,,female ,,affection4      ,,by         
,,basil ,,montagu4      ,,london3    ,j4
 ,,bohn1 ,,king ,,william ,,street1     
,,strand4    ,,mdcccxlv4                
,,london3      ,,william ,,stevens1     
,,printer1 ,,bell ,,yard1    ,,temple   
,,bar4            ,,to ,,his ,,dear     
,,edith1 ,,from ,,her    ,,affectionate 
,,grandfather4--,b4 ,m4                 
,,preface4      ,there are certain      
properties of the female mind upon which
 doubt has  existed1 and may1 possibly1 
long exist4    #a4 ,women are said to be
 fond of ornament--an evil against which
 they  were thus warned by ,st4         
,paul--8,i will that women adorn        
themselves in  modest apparel1 with     
shamefacedness and sobriety1 not with   
embroidered  hair1 or gold1 or pearls1  
or costly array1 but which becometh     
women  professing godliness1 with good  
works40    #b4 ,women are said to be    
fond of gaiety3      8,some men to      
business1 some to pleasure take10--     
but the ruling passion of woman is not  

the love of business4    #c4 ,it is said
 that women act more from impulse than  
from foresight3      8,men have many    
faults1 women have only two1--0    of   
which the want of foresight is one4     
#d4 ,women1 it is said1 are variable3   
----8,varium et mutabile semper         
,fmina40    ,women are fond of          
intellect1 of courage1 of virtue2 and   
are capable of  the most heroic acts4   
,such are properties of the female mind1
 upon which doubt may be  entertained2  
but there is one property upon which    
doubt cannot  exist--it is the nature of
 woman to be affectionate4              
,b4 ,m4          ,,female ,,affection4  
,,the ,,pleasures ,,of ,,affection4     
,the pleasures of the affections are    
,love1 ,friendship1 ,gratitude1 and     
general ,benevolence4    8,for the      
pleasures of the affections10 says ,lord
 ,bacon1 8we must resort  to the poets1 
for there affection is on her throne1   
there we may find  her painted forth to 
the life40    ,instead of referring us  

to the poets1 he might1 according to his
 own  admonitions1 have referred us to  
the certain mode of discovering truth1  
by observing facts around us1 and       
particularly by observing the nature    
sought1 where it is most conspicuous4   
,in searching1 for any nature1 observe  
it1 he says1 where it is most           
conspicuous2 as1 in inquiring into the  
nature of flame1 observe the  sudden    
ignition and expansion of gas--these are
 what he calls 8glaring  instances40    
,the glaring instance of affection is   
,female ,affection2 there indeed  she is
 on her throne1 there we may find her   
painted forth to the life4  ,it is the  
nature of woman to be affectionate4     
,i4    ,,female ,,affection ,,in        
,,general4    ,,mungo ,,park4    ,when  
stating the miseries to which he was    
exposed in ,africa1 ,mungo ,park  says1 
8,i never1 when in distress and misery1 
applied for relief to a  female1 without
 finding pity1--and if she had the      
power1 assistance40  ,and he thus       

mentions one instance1--8,i waited10 he 
says1 8more than  two hours for an      
opportunity to cross that river1 but one
 of the chief  men informed me that ,i  
must not presume to cross without the   
,king's  permission2 he therefore       
advised me to lodge at a distant        
village1 to  which he pointed1 for the  
night4 ,i found to my great             
mortification  that no person would     
admit me into his house2--,i was        
regarded with  astonishment and fear1   
and was obliged to sit all day without  
victuals in the shade of a tree2 and the
 night threatened to be very            
uncomfortable1 for the wind rose1 and   
there was great appearance of  a heavy  
rain2 and the wild beasts are so very   
numerous that ,i should  have been under
 the necessity of climbing up the tree  
and resting  among the branches4 ,about 
sunset as ,i was preparing to pass the  
night  in this manner1 and had turned my
 horse loose that he might graze at     
liberty1 a woman1 returning from the    

labours of the field1 stopped  to       
observe me1 and perceiving that ,i was  
weary and dejected1 inquired  into my   
situation1 which ,i briefly explained to
 her2 whereupon1 with  looks of great   
compassion1 she took up my saddle and   
bridle1 and told  me to follow her4     
,having conducted me into her hut1 she  
lighted a lamp1  spread a mat on the    
floor1 and told me ,i might remain there
 for the  night4 ,finding that ,i was   
hungry1 she gave me a very fine fish for
 my  supper2 and pointing to the mat1   
and telling me ,i might sleep there     
without apprehension1 she called to the 
female part of her family1  who had     
stood gazing on me all the while in     
fixed astonishment1 to  resume their    
task of spinning cotton1 in which they  
continued to employ  themselves great   
part of the night4 ,they lightened their
 labour by  songs2 one of which was     
composed ex-tempore--for ,i was1 myself1
 the  subject of it3 it was sung by one 
of the young women1 the rest joining  in

 a sort of chorus4 ,the air was sweet   
and plaintive2 and the words1  literally
 translated1 were these3--    8,the     
winds roared1 and the rains fell1--the  
poor white man1 faint and  weary1 came  
and sat under our tree1--he has no      
mother to bring him  milk1--no wife to  
grind his corn4--,chorus--,let us pity  
the white  man1--no mother has he60 c4  
,,griffith4    8,on the northern side of
 the plain we had just entered1 was a   
large  encampment of these people4      
,being in absolute want of milk1 ,i     
determined to solicit the assistance of 
these ,turcomans4 ,approaching  their   
tents1 with gradual step1 and apparent  
indifference1 ,i passed  several1       
without observing any probability of    
succeeding3 children1  only1 were to be 
seen near the spot where ,i was1 and men
 with their  flocks1 at a certain       
distance2 advancing still farther1 ,i   
saw a woman1  at the entrance of a small
 tent1 occupied in domestic employment4 
,convinced that an appeal to the        

feelings of the female sex1 offered     
with decency1 by a man distressed with  
hunger1 would not be rejected1 ,i  held 
out my wooden bowl1 and reversing it1   
made a salutation according  to the     
forms of the country4 ,the kind         
,turcomannee covered her face           
precipitately1 and retired within the   
tent4 ,i did not advance a step2  she   
saw me unassuming1--my inverted bowl    
still explained my wants4 ,the  timidity
 of her sex1 the usages of her country1 
and1 even the fear of  danger1 gave way 
to the benevolence of her heart3 she    
went to the tent  again2 returned       
speedily with a bowl of milk1 and1      
advancing towards me  with a glance more
 than half averted1 filled my bowl to   
the brim1 and  vanished40               
,,ledyard4    8,i never addressed myself
 in the language of decency and         
friendship to  a woman1 whether         
civilized or savage1 without receiving a
 decent and  friendly answer4 ,with man 
it has often been otherwise1--in        

wandering  over the barren plains of    
inhospitable ,denmark1 through honest   
,sweden1  frozen ,lapland1 rude and     
churlish ,finland1 unprincipled ,russia1
 and the  wide-spread regions of the    
wandering ,tartar1 if hungry1 dry1 cold1
 wet1  or sick1 woman has ever been     
friendly to me1--and uniformly so2 and  
to  add to this virtue1 so worthy the   
appellation of benevolence1 these       
actions have been performed in so kind a
 manner1 that if ,i was dry1 ,i  drank  
the sweet draught1--and if hungry1 ate  
the coarse morsel with a  double        
relish40      ,,pharaoh',s ,,daughter4  
8,and there went a man of the house of  
,levi1 and took to wife a daughter  of  
,levi4 ,and the woman conceived1 and    
bare a son3 and when she saw him  that  
he was a goodly child1 she hid him three
 months4 ,and when she  could not longer
 hide him1 she took for him an ark of   
bulrushes1 and  daubed it with slime and
 with pitch1 and put the child therein2 
and she  laid it in the flags by the    

