours. The house, from its closed windows, appeared quite neglected and melancholy, as if pleasure had forsaken it with the poor departed general. Standard, his favourite horse, grazed in the lawn, and beside him, as if a secret sympathy endeared them to each other, stood the dog that always attended the general in his walks; he instantly recollected Adela, and running to her, licked her hand, and evinced the utmost joy. She patted him on the head while her tears burst forth at the idea of him who had been his master. The transports of the old domestics, parti­cularly of the grey-headed butler, at her unexpected return increased her tears. But when she entered the parlour, in which her father usually sat, she was quite overcome, and motioning with her hand for her friends not to mind her, she retired to the garden. There was a little romantic root-house at the termination of it, where she and Oscar had passed many happy hours together; thither she repaired, and his idea, thus revived in her mind did not lessen its dejection. While she sat within it, indulging her sorrow, her eye caught some lines inscribed on one of its windows. She hastily arose, and examining them, instantly recollected the hand of Oscar. They were as follows:

Adieu, sweet girl, a last adieu!

We part to meet no more;

Adieu to peace, to hope, to you,

And to my native shore.

If fortune had propitious smil’d,

My love had made me blest;

But she, like me, is sorrow’s child,

By sadness dire opprest.

I go to India’s sultry clime,

Oh! never to return;

Beneath some lone, embow’ring lime

Will be thy soldier’s urn.

No kindred spirit there shall weep,

Or pensive musing stray;

My image thou alone wilt keep

And grief’s soft tribute pay.


Oscar, previous to his going to England, with the expectation of being sent to the West-Indies, had paid a secret visit to Woodlawn, to review and bid adieu to every well known and beloved spot, and had one morning at early day inscribed those lines on a window in the root-house, prompted by a tender melancholy he could not resist.

“His love is then unfortunate,” said Adela, pensively leaning her head upon her hand: “Oh! Oscar! how sad a similitude is there between your fate and mine!” She returned to the house,—Mr. and Mrs. Howell (for so we shall in future call Mrs. Marlowe, that name being only assumed while her husband had a prospect of inheriting his uncle’s fortune) had consented to stay some time with her. Oscar’s lines ran in her head the whole day; and in the evening she again stole out to read them.

She had been absent some time when Mrs. Howell came out to her: Adela blushed and started at being caught at the window. “’Tis a long time, my dear Adela,” said Mrs. Howell, “since we had a ramble in this delightful garden together; indulge me in taking one, and let us talk of past times.” “Past times,” cried Adela, with a faint smile, “are not always the pleasantest to talk about.” “There are some, at least one friend,” cried Mrs. Howell, “whom you have not yet inquired after.” Adela’s heart suddenly palpitated, she guessed who that one friend was. “Oscar Fitzalan, surely,” continued Mrs. Howell, “merits an inquiry; I have good news to tell you of him, therefore without chiding you for any seeming neglect I will reveal it.” She accordingly related his late reverse of situation.—Adela heard her with deep attention. “Since fortune then is propitious at last,” cried she, “his love will no longer be unfortunate.” “’Tis time, indeed,” said Mrs. Howell, looking at her with pleasure, “that love so pure, so constant as his, should be rewarded! Adela,” he continued, suddenly taking her hand, “sweet daughter of my care, how great is my happiness at this moment, to think of that about to be your portion.” “My happiness!” exclaimed Adela, in a dejected voice. “Yes,” replied Mrs. Howell, “in your union with a man every way worthy of possessing you; a man, who, from the first moment he beheld you, has never ceased to love—in short, with Oscar Fitzalan himself.”

“Impossible!” cried Adela, trembling with emotion as she spoke: 625 “Did not—how humiliating is the remembrance! did not Oscar Fitzalan reject me, when the too generous and romantic spirit of my beloved father offered my hand to his acceptance?”

“For once,” said Mrs. Howell, “I must disturb the sacred ashes of the dead, to prevent the innocent of being unhappy. O! Adela, you were cruelly deceived, and the moment which gave you to Belgrave rendered Oscar the most wretched of mankind. My heart was the repository of all his griefs, and how many are the bitter tears I have shed over them. Be composed,” continued she, seeing Adela’s agitation, “and a few moments will explain every thing to you.” She led her back to the root-house, and in the most explicit manner informed her of Belgrave’s treachery. Adela burst into tears as she concluded. She wept on Mrs. Howell’s bosom, and acknow­ledged she had removed a weight of uneasiness from her mind. “Poor Oscar,” she continued, “how much would the knowledge of his misery have aggravated mine!” “He acted nobly,” said Mrs. Howell, “in concealing it; and amply will be rewarded for such conduct.” She then proceeded to inform Adela that she soon expected a visit from him. There was something in her look and manner which instantly excited the suspicion of Adela, who blushing, starting, trembling, exclaimed—“He is already come!” Mrs. Howell smiled, and a tear fell from her upon the soft hand of Adela. “He is already come,” she repeated, “and he waits, oh, how impatiently! to behold his Adela.”

