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‘402 tude of his soul could hardly sustain a conflict against the grief and passion that consumed him, while, on the one hand, he beheld the distrac. tion of his daughter, and, on the other, anticipated the danger of his son. He resolved, however, to keep Amelia's indisposition a secret from Honorius, with whom he arranged the dreadful, business of the morning, and, kaving fervently bestowed his blessing there, he returned to pass the night in prayer and watching by Amelia's side.

Honorius retired to his chamber, but not to rest. It was

not, however, the danger of the approaching combat, which occasioned a monent's anxiety or reflection; for his courage was superior to every consideration of personal safety. But that courage had hitherto been regulated by a sense of

obligation consistent with the

precepts of religion—he had of en exerted it to deserve the glorious meed of a soldier, but he scorned to empley it for the contemptible reputation of a duelist; it had tailght him to serve his country, but not to offend bis God. “If there is a cause which can justify the act, is it mine ''Tis not a * , Punctilious honor, a visionary

THE LADY'S MISCELLANY;

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insult, or a petulant disposition that influences my conduct:” said Honorius, as he mused upon the subject.— “A sister basely tricked of her innocence and fame, a father ungratefully plundered of his peace and hopes, in the last stage life, and myself (but that is little) treacherously

transported to a remote and inhospitable land—these are

my motives ; and Heaven, Doliscus, be the judge between us !

As soon as the dawn appeared, Honorius repaired to the

place of appointment, where a

few minutes before the hour, Doliscus, likewise arrived.— He was attended by a friend, but perceiving his antagonist alone, he requested his comt panion to withdraw to a distant spot, from which he might observe the event, and afford assistance to the vanquished party.

“Once more we meet, Sir,” s: #d Doliscus, “upon the business of death ; but that fortune which failed you in your country's cause, may be more propitious in your own.”— “What pity it is,” exclaimed Honorius, “that thou should'st be a villain, for thou art brave!” “Nay, I come to offer a more

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substantial revenge for the wrongs I have committed, than merely the imputation of so gross an epithet—take it, sir— it is my life.” They instantly. engaged. Doliscus for awhile defended himself with superior address, but loying himself suddenly open to the pass of his antagonist, he received his

sword in the left breast, a little

below the left seat of his heart 1

“Nobly done,” cried Doliscus as he fell, “it is the vengeance of Amelia ; and oh may it serve to expiate the crime of her betrayer.” His friend who had attentively viewed the scene, advanced, when he saw him on the ground; and assisted by Honorius, bore him to a carriage which had been directed to attend within call. He was then conveyed to the house of an eminent surgeon, who having ordered the necessary accommodations, examined the wound, and pronounced it to be mortal.”— “Fly sir,” said Doliscus turning to Honorius at this intelligence—“your country will af. ford you an asylum, and protect you from the consequences of my fate. I beseech you embitter not my last moments with the reflection of your danger —but bear with you to the injured Amelia, the story of my

repentance, and, if you dare, ask her to forgive me.” The resentments of Honorius were subdued, he presented his hand to the dying Doliscus, in whose eye a gleam of joy was kindled at the thought, but it was quickly superceded by a cold and sudden tremour; he attempted, but in vain, to speak ; he seized the offered hand ; he pressed it eagerly to his lips, and in the moment of that expressive action, he expired.

Honorius now hastened to inform Horatio of this fatal event, and to contrive the means of escape. But when he returned to the inn, confusion and distress were picturcd on every face ; a wild, but harmonious, voice, occasionally broke forth into melancholy strains, and the name of Amelia was repeatedly pronounced in accents of tenderness and compassion. “How is it my son " cried Hortio eagerly. “ Doliscus is no more P’ replied Honorius.— Would he had lived another day ! I wished not the ruin of his soul.” “But he repented sir.’ ‘Then heaven be merciful!’ exclaimed Horatio.

Here their conversation was interrupted, by the melodious

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jured spirit took its everlasting flight. *

The reader will excuse a minute description of the succeeding scenes. The alarm raised by the death of Doliscus compelled Honorius to quicken his departure, and he joined the standard of America a few hours before the battle of Monmouth, in which, for the service of his country, he sacrificed a life that misfortune had then taught him to consider of no other use or estimation.

As for the venerable Horatio—having carried with him to the cottage the remains of his darling child, in a melancholy solitude he consumes the time ; his only business, meditation and prayer; his only recreation a daily visit to the monument, which he has raised in commemoration of Amelia's fate, and all his consolation resting in this assurance, that whatever may be the sufferings of virtue HERE, its por. tion must be happiness HereA FTFR.

*-4ORATORS. Orators should never attempt to move the passions until they have endeavoured to convince

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For the Lady’s Miscellany. SKETCHES FROM LIFE. .No. II.

Messrs. Editors,

THE following beautiful verses subjoined to this sketch I committed to memory when young, and as the author from whom they were extracted has

escaped my recollection, whilst ||

I am yet capable of communieating them to you witho t doing any injury to the ingenious composer, 1 would wish them printed in your Miscellany, where I imagine they will meet with the approbation of every admirer of that pathos which is so eminently calculated to arrest the attention to Poetic beauty, and to fan up by a mild, yet irresistible impulse the less turbulent feelings of the bosom into a pleasing and museful melancholy. The ‘gathering ills' of life, is ever the complaint of nearly the aggregate of the uncultivated sons of men, who, not capable of expressing their unhappiness in the strains of elegant and refined sentiment—

notwithstanding, can speak thei

voice of nature. Hundreds, nay, thousands of the lower

classes of every civilized, coin

munity, there are to be found, would any discriminating person take the trouble to visit them, in want of the common necessaries of life, suffering cold, enduring hunger and fatigue, and consequently, iingering out a dire and miserable existence. -

What scenes would the Poetic Muse find here, worthy of recapitulating in tuneful and heart melting number, and whilst she hovered over the habitation of poverty, her

pensive strains would awaken

dormant Humanity, and con

duct her open handed, and in

tears to the habitation of MIS-. ERY..

Are the lower classes of civilized society the least hap. py? Perhaps not. The middle grades of the more exalted, and every son of Adam has his perplexities and burden of calamity. There is one species of unhappiness, however, which I imagine will be found . on experience, the most exexcrutiating, and at the same time the least vulnerable for philosophy to combat. I mean where a man in full enjoyment of that plenty, the consequent of good fortune and wealth; who sees his coffers daily filled with the latter without even being capable of cnumerating

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