river's brink4 ,and his sister stood    
afar  off1 to wit what would be done to 
him4 ,and the daughter of ,pharaoh came 
down to the river2 and her maidens      
walked along by the river's side2  and  
when she saw the ark among the flags1   
she sent her maid to fetch  it4 ,and    
when she had opened it1 she saw the     
child3 and1 behold1 the  babe wept4 ,and
 she had compassion on him1 and         
said1--,this is one of the  ,hebrews'   
children4 ,then said his sister to      
,pharaoh's daughter1 #8,shall ,i  go and
 call to thee a nurse of the ,hebrew    
women1 that she may nurse the  child for
 thee8' ,and ,pharaoh's daughter said to
 her1 #8,go4' ,and the maid  went and   
called the child's mother4 ,and         
,pharaoh's daughter said unto  her1     
#8,take this child away1 and nurse it   
for me1 and ,i will give thee  thy      
wages4' ,and the woman took the child1  
and nursed it40       ,,ii4             
,,different ,,forms ,,of ,,female       
,,affection4    ,the nature of female   

affection may be seen in a variety of   
forms1--in  ,infancy1 in the sweet love 
of ,youth1 of a ,wife1 of a ,mother1 of 
a  ,daughter1 of a ,widow4              
,,infancy4    ,the following is an      
account which ,i somewhere read of ,nell
 ,gwynn1  when a child3--8,my first     
love1 you must know1 was a              
link-boy10--8,a  what80--8',tis true10  
said she1 8for all the frightfulness of 
your  what6--and a very good soul he    
was1 too1 poor ,dick6 and had the  heart
 of a gentleman2 ,god knows what has    
become of him1 but when ,i  last saw him
 he said he would humbly love me to his 
dying day4 ,he used  to say that ,i must
 have been a lord's daughter for my     
beauty1 and  that ,i ought to ride in my
 coach2 and he behaved to me as if ,i   
did4  ,he1 poor boy1 would light me and 
my mother home1 when we had sold our    
oranges1 to our lodgings in ,lewknor's  
,lane1 as if we had been ladies  of the 
land4 ,he said he never felt easy for   
the evening 'till he had  asked me how  

,i did1 then he went gaily about his    
work2 and if he saw  us housed at night1
 he slept like a prince4 ,i shall never 
forget when  he came flushing and       
stammering1 and drew out of his pocket a
 pair of  worsted stockings1 which he   
brought for my naked feet4 ,it was      
bitter  cold weather2 and ,i had        
chilblains1 which made me hobble about  
'till ,i  cried1--and what does poor    
,richard do but work hard like a horse1 
and  buy me these worsted stockings8 ,my
 mother bade him put them on2 and so  he
 did1 and his warm tears fell on my     
chilblains1 and he said he should  be   
the happiest lad on earth if the        
stockings did me any good40    ,when the
 ,commissioners visited the             
,penitentiary at ,lambeth1 where the    
prisoners are punished by solitary      
confinement1 they found in one cell  a  
little girl1 between eleven and twelve  
years of age4 ,this child must  have    
spent many hours every day in the dark2 
was poorly clad1 and  scantily fed1 and 

her young limbs were deprived of all the
 joyous modes  of playful exercise1 so  
necessary and so pleasant to that age3  
she  asked neither for food1 nor        
clothes1 nor light1 nor liberty1--all   
she  wished for was 8a little doll1 that
 she might dress and nurse it40 ,her    
innocent and child-like request put an  
end to this cruel punishment for        
children4    8,i yesterday took my dear 
grand-daughter to see ,westminster      
,abbey4 ,she  is between seven and eight
 years of age1 and is one of the        
sweetest  angels that ever existed on   
earth4 ,it was a bitter cold morning3 on
  the tomb of ,mrs4 ,warren1 who was a  
mother to poor children1 there is  a    
beautiful statue of a poor half-clothed 
,irish girl1 with her little  naked baby
 in her arms2--my dear little child     
looked up at me1 and1  through her      
tears1 earnestly said1 #8,how ,i should 
like to nurse that  little baby6'0      
,,youth4    ,of the influence of love   
upon youth and inexperience1 it can     

scarcely  be necessary to adduce any    
instances4 ,i must1 however1 mention one
 fact  which occurred during the        
rebellion in '#de4    8,when ,i was a   
young boy1 ,i had delicate health1 and  
was somewhat of a  pensive and          
contemplative turn of mind3 it was my   
delight in the long  summer evenings1 to
 slip away from my companions1 that ,i  
might walk in  the shade of a venerable 
wood1 my favourite haunt1 and listen to 
the  cawing of the old rooks1 who seemed
 as fond of this retreat as ,i was4     
8,one evening ,i sat later than usual1  
though the distant sound of the         
cathedral clock had more than once      
warned me to my home4 ,there was a      
stillness in all nature that ,i was     
unwilling to disturb by the least       
motion4 ,from this reverie ,i was       
suddenly startled by the sight of a     
tall slender female who was standing by 
me1 looking sorrowfully and  steadily in
 my face4 ,she was dressed in white1    
from head to foot1 in a  fashion ,i had 

never seen before2 her garments were    
unusually long and  flowing1 and rustled
 as she glided through the low shrubs   
near me as if  they were made of the    
richest silk4 ,my heart beat as if ,i   
was dying1  and ,i knew not that ,i     
could have stirred from the spot2 but   
she seemed  so very mild and beautiful1 
,i did not attempt it4 ,her pale brown  
hair  was braided round her head1 but   
there were some locks that strayed upon 
her neck2 altogether she looked like a  
lovely picture1 but not like  a living  
woman4 ,i closed my eyes forcibly with  
my hands1 and when ,i  looked again she 
had vanished4    8,i cannot exactly say 
why ,i did not on my return speak of    
this  beautiful appearance1 nor why1    
with a strange mixture of hope and      
fear1 ,i went again and again to the    
same spot that ,i might see her4  ,she  
always came1 and often in the storm and 
plashing rain1 that never  seemed to    
touch or to annoy her1 looked sweetly at
 me1 and silently  passed on2 and though

 she was so near to me1 that once the   
wind lifted  those light straying locks1
 and ,i felt them against my cheek1 yet 
,i  never could move or speak to her4 ,i
 fell ill2 and when ,i recovered1 my    
mother closely questioned me of the tall
 lady1 of whom1 in the height  of my    
fever1 ,i had so often spoken4    8,i   
cannot tell you what a weight was taken 
off my spirits when ,i learnt  that this
 was no apparition1 but a most lovely   
woman2 not young1 though  she had kept  
her young looks1--for the grief which   
had broken her heart  seemed to have    
spared her beauty4    8,when the rebel  
troops were retreating after their total
 defeat1 a  young officer1 in that very 
wood ,i was so fond of1 unable any      
longer to  endure the anguish of his    
wounds1 sunk from his horse1 and laid   
himself  down to die4 ,he was found     
there by the daughter of ,sir ,henry    
,robinson1  and conveyed by a trusty    
domestic to her father's mansion4 ,sir  
,henry  was a loyalist2 but the         

officer's desperate condition excited   
his  compassion1 and his many wounds    
spoke a language a brave man could not  
misunderstand4 ,sir ,henry's daughter   
with many tears pleaded for him1  and   
promised that he should be carefully and
 secretly attended4 ,and  well she kept 
that promise1--for she waited upon him  
7her mother being  long dead7 for many  
weeks1 and anxiously watched for the    
first opening  of eyes1 that1 languid as
 he was1 looked brightly and gratefully 
upon his young nurse4 ,you may fancy1   
better than ,i can tell you1 as  he     
slowly recovered1 all the moments that  
were spent in reading1 and  low-voiced  
singing1 and gentle playing on the lute2
 and how many fresh  flowers were       
brought to one whose wounded limbs would
 not bear him  to gather them for       
himself2 and how calmly the days glided 
on in the  blessedness of returning     
health1 and in that sweet silence so    
carefully  enjoined him4 ,i will pass by
 this1 to speak of one day1 which1      

