EXTRACT OF A LETTER

FROM

THE CURATE OF BOWES IN YORKSHIRE,

ON THE SUBJECT OF THE PRECEDING POEM.

To Mr. Copperthwaite, at Marrick.

WORTHY SIR,

As to the affair mentioned in yours; it happened long before my time. I have therefore been obliged to consult my Clerk, and another person in the neighbourhood, for the truth of that melancholy event. The history of it is as follows.

The family name of the young man was Wrightson; of the young maiden, Railton. They were both much of the same age; that is, growing up to twenty. In their birth was no disparity: but in fortune, alas! she was his inferior. His father, a hard old man, who had by his toil acquired a handsome competency, expected and required that his son should marry suitably. But, as amor vincit omnia, his heart was unalterably fixed on the pretty young creature already named. Their courtship, which was all by stealth, unknown to the family, continued about a year. When it was found out, old Wrightson, his wife, and particularly their crooked daughter Hannah, flouted at the

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maiden, and treated her with notable contempt. For they held it as a maxim, and a rustic one it is, that blood was nothing without groats.

The young lover sickened, and took to his bed about Shrove Tuesday, and died the Sunday sennight after.

On the last day of his illness, he desired to see his mistress. She was civilly received by the mother, who bid her welcome-when it was too late. But her daughter Hannah lay at his back, to cut them off from all opportunity of exchanging their thoughts.

At her return home, on hearing the bell toll out for his departure, she screamed aloud that her heart was burst, and expired some moments after.

The then Curate of Bowes* inserted it in his register, that they both died of love, and were buried in the same grave, March 15, 1714.

I am,

Dear Sir,

Yours, &c.

* Bowes is a small village in Yorkshire, where, in former ages, the Earls of Richmond had a castle. It stands on the edge of that vast and mountainous tract, named by the neighbouring people Stanemore, which is always exposed to wind and weather, desolate and solitary throughout.-Camb. Brit.

ADVERTISEMENT.

As the profits, if any, that may arise from the sale of this little poem, are intended for a charitable use, it is hoped that the writers and compilers of our periodical papers will not reprint it in any of their collections. But they are, at the same time, left at full liberty to speak of it, either with applause or blame, as they shall judge it deserving of either.

The following lines, from Shakspeare's Twelfth Night, may very properly stand as a motto to it. The Duke, who is passionately in love with Olivia, having desired some music to soothe his melancholy, thus addresses the person who is to entertain him :

The song we had last night

and then turning to his friend

Mark it, Cesario, it is true and plain :

The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,

And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,

Do use to chant it. It is silly sooth,

And dallies with the innocence of love,

Like the old age.