We may believe his impatience was not put to a much longer test. But when Adela in reality beheld him as she entered the parlour, where she had left Mr. Howell, and where he waited for the re-appearance of her friend, she sunk beneath her emotion, upon that faithful bosom which had so long suffered the most excruciating pangs on her account; and it was many minutes ere she was sensible of the soft voice of Oscar.—Oh! who shall paint his transports after all his sufferings, to be thus rewarded! But in the midst of his happiness the idea of the poor general, who had so generously planned it, struck upon his heart with a pang of sorrow. “Oh, my Adela!” he cried, clasping her to his heart, as if doubly endeared by the remembrance, “is Oscar at last permitted to pour forth the fulness of his soul before you, to reveal his tenderness, to indulge the hope of calling you his, a hope which affords the delightful prospect of being able to contribute to your felicity. Yes, most 626 generous of friends,” he exclaimed, raising his eyes to a picture of the general, “I will endeavour to evince my gratitude to you by my conduct to your child.” Oh! how did the tear he shed to the memory of her father interest the heart of Adela: her own fell with it, and she felt that the presence of that being to whom they were consecrated was alone wanted to complete their happiness. It was long ere she was sufficiently composed to inquire the reason of Oscar’s sudden appearance, and still longer ere he could inform her. Mrs. Marlowe’s melancholy letter, he at last said had brought him over, with the hope of being able to cheer her solitude, and also (he acknow­ledged) his own dejection by mutual sympathy; from her cottage he had been directed to Woodlawn, and at Woodlawn received parti­culars not only of her happiness but his own. Adela, who had never yet deviated from propriety, would not now infringe it, and resolutely determined, till the expiration of her mourning, not to bestow her hand on Oscar; but permitted him to hope, that in the inter­vening space most of his time might be devoted to her; it was necessary, however, to sanction that hope by having proper society. She could not flatter herself with much longer retaining Mr. and Mrs. Howell, as the latter parti­cularly, was impatient to behold her son. Oscar therefore requested and obtained permission from Adela to write in her name to Lord and Lady Cherbury and entreat their company at Woodlawn, promising she would then accompany them to Castle Carberry, and from thence to Dunreath Abbey, a tour which, previous to Oscar’s leaving Wales, had been agreed on. The invitation was accepted, and in a few days Oscar beheld the two beings most valued by him in the world, introduced to each other; tears of rapture started to his eyes as he saw his Adela folded to the bosom of his lovely sister, who called her the sweet restorer of her brother’s happiness! Lord Cherbury was already acquainted with her, and, next to his Amanda, consi­dered her the loveliest of human beings; and Lady Martha and Lady Araminta, who were also invited to Woodlawn, regarded her in the same light. A few days after their arrival, Mrs. Howell prepared for her departure. Adela, who consi­dered her as a second mother, could not behold those preparations without tears of real regret. “Oh, my Adela!” she exclaimed. “these tears flatter, yet distress me, I am pleased to think the child of my care regards me with such affection, but I am hurt to think she 627 should consider my loss such an affliction. Oh my child! may the endear­ments of the friends who surround you steal from you all painful remembrances: Nature calls me from you; I sigh to behold my child; I sigh,” she continued, with eyes suffused in tears, “to behold the precious earth which holds another.”

About three weeks after her departure, the whole party proceeded to Castle Carberry. Amanda could not re-enter it without emotions of the most painful nature; she recollected the moment in which she had quitted it, oppressed with sorrow and sickness, to attend the closing period of a father’s life. She wept, and sighed to think that the happiness he had prayed for, he could not behold. Lord Cherbury saw her emotions, and soothed them with the softest tenderness; it was due to that tenderness to conquer her dejection, and in future remembrance of her father was only attended with a pleasing melancholy. She did not delay visiting the convent; the good-natured nuns crowded around her, and cried, laughed, and wished her joy almost in the same moment, parti­cularly sister Mary; the prioress’ pleasure was of a less violent, but more affecting nature; an almost constant scene of gaiety was kept up at the Castle; a gaiety however, which did not prevent Lord and Lady Cherbury from inspecting into the situation of their poor tenants, whose wants they relieved, whose grievances they redressed, and whose hearts they cheered by a promise of spending some months in every year at the castle. After continuing at it six weeks, they crossed over to Port Patrick, and from thence proceeded to Dunreath Abbey, which had been completely repaired, and furnished in a style equally modern and elegant; and here it was determined they should remain till the solemnization of Lord Dunreath’s nuptials. The time which inter­vened till the period appointed for them was agreeably diversified, by parties among the neighbouring families, and excursions about the country; but no hours were happier than those which the inhabitants of the Abbey passed when free from company, so truly were they united to each other by affection. Lord Dunreath, soon after his return, waited upon the Marquis of Rosline, and by his sister’s desire signified to him, that if a visit from her would be agreeable to the marquis, she would pay it; this, however, was declined, and about the same period Lady Dunreath died. Mrs. Bruce, to whom from long habit she was attached, then retired to another part of Scotland, ashamed to remain 628 where her conduct was known; a conduct which deeply affected her niece, whom Amanda visited immediately after her arrival, and found settled in a neat house near the town she had lodged in.—She received Lady Cherbury with every demonstration of real pleasure, and both she and her little girls spent some time with her at the Abbey.