brighter  and pleasanter than others1   
did not seem more bright or more lovely 
than the looks of the young maiden1 as  
she gaily spoke of #8a little  festival1
 which 7though it must bear an          
unworthier name7 she meant  really to   
give1 in honour of her guest's          
recovery2'--#8and it is time1  lady1'   
said he1 #8for that guest1 so tended and
 so honoured1 to tell you  his whole    
story1 and speak to you of one who will 
help him to thank  you--may ,i ask you1 
fair lady1 to write a little note for   
me1 which1  even in these times of      
danger ,i may find some means to        
forward8' ,to his  mother1 no doubt1 she
 thought1 as with light steps and a     
lighter heart  she seated herself by his
 couch1 and smilingly bade him dictate3 
but1  when he said #8,my ,dear ,wife1'  
and lifted up his eyes to be asked for  
more1 he saw before him a pale statue1  
that gave him one look of utter         
despair1 and fell 7for he had no power  
to help her7 heavily at his  feet4      

,those eyes never truly reflected the   
pure soul again1 or answered  by        
answering looks the fond inquiries of   
her poor old father4 ,she lived  to be  
as ,i saw her1--sweet1 and gentle1 and  
delicate always1 but reason  returned no
 more4 ,she visited1 'till the day of   
her death1 the spot  where she first saw
 that young soldier1 and dressed herself
 in the very  clothes he said so well   
became her40      ,,the ,,woman ,,in    
,,white4    8,in walking through a      
street in ,london1 ,i saw a crowd of men
 women and  children hooting and        
laughing at a woman1 who1 looking       
neither to the  right-hand nor to the   
left1 passed through the midst of them  
in perfect  silence2 upon approaching   
her1 ,i saw that all this derision was  
caused  by her dress1 which1 equally    
unsuited to the weather and her apparent
  rank in life1 was from head to foot   
entirely white1--her bonnet1 her  shawl1
 her very shoes were white2 and though  
all that she wore seemed  of the        

coarsest materials1 her dress was       
perfectly clean4 ,as ,i walked  past    
her1 ,i looked stedfastly in her face4  
,she was thin and pale1 of a  pleasing  
countenance1 and totally unmoved by the 
clamour around her4 ,i  have since      
learnt her story3--,the young man to    
whom she was betrothed  died on the     
bridal-day1 when she and her companions 
were dressed to go  to church3 she lost 
her senses1--and has ever since1 to use 
her own  words1 been #8expecting her    
bridegroom4' ,neither insult or         
privation of  any kind can induce her to
 change the colour of her dress2 she is 
alike  insensible of her bereavement by 
death1 or of the lapse of time1--#8she  
is dressed for the bridal1 and the      
bridegroom is at hand4'0    ,such is the
 nature of ,woman's ,love--continuing in
 imagination1 when  reality is no more3 
8,as once ,i knew a crazy ,moorish maid1
    ,who dressed her in her buried      
lover's clothes1    ,and o'er the smooth
 spring in the mountain's cleft    ,hung

 with her lute1 and played the selfsame 
tune    ,he used to play1 and listened  
to the shadow    ,herself had           
made40--,,coleridge4    ,such is the    
tenderness1 such the intensity of the   
love of innocence4 ,it  has for ever    
existed1 and will for ever exist1--from 
,eve1 on the first  day of her creation1
 to the many whose hearts at this moment
 beat with  affection and love3         
8,all thoughts1 all passions1 all       
desires1    ,whatever stirs this mortal 
frame1    ,all are but ministers of     
,love1    ,and feed his sacred flame40  
,,wife4    ,let us now consider         
affection where it appears in one of its
 sweetest  forms1--in the love of a     
wife1--love1 in the strength of which1  
hoping  all things1 she does not        
hesitate to quit her father and her     
mother  and all dear to her to share the
 joys and sorrows of her husband4 ,in   
prosperity she delights in his          
happiness1 in sickness she watches over 
him1 feeling more grief than she shows4 

,a young soldier1 thus speaks of the    
affection of his wife3--      8,for five
 campaigns      ,did my sweet ,lucy know
    ,each hardship and each toil        
,we soldiers undergo4    ,nor ever did  
she murmur1      ,or at her fate repine1
    ,she thought not of her sorrow1     
,but how to lessen mine3    ,in hunger1 
or hard marching1      ,whate'er the ill
 might be1    ,in her ,i found a friend1
      ,who ne'er deserted me3    ,and in
 my tent when wounded1      ,and when ,i
 sickening lay1    ,oft from my brow    
with trembling hand1      ,she wiped the
 damps away4    ,and when this heart1 my
 ,lucy1    ,shall cease to beat for     
thee1      ,oh6 cold1 clay cold1        
,full sure this heart must be40         
,,the ,,robber4    8,a friend of mine   
who had long struggled with a dangerous 
fever1  approached that crisis on which 
his life depended1 when sleep1          
uninterrupted sleep might ensure his    
recovery2--his wife1 scarcely  daring to
 breathe1 sat by him2 her servants1 worn

 out by watching1  had all left her2 it 
was past midnight1--the room door was   
open for  air2 she heard in the silence 
of the night a window thrown open below 
stairs1 and soon after footsteps        
approaching2 in a short time1 a man     
came into the room--his face was covered
 with a black crape3 she  instantly saw 
her husband's danger2 she pointed to    
him1 and1 pressing  her finger upon her 
lip to implore silence1 held out to the 
robber her  purse and her keys3 to her  
great surprise he took neither2 he drew 
back1 and left the room1--whether he was
 alarmed1 or struck by this  courage of 
affection cannot now be known2 but1     
without robbing a house  sanctified by  
such strength of love--he departed40    
,,seneca4    ,how well did the artist to
 whom we are indebted for the celebrated
  picture of the ,death of ,seneca1     
understand this deep feeling of  female 
affection6 ,it may be said of ,seneca1  
as he said of a friend1  8,i have       
applied myself to liberal studies1      

though both the poverty  of my          
condition1 and my own reason might      
rather have put me upon the  making of  
my fortune4 ,i have given proof1 that   
all minds are capable  of goodness2 and 
,i have illustrated the obscurity of my 
family by the  eminency of my virtue4 ,i
 have preserved my faith in all         
extremities1  and ,i have ventured my   
life for it4 ,i have never spoken one   
word  contrary to my conscience1 and ,i 
have been more solicitous for my        
friend1 than for myself4 ,i never made  
any base submissions to any man2  and ,i
 have never done any thing unworthy of a
 resolute1 and of an  honest man4 ,my   
mind is raised so much above all        
dangers1 that ,i have  mastered all     
hazards2 and ,i bless myself in the     
providence which gave  me that          
experiment of my virtue3 for it was not 
fit1 methought1 that so  great a glory  
should come cheap4 ,nay1 ,i did not so  
much as deliberate1  whether good faith 
should suffer for me1 or ,i for it4 ,i  

