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Mary found what fruits such conduct as hers will ever produce; then came days of pain, and nights of tears, prospects of disgrace, and forebodings of starvation. Her mother and she loaded each other with mutual reproaches, and Mary was no longer to be seen without the walls of her cottage. However, one evening stealing forth to enjoy a little fresh air, she chanced to meet the occasion of her ruin, to whom she imparted her situation, and with many upbraiding expressions, declared that she would give him up to the session as the father of her child, and would prosecute him for its maintenance; which raised such a brutal fury in the villain, that he fell upon her with a large stick which he happened to have in his hand, beat her most barbarously, and it is supposed would have murdered her outright, had he not been prevented by the approach of a gentleman, at sight of whom he betook himself to his heels. The shrieks and cries of Mary had reached the ears of Sir Thomas Stewart's eldest son, a young man who had newly left school, and was that day returning from his sport in the fields; with great benevolence he hastened to her assistance, and had her carried to her mother's cottage, where, during a long and dangerous illness, occasioned by the merciless blows she had sus

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tained, he supplied her with medical advice, and every other comfort which opulence can procure for the relief of sickness and poverty.

But this goodness, and Mary's misfortunes, instead of producing the proper effects, only inspired her with plans of deeper guilt. Remembering the former foolish discourse of her mother respecting a lofty marriage, and feeling great confidence in the powers of her beauty, she set herself to captivate Mr. Stewart's affections, with all the art she could command; but her wicked intentions being suspected by the neighbours, and finally reaching the ears of Sir Thomas, he prudently sent his son to the University, and, in a transport of indignation, turned both Mary and her mother out of doors.

Though the old woman had latterly by no means encouraged her daughter in her base endeavours to ensnare the young gentleman, yet her former misconduct was thus severely punished. Feeble and half dead, she could with difficulty be conveyed to another habitation, furnished through the charitable compassion of a farmer who resided on an estate near Sir Thomas Stewart's; but the fatigue incident to her journey, and the vexation of her mind, filled with remorse, speedily brought her to her Trave; and Mary Wilson found herself left

alone in the world, without a friend, or a character to obtain her one; without a farthing, since all pretence to solicit charity was buried with her mother; and almost as unable as unwilling to work, whereby she might preserve herself and the child she now suckled from perishing through absolute want.

Of few alternatives, this unhappy woman selected the very worst. She repaired to the town of Edinburgh, and there, from the depravity of mankind, picked up a precarious subsistence, fraught with wickedness of all sorts, and misery of every description. There, among the outcasts of humanity, compared with whom even the most brutish animal would suffer degradation, she lost, together with every remaining good quality of the soul, all traces of her former beauty. Disease laid his heaviest hand upon her. Famine wasted her to the bone, while drunkenness and riot were succeeded by that despondence or torpor, which but gave place to new draughts of gin, and to fresher transports of fury.




Early in a cold morning of January, when as yet no inhabitants were to be seen on the streets, Dr. R., a humane physician, was returning from a professional visit, and passing

through one of the dark alleys of the old town, he stumbled over what at first appeared to be a bundle of the sorriest rags, spread out upon the ground; but, on a nearer examination, he perceived that they covered a meagre, deformed woman, seemingly in the agonies of death; she scarcely retained the appearance of a human creature; and though compassion prompted him to raise her head, half immersed in the stream of the kennel, it required no trifling effort to conquer that natural repugnance with which we shrink from touching any object so squalid and nauseous. On inquiry, why she remained there, the miserable wretch, in a tone of voice which, to a virtuous ear, is more disgustful than the croaking of a toad, endeavoured to explain her calamity. In a state of helpless intoxication, she had fallen down one of those public stair-cases so common in the town of Edinburgh, and afterwards endeavouring to crawl home, had been unable to proceed farther than where she now lay. The doctor, with a charitable alacrity, summoning several persons to her aid, had her conveyed to the Infirmary, where her bruises, irritated by her corrupt habit of body, only suffered her for a very short time to linger. She died in great agonies, at the early age of twenty-three.

C. S.



WHILE Dr. Shepherd, an established minister in the south of Scotland, was sitting one morning at breakfast, a servant entered the room, and informed him that the overseer was just dying, and that Mrs. Meadows wished to see him. The good Dr., ever attentive to the calls of duty, especially in cases like the present, where the calls of humanity were so powerful, hastened to the sick man's chamber. He arrived just in time to witness the last moments of his departing friend, and to administer the consolations of religion, which alone can soothe the pillow of the dying Christian, and refresh and solace his departing spirit. The most solemn scene that man can witness is that of a death bed. It addresses itself most powerfully to the feelings, and inspires a seriousness and melancholy which a virtuous mind will rather indulge in, than discard. The worthy minister, though accustomed to such scenes, felt these impressions in a high degree. Perhaps his thoughts

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