The happy period for completing the felicity of Oscar at last arrived. In the chapel where his parents were united he received from the hand of Lord Cherbury, the lovely object of his long tried affections. The ceremony was only witnessed by his own parti­cular friends; but at dinner all the neighbouring families were assembled and the tenants were entertained in the great hall, where dancing commenced at an early, and was continued to a late hour. Now having (to use the words of Adam) brought our story to the sum of earthly bliss, we shall conclude, first giving a brief account of the characters connected with it.

Lady Greystock, who was one of the most distinguished, we shall first mention. After the death of Lady Euphrasia, she found her company no longer desired at the marquis’s, and accordingly repaired to Bath: here she had not been long ere she became acquainted with a set of female puritans, who soon wrought a total change (I will not say a reformation) in her ladyship’s senti­ments; and to give a convincing proof of this change, she was prevailed on to give her hand to one of their spruce young preachers, who shortly taught her what indeed she had long wanted to learn, the doctrines of repentance, for most sincerely did she repent putting herself into his power. Vexation, disap­pointment and grief brought on a lingering illness, from which she never recovered; when convinced she was dying, she sent for Rushbrook, and made a full confession of her treachery and injustice to him, in consequence of which he took immediate possession of his uncle’s fortune; and thus in the evening of his life enjoyed a full recompense for the trials of its early period. Lady Greystock died with some degree of satis­faction at the idea of disap­pointing her husband of the fortune she was convinced he had married her for.

Mrs. Howell, after visiting her son, retired to her husband’s cottage, where their days glided on in a kind of pleasing melancholy; the happiness of that son and his Emily is as perfect as happiness can be in this sublunary state.


Sir Charles Bingley, after studiously avoiding Lord and Lady Cherbury for above two years, at last by chance was thrown in their way, and then had the pleasure of finding he was not as agitated at the sight of Amanda as he had dreaded. He did not refuse the invitation of Lord Cherbury; the domestic happiness he saw him enjoying, rendered his own uncon­nected and wandering life more unpleasant than ever to him. Lady Araminta Dormer was almost constantly in his company; no longer fascinated by Amanda, he could now see and admire her perfections; he soon made known his admiration; the declaration was not ungraciously received, and he offered his hand and was accepted; an acceptance which put him in possession of happiness equal to Lord Cherbury’s.

The marquis and marchioness of Rosline pass their days in gloomy retirement, regretful of the past, and hopeless of the future. Freelove flutters about every public place, boasts of having carried off a Scotch heiress; and thinks from that circum­stance he may now lay siege to any female heart, with a certainty of being successful.

To return once more to the sweet descendants of the Dunreath family; the goodness of heart, the simplicity of manners which ever distin­guished them, they still retain; from having been children of sorrow themselves, they feel for all who come under that denomination, and their charity is at once bestowed as a tribute from gratitude to Heaven, and from humanity to want; from gratitude to that Being who watched their unsheltered youth, who regarded them through innumerable perils, who placed them on the summit of prosperity, from whence, by dispensing his gifts around, they trust to be translated to a still greater height of happiness. Lady Dunreath’s wish is fulfilled; to use her own words, their past sorrows are only remembered to teach them pity for the woes of others; their virtues have added to the renown of their ancestors, and entailed peace upon their own souls; their children, by all connected with them, are consi­dered as blessings: gratitude has already consecrated their names, and their example has inspired others with emulation to pursue their course.


Notes and Corrections: Chapter LVIII

without ever before meeting a being in it.”
close quote missing

and exclaimed, she lives!”
text has “she lives!”

“I am a wife but not a mother.”
text has mother.’

“There are some, at least one friend,” cried Mrs. Howell,
text has Mrs,

Oh! how did the tear he shed to the memory of her father
text has “Oh!

as perfect as happiness can be in this sublunary state.
“can b” invisible

“But, my love,” cried Lord Cherbury, as he wiped away the tears which pity and horror at the fate of Lady Euphrasia had caused Amanda to shed

Introduction and Contents


The original of this text is in the public domain—at least in the U.S.
My notes are copyright, as are all under-the-hood elements.
If in doubt, ask.