stood my  ground1 without laying violent
 hands upon myself1 to escape the rage  
of  the powerful2 though under ,caligula
 ,i saw cruelties1 to such a degree1    
that to be killed outright was accounted
 a mercy1 and yet ,i persisted  in my   
honesty1 to show1 that ,i was ready to  
do more than die for it4 ,my  mind was  
never corrupted with gifts2 and when the
 humour of avarice  was at the height1  
,i never laid my hand upon any unlawful 
gain4 ,i  have been temperate in my     
diet2 modest in my discourse2 courteous 
and  affable to my inferiors2 and have  
ever paid a respect and reverence to  my
 betters40    ,such was the man whom the
 tyrant murdered4 ,he is represented by 
the artist1 bleeding to death1 the      
punishment to which he was              
condemned1--his wife stands by and      
supports him to his last moment2  such  
is the affection of a wife4             
,,daughter4    ,to understand the depth 
of female affection1 as it is manifested
 in  a daughter's love1 it is necessary 

rightly to understand a law of          
affection to which as much consideration
 seems not often to be given as  its    
importance demands4    ,it is a law1    
which has been a frequent subject of    
meditation by  observers of the human   
mind--the law is1 that it is the nature 
of  affection to descend1 seldom to     
ascend4    ,a few extracts from         
different authors will explain this     
law3--    ,du ,moulin1 in his excellent 
little volume upon ,peace and ,content1 
says1 8,of children expect no good1 but 
the satisfaction to have  done them     
good1 and to see them do well for       
themselves4 ,for in this  relation1 the 
nature of beneficence is to descend1    
seldom to  remount40    ,so ,bishop     
,taylor1 in his ,life of ,christ1 when  
speaking of mothers who  do not nurse   
their own children1 says1 8,and if love 
descends more  strongly than it ascends1
 and commonly falls from the parents    
upon  the children in cataracts1 and    
returns back again up to the parents but

  in small dews1--if the child's        
affection keeps the same proportions    
towards such unkind mothers1 it will be 
as little as atoms in the sun1  and     
never expresses itself but when the     
mother needs it not1--that is1  in the  
sunshine of a clear fortune40    ,so    
,fuller says1 in his chapter on         
,moderation1 the silken string that     
runs through the pearl chain of all the 
virtues1 8yea as love1 doth  descend1   
and men doat most on their              
grand-children40    ,the same sentiment1
 with the reason in which the truth     
originates1 has  been noticed by our    
poets4    ,the sweet poet1 ,barry       
,cornwall1 says1--      8,the love of   
parents1 hath a deep still source1      
,and falleth like a flood upon their    
child4    ,sometimes the child is       
grateful1 then his love    ,comes like  
the spray returning40    ,in ,thomson's 
8,spring10 the same sentiment1          
containing the reason of  this provision
 of nature1 is beautifully explained4   

,having described  the bird's nest1 and 
the mother stealing from the barn a     
straw1 'till  8soft and warm the        
habitation grew10 and having described  
the little  birds in their nest1--      
8,oh what passions then1    ,what       
melting sentiments of kindly care    ,do
 the new parents' seize2 away they fly  
,affectionate1 and undesiring bear      
,the most delicious morsel to their     
young1    ,which equally distributed1   
again    ,the search begins40    ,and   
when the little birds are able to fly1  
the poet thus proceeds1--      8,but now
 the feather'd youth their former bounds
    ,ardent1 disdain1 and weighing oft  
their wings    ,demand the free         
possession of the sky3    ,this one glad
 office more1 and then dissolves        
,parental love at once1 now needless    
grown1--    ,unlavish wisdom never works
 in vain40    ,he has expressed the same
 sentiment in his description of the    
eagle1--      8,high from the summit of 
a craggy cliff    ,hung o'er the deep1  

,the royal eagle draws his vigorous     
young    ,strong-pounced1 and ardent    
with paternal fire2    ,now fit to raise
 a kingdom of their own    ,he drives   
them from his fort1 the tow'ring seat   
,for ages1 of his empire3 which in peace
    ,unstained he holds1 while many a   
league to sea1    ,he wings his course  
and preys in distant isles40    ,such is
 the nature of affection in general2 but
 in a daughter it is so  powerful1 that 
it never quits her4    ,according to the
 old adage--      8,my son is my son1   
'till he gets him a wife2    ,my        
daughter's my daughter1 the whole of her
 life40    ,the pious excellent ,sir    
,thomas ,more1 ,chancellor of ,england1 
convinced  of the unlawfulness of the   
,king's marriage1 resigned the ,great   
,seal1  and resolved to pass the        
remainder of his life amidst the        
charities of  home and the consolations 
of religion4--,erasmus1 speaking of his 
friend  says1 8there is not any man     
living so affectionate to his children2 

you  would say there was in that place  
,plato's academy1--,i should rather     
call his house a school or university of
 ,christian religion1 for their  special
 care is piety and virtue40 ,upon his   
refusal to take the oath of  supremacy1 
he was tried for high treason and       
condemned to be hanged1  drawn1 and     
quartered1 and his head to be stuck on a
 pole on ,london  bridge4 ,he was       
executed ,july #eth1 #aece4 ,his body   
was begged by his  daughter ,margaret1  
and deposited in the church of ,chelsea2
 where a  monument1 with an inscription 
written by himself had been erected some
  time before4 ,she found means also to 
procure his head1 after it had  remained
 upon ,london bridge fourteen days3 this
 she carefully preserved  in a leaden   
chest1 till she conveyed it to          
,canterbury1 and placed it  under a     
chapel adjoining to ,st4 ,dunstan's     
church in that city2 where1  after      
having survived her father sixteen      
years1 she according to her  desire was 

buried in the same vault with her       
father's head in her arms4              
,,mother4    ,of the love of a mother it
 is scarcely possible to give any       
adequate  description4 ,all that can be 
said of ,charity1 is most true if it be 
said of a mother's love1 which hopeth1  
believeth1 endureth all things4  ,as the
 spirit of ,god brooded over the        
creation1 while it was yet  in the womb 
of the morning1--with such heavenly love
 does the pure  spirit of the mother1   
cherish her infant yet unborn4 ,with    
silent and  thankful tears1 she hears   
the first sound of its little voice1 and
  straightway forgets all her pain and  
travail6 ,when she looks upon  it1 no   
matter how homely in the eyes of        
another1 she thinks that the  world     
contains nothing fairer4 ,who can number
 her prayers for her  infant1 or her    
fond anticipations of his future        
advancement8--she  remembers that the   
greatest men have once been helpless    
children1 and  trusts that her little   

helpless child will one day be a great  
man2  she treasures his first words in  
her heart1 and in all his little        
sayings discovers seeds of wisdom and   
goodness2 and if after all1 she  is     
doomed to find him deformed in limb1 or 
weak in intellect1 she  dwells upon the 
sweetness of his disposition1 and the   
strength of his  affections1 and clings 
to him with a warmer love1 because      
others think  him crippled and          
unsightly4 ,if her child grows up1 in   
the fear and  nurture of ,god1 and is   
deserving of her love1 life has no joy  
like  her joy2 and should all her care  
prove fruitless1 and the misguided      
youth make her heart sad1 and steep her 
bread in tears1 though all  desert him  
she clings to him to the last3 in       
poverty1 in sickness1 in  the punishment
 of his crimes--she1 is there3 the fond 
mother in the  loathsome                
convict-ship1--in the cell of the       
condemned1--at the foot of  the         
scaffold6 ,all1 all1 have deserted      

him1--save ,he who died for him1  and   
she who gave him birth4    ,such is the 
nature1 such the constancy of a mother's
 love4 ,it begins  before birth1 and    
continues after death3                  
8,there are spun    ,around the heart   
such tender ties1    ,that our own      
children1 to our eyes1    ,are dearer   
than the sun40    ,there are four forms 
in which this love is peculiarly        
conspicuous3  when1      #ast ,the child
 is criminal2    #bnd ,the child is     
sick2    #crd ,the child is dying2      
#dth ,the child is dead4    ,this       
tenderness of a mother's love when the  
child is criminal1 is  beautifully      
described by ,hogarth1 in his picture of
 8,industry and  ,idleness10 in that    
aged woman1 who is clinging with the    
fondness of  hope not quite             
extinguished1 to her brutal             
vice-hardened son1 whom she  is         
accompanying to the ship1 which is to   
bear him away from his native  soil1 of 
which he has been adjudged unworthy1--in

