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be well acquainted." This account threw Mercator into another agony; from which he was, however, at length recovered by his uncle, who, as the only expedient by which he could retrieve his misfortune and sooth his distress, proposed, that he should no more return to his lodgings, but go home with him; and that he would himself take such measures with his wife, as could scarce fail of inducing her to accept a separate maintenance, assume another name, and trouble him no more. Mercator, in the bitterness of his affliction, consented to this proposal, and they went away together.

Mercator, in the mean time, was expected by Flavilla with the most tender impatience. She had put her little boy to bed, and decorated a small room, in which they had been used to sup by themselves, and which she had shut up in his absence; she counted the moments as they passed, and listened to every carriage and every step that she heard. Supper now was ready: her impatience was increased; terrour was at length mingled with regret, and her fondness was only busied to afflict her: she wished, she feared, she accused, she apologized, and she wept. In the height of these eager expectations, and this tender distress, she received a billet, which Mercator had been persuaded by his uncle to write, in which he upbraided her, in the strongest terms, with abusing his confidence and dishonouring his bed; " of this," he said, "he had now obtained sufficient proof to do justice to himself, and that he was determined to see her no more."

To those, whose hearts have not already acquainted them with the agony, which seized Flavilla upon the sight of this billet, all attempts to describe it would be not only ineffectual but absurd. Having passed the night without sleep, and the next day without food, disappointed in every attempt to discover what was become of Mercator, and doubting, if she should have found him, whether it would

be possible to convince him of her innocence; the violent agitation of her mind produced a slow fever, which, before she considered it as a disease, she communicated to the child while she cherished it at her bosom, and wept over it as an orphan, whose life she was sustaining with her own.

After Mercator had been absent about ten days, his uncle, having persuaded him to accompany some friends to a country seat at the distance of near sixty miles, went to his lodgings, in order to discharge the rent, and try what terms he could make with Flavilla, whom he hoped to intimidate with threats of a prosecution and divorce; but, when he came, he found that Flavilla was sinking very fast under her disease, and that the child was dead already. The woman of the house, into whose hands she had just put her repeating watch and some other ornaments as a security for her rent, was so touched with her distress, and so firmly persuaded of her innocence by the manner in which she had addressed her, and the calm solemnity with which she absolved those by whom she had been traduced, that, as soon as she had discovered Fulvius's business, she threw herself on her knees, and entreated, that if he knew where Mercator was to be found, he would urge him to return, that, if possible, the life of Flavilla might be preserved, and the happiness of both be restored by her justification. Fulvius, who still suspected appearances, or at least was in doubt of the cause that had produced them, would not discover his nephew; but, after much entreaty and expostulation, at last engaged upon his honour for the conveyance of a letter. The woman, as soon as she had obtained this promise, ran up and communicated it to Flavilla; who, when she had recovered from the surprise and tumult which it occasioned, was supported in her bed, and, in about half an hour, after many efforts and many intervals, wrote a short billet; which was sealed, and put into the hands of Fulvius.

Fulvius immediately enclosed and dispatched it by the post, resolving, that in a question so doubtful and of such importance, he would no farther interpose. Mercator, who, the moment be cast his eye upon the letter, knew both the hand and seal, after pausing a few moments in suspense, at length tore it open, and read these words :

"Such has been my folly, that, perhaps, I should not be acquitted of guilt in any circumstances, but those in which I write. I do not, therefore, but for your sake, wish them other than they are. The dear infant, whose birth has undone me, now lies dead at my side, a victim to my indiscretion and your resentment. I am scarce able to guide my pen. But I most earnestly entreat to see you, that you may at least have the satisfaction to hear me attest my innocence with the last sigh, and seal our reconciliation on my lips, while they are yet sensible of the impression."

Mercator, whom an earthquake would less have affected than this letter, felt all his tenderness revive in a moment, and reflected, with unutterable anguish, upon the rashness of his resentment. At the thought of his distance from London, he started as if he had felt a dagger in his heart: he lifted up his eyes to Heaven, with a look that expressed at once an accusation of himself, and a petition for her; and then, rushing out of the house, without taking leave of any, or ordering a servant to attend him, he took post horses at a neighbouring inn, and in less than six hours was in Leicester Fields. But, notwithstanding his speed, be arrived too late; Flavilla had suffered the last agony, and, her eyes could behold him no more. Grief and disappointment, remorse and despair, now totally subverted his reason. It became necessary to remove him by force from the body; and, after a confinement of two years in a madhouse, he died.

May every lady, on whose memory compassion shall. (

}

man in

record these events, tremble to assume the levity of Flavilla; for, perhaps, it is in the power of no Mercator's circumstances, to be less jealous than MerADVENTURER.

cator.

A DOMESTIC INCIDENT.

LADY Charlotte Sprightly, the wife of a young baronet, was dressing for an assembly a few nights ago, when sir Harry came in. "My dear Charlotte," says he, "I am sorry that you are going out to night; for my cousin George is just arrived from the East Indies: I have invited him to sup; and, as he has never seen you, I promised him your company." "Nay, dear sir Harry," replied the lady, "do not ask me to stay at home to night; you know I am fond of dancing, and now my fancy is set upon going, I am sure you will not disappoint me." Sir Harry, who was truly good natured, would not urge her to stay; for to stay with apparent reluctance, would not have gratified his wish. She perceived, that he was secretly displeased; however, away she went. But, as she had not less good nature than sir Harry, she suffered so much pain by reflecting on the pain she had given him, that she often wished herself at home. Thus she offended the delicacy of his affection, by preferring a dance to the quiet of his mind; and forfeited part of the esteem, which was due to that very good nature, by which she lost the enjoyment of the night. ADVENTURER.

FEMALE FORTITUDE.

I HAVE frequently observed, that, among the noble actions and remarkable sayings of distinguished persons in either sex, those which have been most celebrated have not always been the most worthy of admiration; and I am

confirmed in this opinion, by a conversation I had yesterday with Fannia. This lady is grand daughter to that famous Arria, who animated her husband to meet death by her own glorious example. She informed me of several particulars relating to Arria, not less heroical than this applauded action of hers, though less the subject of general renown; and which, I am persuaded, will raise her as much in your admiration as they did in mine. Her husband, Cæcinna Pætus, and her son, were each attacked at the same time with a dangerous illness, of which the son died. This youth, who had a most beautiful person and amiable behaviour, was not less endeared to his parents by his virtues, than by the ties of affection. His mother managed his funeral so privately, that Pætus did not know of his death. Whenever she came into his bed-chamber, she pretended her son was better; and, as often as he inquired concerning his health, she answered, he had rested well, or had eaten with an appetite. When she found she could no longer restrain her grief, but her tears were gushing out, she would leave the room, and, having given vent to her passion, return again with dry eyes, and a serene countenance, as if she had dismissed every sentiment of sorrow at her entrance. Her resolution, no doubt, was truly noble, when, drawing the dagger, she plunged it into her breast, and then presented it to her husband with that ever memorable, I had almost said that divine expression, Pætus, it is not painful." It must, however, be considered, when she spoke and acted thus, she was encouraged and supported by the prospect of immortal glory. But was it not something much greater, without the aid of such animating motives, to hide her tears, to conceal her grief, and cheerfully act the mother, when she was a mother no more?

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Scribonianus had taken up arms in Illyria against Claudius, where, having lost his life, Pætus, who was of his party, was brought prisoner to Rome. When they were

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