 whose shocking face  every trace of the
 human countenance seems obliterated1   
and a brute  beast to be left instead1  
shocking and repulsive to all but her   
who  watched over it in its cradle      
before it was so sadly altered2 and     
feels  it must belong to her while a    
pulse1 by the vindictive laws of his    
country1 shall be suffered to beat in   
it4    ,there is a melancholy instance  
in the love of a mother for her child1  
in the ,old ,bailey ,sessions ,papers1  
for the year #agcb1 in the trial  of    
,john ,waller4 ,it is scarcely possible 
to conceive a more abandoned  miscreant 
than ,waller4 ,he was at last detected  
and sentenced to the  pillory2 the mob  
seized him and beat him to death4 ,his  
dead body was  put into a coach and     
carried to ,newgate4 ,the prisoners     
refused to  receive it2 his mother who  
was in waiting1 regardless of the       
infuriated  mob1 went into the coach1   
and placing his head in her lap1 took   
away  the dead body of her child4    ,at

 this very instant how many mothers are 
anxiously watching their sick           
children--unmindful of their own        
fatigue1 or food1 or rest6    ,in a     
storm in the ,yarmouth ,roads a vessel  
was wrecked1 a young woman  was seen    
clinging to a mast1--she was seen       
raising her child above  the highest    
wave1 in a wild and vain attempt to save
 it4 ,on the next  morning she was      
drifting to the shore1                  
8,and like a common weed    ,the        
sea-swell took her hair40    ,a fire    
destroyed a house1 in which several     
lives were lost1 among which  a woman   
and her infant perished4 ,on digging out
 the ruins1 the mother  was found burnt 
to death1 but on her knees1 holding her 
infant in a  pail of water4    ,a few   
days since when walking to my chambers1 
,i saw a hearse moving  slowly before   
me4 ,it stopped at the door of a        
respectable house2 all  the windows were
 closed4 ,a coffin1 covered with blue   
cloth1 apparently  of a child about     

fourteen was raised into the hearse4 ,i 
happened to  look up2 ,i saw one of the 
shutters slightly opened1 and a female  
looking anxiously4 ,the hearse moved on4
 ,as the procession turned the  corner  
of the street1 ,i had the curiosity1 not
 an idle curiosity1 to  look back2 ,i   
saw the same female2 she had partly     
opened the window4    8,the ,king took  
the two sons of ,rizpath1 and the five  
sons of ,michael  whom she brought up1  
and he delivered them into the hands of 
the  ,gibeonites1 and they hanged them  
on the hill before the ,lord1 and they  
fell all seven together1 and were put to
 death in the days of harvest1  in the  
first days in the beginning of barley   
harvest4    8,and ,rizpath took         
sackcloth and spread it for herself upon
 the rock1  from the beginning of       
harvest until water dropped upon them   
out of  heaven1--and suffered neither   
the birds of the air to rest on them by 
day1 nor the beasts of the field by     
night4 ,nor did she cease to watch      

them1 until ,david1 touched by this     
depth of affection1 gave them  burial   
with the bones of their forefathers40   
,so too we see in every picture of the  
,crucifixion1 the mother standing  with 
patience and resignation at the foot of 
the cross3      8,she when ,apostles    
shrank could danger brave1    ,last at  
his ,cross1 and earliest at his ,grave40
      ,,old ,,maids4    ,such is the    
influence of female affection upon      
youth3 but to youth  it is not confined4
 ,it exists at all times of life        
wherever woman  exists4 ,it has been my 
good fortune to share the friendship of 
many  of a very interesting class of    
persons1 ,i mean old maids4 ,they have  
their faults1 who has not8 ,but ,i know 
well1 that most of them abound  with    
kindness2 which may be seen even by the 
animals by which they are  surrounded1  
and by their many misdirected           
enthusiasms4    8,the inclination to    
goodness10 says ,lord ,bacon1 8is       
imprinted deeply  in our nature1        

insomuch that if it issue not towards   
men1 it will take  unto other living    
creatures40    ,harriet ,aspin was the  
youngest of four sisters1 who in their  
childhood  had all a prospect of passing
 through life with every advantage that 
beauty and fortune can bestow4 ,but     
destiny ordained it otherwise4 ,the     
extravagance of their father abridged   
the portion of each1 and the  little    
,harriet had the additional affliction  
of personal calamities4  ,from a fall   
which her nurse occasioned1 and         
concealed1 she contracted a  great      
degree of deformity2 and the injuries   
that her frame had received  from       
accident1 were completed in what her    
countenance suffered from  that cruel   
distemper1 by which beauty was so       
frequently destroyed1  before the happy 
introduction of innoculation4 ,her      
countenance and  person were wretchedly 
disfigured2 but her mind still possessed
 the  most valuable of mental powers1   
and her heart was embellished by every  

generous affection4 ,her friends were   
many3 but she had passed her  fortieth  
year without once hearing the addresses 
of a single lover2  yet the fancied     
whisper of this enchanting passion often
 vibrated  in her ear2 for1 with a solid
 and brilliant understanding1 she was   
deeply tinctured with this credulous    
foible4 ,as she advanced towards  fifty1
 finding her income very narrow1 and her
 situation unpleasant1  she took shelter
 in the family of her favourite sister1 
married to a  good-natured man of easy  
fortune1 who1 though he had several     
children1  very readily allowed his wife
 to afford an asylum1 and administer all
  the comforts in her power to this     
unfortunate relation4    ,the good deeds
 of benevolence rarely pass unrewarded4 
,the obliging  temper of ,harriet1      
united to infinite wit and vivacity1    
contributed to  restore the declining   
health of her sister1 and enlivened the 
house1  into which she was so kindly    
admitted4 ,she endeared herself to every

  branch of it2 but her second nephew1  
whose name is ,edward1 became her       
principal favourite1 and returned her   
partiality with more esteem and         
affection than nephews are used to feel 
for an old maiden aunt4 ,indeed1  there 
was a striking similarity in their      
characters1 for they both  possessed a  
very uncommon portion of wit1 with      
extreme generosity and  good-nature4    
,harriet had the most perfect           
penetration into the foibles  of every  
character but her own1 and had the art  
of treating them with  such tender and  
salutary mirth1 that she preserved her  
nephew from  a thousand follies1 into   
which the giddiness of his passions     
would  otherwise have betrayed him2 and1
 when he was really fallen into some    
juvenile scrape1 she never failed to    
assist him1 both with secret  advice1   
and the private aid of such little sums 
of money as she always  contrived to    
save from her slender income1 for the   
most generous of  purposes4    ,it was  

almost impossible not to love a maiden  
aunt of so engaging a  character2 and   
,edward1 whose affections were naturally
 ardent1 loved  her1 indeed1 most       
sincerely2 but his penetration          
discovered her foible1  and the vivacity
 of his spirit often tempted him to     
sport with it4  ,hitherto1 however1 he  
had done so in the most harmless manner2
 but a  circumstance arose1 which fully 
proved the danger of this ordinary      
diversion4 ,edward1 being a younger     
brother1 was designed for the           
profession of physic4 ,he had studied at
 ,edinburgh2 and1 returning from  thence
 to ,london1 had brought with him a     
medical friend1 who was a  native of    
,savoy1 and was preparing to settle as a
 physician at ,turin4  ,in the gaiety of
 his heart1 ,edward informed his aunt   
,harriet1 that  he had provided her with
 a husband2 and he enlarged on the      
excellent  qualities of his friend4 ,the
 ,savoyard was extremely polite1 and1   
either  attracted by the pleasantry of  

her conversation1 or touched with       
medical pity for the striking infelicity
 of her distorted frame1 he had  paid   
particular attention to ,miss ,aspin2   
for1 being yet under fifty1  she had not
 assumed the title of 8,mrs40 ,this     
particular attention was  fully         
sufficient to convince the credulous    
,harriet1 that her nephew  was serious2 
but she was unluckily confirmed in that 
illusion1 by his  saying to her one     
evening1 8,well1 my dear aunt1 my friend
 is to leave  ,england on ,monday2      
consider1 on your pillow1 whether you   
will pass the  ,alps1 to settle with him
 for life1 and let me know your decision
 before  the week expires40 ,the        
sportive ,edward was very far from      
supposing1  that these idle words could 
be productive of any fatal event2 for   
the health of his aunt was such1 that he
 considered his proposal of  crossing   
the ,alps full as extravagant as if he  
had proposed to her to  settle in the   
moon3 but let youth and vigour remember1

 that they seldom  can form a just      
estimate of the wishes1 the thoughts1   
and feelings of  infirmity6--,poor      
,harriet had no sooner retired to her   
chamber1 than  she entered into a       
profound debate with a favourite maid1  
who used to  sleep in her room1         
concerning the dangers of crossing the  
,alps1 and  the state of her health4 ,in
 this debate both her heart and her     
fancy  played the part of very able     
advocates1 and defended a weak cause  by
 an astonishing variety of arguments in 
its favour4 ,they utterly  overpowered  
her judgment2 but they could not bias   
the sounder sentence  of ,molly1 who was
 seated on the bench on this occasion4  
,this honest  girl1 who happened to have
 a real lover in ,england1 had many     
motives  to dissuade her mistress from  
an extravagant project of settling in  a
 foreign country2 and she uttered as    
many reasons to poor ,harriet  against  
the passage of the ,alps1 as were urged 
to the son of ,amilcar  by his          

,carthaginian friends1 when he first    
talked of traversing those  tremendous  
mountains4 ,the debate was very warm on 
both sides1 and  supported through the  
greatest part of the night4 ,the        
spirited ,harriet  was horribly fatigued
 by the discourse1 but utterly          
unconvinced by the  forcible arguments  
of her opponent4 ,she even believed that
 the journey  would prove a remedy for  
her asthmatic complaints2 her desire of 
a  matrimonial establishment was full as
 efficacious as the vinegar of          
,hannibal1 and the ,alps melted before  
it4 ,at the dawn of day she had         
positively determined to follow the     
fortunes of the amiable ,savoyard4  ,the
 peace of mind1 which this decision     
produced1 afforded her a short  slumber2
 but on waking1 she was very far from   
being refreshed1 and  found that her    
unhappy frame had suffered so much from 
the agitation  of her spirit1 and the   
want of her usual sleep1 that she was   
unable  to appear at breakfast4 ,this1  

however1 was a circumstance too common  
to alarm the family2 for though her     
cheerfulness never forsook her1  yet her
 little portion of strength was         
frequently exhausted1 and her  breath   
often seemed on the very point of       
departing from her diminutive  body4    
,towards noon1 her sister entered her   
chamber1 to make a kind  enquiry        
concerning her health4 ,it was a warm   
day in spring2 yet  ,harriet1 who was   
extremely chilly1 had seated herself in 
a little low  chair1 by the side of a   
large fire4 ,her feet were strangely    
twisted  together2 and1 leaning forward 
to rest her elbow on her knee1 she      
supported her head on her right hand4   
,to the affectionate questions of  her  
sister she made no reply2 but1 starting 
from her reverie1 walked  with apparent 
difficulty across the chamber1 and1     
saying1 with a  feeble and broken voice1
 8,i can never pass the ,alps10 sunk    
down on the  side of her bed1--and with 
one deep sigh1 but without any          

convulsive  struggle1 expired4 ,whether 
the much-injured and defective organs of
  her life were completely worn out by  
time1 or whether the conflict  of       
different affections1 which had harassed
 her spirit through the  night1 really  
shortened her existence1 the all-seeing 
author of it  can alone determine4 ,it  
is certain1 however1 that her death1 and
 the  peculiar circumstances attending  
it1 produced among her relations the    
most poignant affliction4 ,as she died  
without one convulsive motion1  her     
sister could hardly believe her to be   
dead2 and as this good lady  had not    
attended to the levities of her son     
,edward1 she could not  comprehend the  
last words of ,harriet1 till her        
faithful servant gave a  full and honest
 account of the nightly conversation    
which had passed  between herself and   
her departed mistress4 ,as her nephew1  
,edward1 was  my intimate friend1 and ,i
 well knew his regard for this singular 
little  being1 ,i hastened to him the   

first moment that ,i heard she was no   
more4  ,i found him under the strongest 
impression of recent grief1 and in the  
midst of that self-accusation so natural
 to a generous spirit upon such  an     
occasion4 ,i endeavoured to comfort him1
 by observing1 that death1  which ought1
 perhaps1 never to be considered as an  
evil1 might surely  be esteemed a       
blessing to a person1 whose unfortunate 
infirmities  of body must undoubtedly   
have been a source of incessant         
suffering4  8,alas6 my dear friend10 he 
replied1 8both my heart and my          
understanding  refuse to subscribe to   
the ideas1 by which you so kindly try to
 console  me4 ,i allow1 indeed1 that her
 frame was unhappy1 and her health most 
delicate2 but who had a keener relish of
 all the genuine pleasures  which belong
 to a lively and a cultivated mind1 and 
still more1 of all  those higher        
delights1 which are at once the test and
 the reward of a  benevolent heart8 ,it 
is true1 she had her foibles2 but what  

right had ,i  to sport with them8--to me
 they ought to have been particularly   
sacred2  for she never looked upon mine1
 but with the most generous indulgence40
  8,poor ,harriet60 he would frequently 
exclaim1--8,poor aunt ,harriet60  ,i    
have basely abridged thy very weak1 but 
not unjoyous existence1  by the most    
unthinking barbarity4 ,i will1 however1 
be tender to thy  memory2 and ,i wish   
that ,i could warn the world against the
 dangerous  cruelty of jesting with the 
credulity of every being who may        
resemble  thee4--,hayley4      ,,the    
,,widow4    7,,from ,a ,,very ,,old     
,,translation ,,of ,,boccaccio',s       
,,falcon47    ,among the multiplicity of
 his queint discourses ,i remember he   
told  us1 that sometime there lived in  
,florence a young gentleman named       
,frederigo1 sonne to ,signior ,phillippo
 ,alberigo1 who was held and  reputed   
both for armes and all other actions    
beseeming a gentleman1  hardly to have  
his equal through all ,tuscany4    ,this

 ,frederigo 7as it is no rare matter in 
yong gentlemen7 became  enamored of a   
gentlewoman1 named ,madam ,giana1 who   
was esteemed 7in  her time7 to be the   
fairest and most gracious lady in all   
,florence4  ,in which respect1 and to   
reach the height of his desire1 he made 
many  sumptuous feasts and banquets1    
joustes1 tilties1 tournaments1 and all  
other noble actions of armes1 beside    
sending her infinite rich and  costly   
presents1 making spare of nothing1 but  
lashing all out in lauish  expence4     
,notwithstanding1 she being no lesse    
honest then faire1 made no  reckoning of
 whatsoeuer he did for her sake1 or the 
least respect of  his owne person4 ,so  
that ,frederigo spending thus daily more
 then his  meanes and ability could     
maintaine1 and no supplies anyway       
redounding  to him1 or his faculties 7as
 very easily they might7 diminished in  
such sort1 that he became so poore1 as  
he had nothing left him1 but  a small   
poore farme to liue vpon1 the silly     

reuenewes wherof were  so meane as      
scarcely allowed him meat and drink1 yet
 he had a faire  hawke or faulcon hardly
 anywhere to be fellowed1 so expeditious
 and  sure she was of flight4 ,his low  
ebbe and poverty no way quailing his    
loue to the lady1 but rather setting a  
keener edge thereon3 he saw  the city   
life could no longer containe him1 where
 he most coueted to  abide1 and         
therefore betook himselfe to his poore  
countrey farme to let  his faulcon get  
him his dinner and supper1 patiently    
supporting his  penurious estate without
 suite or meanes making to one for helpe
 or  relief in any such necessity4      
,while thus he continued in this        
extremity it came to passe1 that the    
husband of ,madam ,giana fell sicke1 and
 his debility of body being  such1 as   
little or no hope of life remained1 he  
made his last will  and testament1      
ordaining thereby that his sonne        
7already grown to  indifferent stature7 
should be heire to all his lands and    

riches  wherein he abounded very        
greatly4 ,next vnto him1 if he chanced  
to die  without a lawful heire1 he      
substituted his wife whom most dearely  
he  affected2 and so departed out of    
this life4 ,madam ,giana being thus left
  a widow1 as commonly it is the custome
 of our city dames1 during the  summer  
season1 she went to a house of her owne 
in the countrey which  was somewhat     
neare to poore ,frederigo's farme1 and  
where he liued in  such an honest kind  
of contented pouerty4    ,hereupon the  
young gentleman1 her sonne1 taking great
 delight in hounds  and hawkes1 grew    
into familiarity with poor ,frederigo1  
and hauing seene  many faire flights of 
his faulcon1 they pleased him so        
extraordinarily1  that he earnestly     
desired to enjoy her as his owne3 yet   
durst not moue  the motion for her1     
because he saw how choycely ,frederigo  
esteemed her4  ,within a short while    
after1 the young gentleman became very  
sicke1  whereat his mother greued       

exceedingly 7as having no more but he1  
and  therefore loved him the more       
entirely7 neuer parting from him either 
night or day1 comforting him so kindly  
as she could1 and demanding if  he had a
 desire to anything1 willing him to     
reueale it and assuring him  withall    
that 7if it were within compasse of     
possibility7 he should haue  it4 ,the   
youth hearing how many times she had    
made him these offers1  and with such   
vehement protestations of performance1  
at last thus  spake3--    8,mother      
7quoth he7 if you can do so much for me1
 as that ,i may haue  ,frederigo's      
faulcon1 ,i am perswaded1 that my       
sicknesse will soone  cease40 ,the lady 
hearing this1 sate some short while     
musing to  herselfe1 and began to       
consider what she might best doe to     
compasse  her sonne's desire1 for well  
she knew how long a time ,frederigo had 
most louingly kept it1 not suffering it 
euer to be out of his sight4  ,moreouer1
 shee remembered how earnest in         

affection he had bene to her1  neuer    
thinking himselfe happy but onely when  
he was in her company1  wherefore shee  
entred into this private consultation   
with her owne  thoughts3 8,shall ,i     
send1 or goe myself in person1 to       
request the  faulcon of him1 it being   
the best that euer flew8 ,it is his     
onely  jewell of delight1 and that taken
 from him1 no longer can he wish to     
liue in this world4 ,how farre then     
voyde of vnderstanding shall ,i shew    
myselfe1 to rob a gentleman of his sole 
felicity hauing no other joy  or comfort
 left him80 ,these and the like         
considerations wheeled about  her       
troubled braine1 onely in tender care   
and loue for her sonne1  perswading     
herselfe assuredly that the faulcon were
 her owne1 if  she would but request it1
 yet1 not knowing whereon it were best  
to  resolue1 shee returned no answer to 
her sonne1 but sat still in her  silent 
meditations4 ,at the length1 loue to the
 youth1 so prevailed  with her1 that she

 concluded on his contentation1 and     
7come of it  what could7 shee would not 
send for it2 but go herselfe in person  
to  request it1 and then returne home   
againe with it3 whereupon thus she      
spake1--8,sonne1 comfort thyselfe1 and  
let languishing thoughts no  longer     
offend thee1 for here ,i promise thee   
that the first thing ,i doe  to-morrow  
morning1 shall bee my iourney for the   
faulcon1 and assure  thyselfe that ,i   
will bring it with me40 ,whereat the    
youth was so joyed1  that he imagined   
his sicknesse began instantly a little  
to leaue him  and promised himself      
speedy recouery4    ,somewhat early the 
next morning1 the lady1 in care of her  
sicke son's  health1 was up and ready   
betimes1 and taking another gentlewoman 
with her1 onely as a morning recreation1
 shee walked to ,frederigo's  poore     
country farme1 knowing that it would not
 a little glad him to  see her4 ,at the 
time of her arriuall there1 he was 7by  
chance7 in a  silly garden1 on the backe

 of the house1 because 7as yet7 it was  
no  convenient time for flight3 but when
 he heard ,madam ,giana was come        
thither and desired to haue some        
conference with him2 as one almost      
confounded with admiration1 in all haste
 he ran to her1 and saluted  her with   
most humble reuerence4 ,she in all      
modest and gracious manner  requited him
 with the like salutations1 thus        
speaking to him3 8,signior  ,frederigo1 
your own best wishes befriend you1 ,i am
 now come hither to  recompence some    
part of your passed trauailes1 which    
heretofore you  pretended to suffer for 
my sake1 when your love was more1 then  
did  well become you to offer1 or       
myselfe to accept4 ,and such is the     
nature  of my recompence1 that ,i make  
myselfe your guest1 and mean this day   
to dine with you1 as also this          
gentlewoman1 making no doubt of our     
welcome40 ,whereto with lowly reverence1
 thus he replyed3 8,madam1 ,i doe  not  
remembre that euer ,i sustained any     

losse or hindrance by you1 but  rather  
much good1 as if ,i was worth any thing 
it proceeded from your  great           
deseruings1 and by the service in which 
,i did stand engaged to  you4 ,but my   
present happinesse can no way be        
equalled1--deriued from  your           
super-abounding gracious fauour1 and    
more than common course of  kindnesse1  
vouchsafing of your owne liberall       
nature1--to come and  visit so poore a  
servant4 ,oh1 that ,i had as much to    
spend againe1 as  heretofore riotously  
,i have runne thorow3 what a welcome    
would your  poore host bestow vpon you1 
for gracing this homely house with your 
divine presence60 ,with these words he  
conducted her into his house1  and then 
into his simple garden1 where1 hauing no
 convenient company  for her1 he        
said1--8,madam1 the poverty of this     
place is such1 that it  affordeth none  
fit for your conversation2 this poore   
woman1 wife to an  honest husbandman1   
will attend on you1 while ,i 7with some 

speede7 shall  make ready dinner40      
,poore ,frederigo1 although his         
necessity was extreame1 and his greefe  
great1--remembering his former          
inordinate expences1 a moity whereof    
would now hauve stood him in some stead2
 yet he had a heart as free  and forward
 as euer1 not a iotte dejected in his   
minde1 though vtterly  overthrowne by   
fortune4 ,alas6 how was his good soule  
afflicted1 that he  had nothing         
wherewith to honour his lady6 ,up and   
downe he runnes1 one  while this way1   
then againe another1 exclaiming on his  
disastrous fate1  like a man enraged or 
bereft of his senses2 for he had not one
 penny  of mony1 neither pawne or pledge
 wherewith to procure any4 ,the time    
hasted on1 and he would gladly 7though  
in meane measure7 expresse his          
honourable respect of the lady4 ,to     
begge of any his nature denied it2  and 
to borrow he could not1 because his     
neighbours were all as needie  as       
himselfe4    ,at last1 looking round    

about1 and seeing his faulcone on her   
perch1  which he felt to be very plumpe 
and fat2 ,being voyde of all other      
helpes in his neede1 and thinking her to
 be a fowle meete for so  noble a lady  
to feede on1 without any further        
demurring or delay he  pluckt off her   
neck1 and caused the poor woman         
presently to pull her  feathers3 which  
being done1 he put her on the spit1 and 
in a short  time she was daintily       
roasted4 ,himselfe couered the table1   
set bread  and salt on1--and laid the   
napkins1 whereof he had but a few left  
him4  ,going then with chearfull lookes 
into the garden1 telling the lady  that 
dinner was ready1 and nothing was wanted
 but her presence2 shee1  and the       
gentlewoman went in1 and being seted at 
the table1 not knowing  what they fed   
on1 the faulcon was all their foode3 and
 ,frederigo not a  little ioyfull that  
his credit was so well saued4 ,when they
 were risen  from the table and had     
spent some small time in familiar       

conference1  the lady thought it fit to 
acquaint him with the reason of her     
comming  thither2 and therefore 7in very
 kinde manner7 thus began3              
8,frederigo1 if you do yet remember your
 former carriage towards me 7as  also my
 many modest and chaste denials7 which  
7perhaps7 you thought  to sauour of a   
harsh1 cruell1 and vn-womanly nature1 ,i
 make no doubt  but you will wonder at  
my present presumption1 when you        
vnderstand the  occasion which          
expressely mooued me to come hither4    
,but if you were  possessed of children1
 or euer had any1 whereby you might     
comprehend  what love in nature is due  
vnto them3 then ,i durst assure my selfe
 that  you would partly hold me excused4
    8,now in regard1 that you neuer had 
any1 and myselfe 7for my part7 haue  but
 onely one1 ,i stand not exempt from    
those lawes which are common to  other  
mothers4 ,and being compelled to obey   
the power of those lawes1  contrary to  
mine owne will1 and those duties which  

reason ought to  maintaine1 ,i am to    
request a gift of you1 which ,i am      
certaine that  you doe make most        
precious account of1 as in manly equity 
you can doe  no lesse4 ,for fortune hath
 bin so extreamly adverse to you1 that  
she  hath robbed you of all other       
pleasures1 allowing you no comfort or   
delight1 but only that poore one1 which 
is your faire faulcone4 ,of  which bird1
 my sonne is become so strangely        
desirous1 as if ,i doe not  bring it to 
him at my comming home1 ,i feare so much
 the extreamity of  his sicknesse1 as   
nothing can ensue thereon but the losse 
of life4  ,wherefore1 ,i beseech you1   
not in regard to the love you have borne
 me1  for therby you stande no way      
obliged1 but in your owne true gentle   
nature 7the which hath always declared  
itselfe ready in you1 to do more  kinde 
offices generally than any other        
gentleman that ,i know71 you will  be   
pleased to giue her me1 or at least1 let
 me buy her of you4 ,which if  you doe1 

,i shall freely confesse that onely by  
your means my sonne's  life is saued1   
and we both shall for ever remaine      
engaged to you40    ,when ,frederigo had
 heard the ladies request1 which was now
 quite out  of his power to graunt1     
because it had bene her service at      
dinner1 he  stood like a man dulled in  
his sences1 the teares trickling amain  
downe  his cheekes1 and he not able to  
vtter one word4 ,which she perceiving   
began to conjecture immediately1 that   
these tears and passions  proceeded     
rather from greefe of minde1 as being   
loather to part with  his faulcone then 
any other kinde of manner1 which made   
her ready to  say that she would not    
haue it4 ,neuerthelesss she did not     
speake but  rather tarried to attend his
 answer2 which1 after some small respite
  and pause1 he returned in this manner3
    8,madam1 since the houre when first 
my affection became soly deuoted  to    
your seruice1 fortune hath bene crosse  
and contrary to me in many  occasions1  

as iustly1 and in good reason ,i may    
complaine of her3  yet all seemed light 
and easie to be indured in comparison of
 her  present malicious contradiction1  
to my vtter ouerthrow1 and perpetual    
mollestation4 ,considering that you are 
come hither to my poore house1  which   
7while ,i was rich and able7 you would  
not so much as vouchsafe  to looke on2  
and now you haue requested a small      
matter of me wherein  she hath also     
crookedly thwarted me1 because she hath 
disabled me in  bestowing so mean a     
gift1 as your selfe will confesse when  
it shall be  related to you in a few    
words4    8,so soone as ,i heard that it
 was your pleasure to dine with me1     
hauing  regard to your excellency1 and  
what 7by merit7 is justly due vnto  you1
 ,i thought it a part of my bounden duty
 to entertaine you with  such exquisite 
viands as my poore power could any way  
compasse1 and  farre beyond respect or  
welcome to other common and ordinary    
persons4  ,whereupon remembering my     

faulcone1 which now you aske for1 and   
her  goodnesse excelling all other of   
her kinde1 ,i supposed that she would   
make a dainty dish for your dyet2 and1  
hauing drest her so well as ,i  could   
deuise to do1 you haue fed heartily on  
her1 and ,i am proud that ,i  haue so   
well bestowne her4 ,but perceiuing now  
that you would haue her  for your sicke 
sonne1 it is no mean affliction to me   
that ,i am disabled  of yeelding you    
contentment which all my lifetime ,i    
haue desired to  doe40    ,to approve   
his words1 the feathers1 feete and beake
 were brought in2  and when she saw     
this1 she greatly blamed him for killing
 so rare a  faulcone1 to content the    
appetite of any woman whatsoeuer4 ,yet  
she  commended his height of spirit     
which poverty had no power to abase4    
,lastly1 her hopes being frustrate1 for 
enjoying the faulcone1 and  fearing     
besides the health of her sonne1 she    
thanked ,frederigo for his  honorable   
kindnesse1 returning home againe sad and

 melancholly4 ,shortly  after1 her      
sonne1 either greeuing that he could not
 hauve the faulcone1  or by extreamity  
of his disease1 chanced to die1 leauing 
his mother a  most woeful lady4         
,after so much time was expired1 as     
conveniently might agree with  sorrow   
and mourning1 her brethren made many    
motions to her to joyne  herself in     
marriage againe1 because she was        
extraordinarily rich and  as yet but    
yong in years4 ,now1 although she was   
well contented neuer  to be married any 
more1 yet1 being continually importuned 
by them1 and  remembring the honourable 
honesty of ,frederigo1--his last poore1 
yet  magnificent dinner1 in killing his 
faulcone for her sake1--she saide to    
her brethren3 8,this kinde of widdowed  
estate doth like me so well1 as         
willingly ,i would neuer leave it3 but  
seeing you are so earnest for my  second
 marriage1 let me plainly tell you1 that
 ,i will neuer accept of  any other     
husband but onely ,frederigo di         

,alberino40      ,,conclusion4    ,such 
are facts1 from which the nature and    
strength and delicacy of  affection may 
be seen4    ,dear1 dear ,woman6--,let   
me1--indebted as ,i am to your          
tenderness and  love for every blessing 
of my life1--let me say1 in the words of
 the  sweet ,northern poet3      8,long 
since1 this world's thorny ways    ,had 
numbered out my weary days1    ,had it  
not been for you40      ,william        
,stevens1 ,printer1 ,bell ,yard1 ,temple
 ,bar4        ,,transcriber',s ,,notes3 
,italicized text is surrounded by       
underscores3 italics4      ,obvious     
typographical errors have been          
corrected4      ,the cover image for    
this e,book was created by the          
transcriber and is      entered into the
 public domain4