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Christ Church. The last prior was Thomas Goldwell, who, with sixty-eight of his monks, subscribed to the King's supremacy.

DEAL-A very long town, extending a great way, parallel to, and very near, the beach.

It consists chiefly of three narrow streets, with some buildings on the west side, the ancient part of the town. Deal is entirely supported by the shipping, lying in the Downs: every shop is full of punchbowls, drinking-glasses, cloaths, and every thing to supply a sailor's wants. The prosperity of this town may be dated from the increase of British commerce, and the consequent increase of the multitudes of ships, which make the Downs their rendezvous in their outward and inward voyages.They are the only roads in which vessels can ride, from hence as far as St. Helen's The Downs, or road, lies between the laud and the famous Godwin Sands, about which so much has been fabled. That they had once been a solid and populous tract, the property of Earl Godwin, Earl of Kent, is credible enough; yet a natural solution may be more probable, than that they were swallowed up on account of his extreme wickedness: it was certainly effected by that vast inundation which took place in the year 1100, when part of Holland was overflowed, and the water carried from this part of the sea rendered it so shallow, that places which, before, might have been safely passed over, became dangerous shoals: yet, even the Godwin Sands have their utility; ships anchor or moor beneath their shelter, and find protection from the winds, unless in very extraordinary tempests. The Godwin Sands consist of two parts, divided in the middle by four narrow channels, about two fathoms deep. The Sands extend ten miles along the coast, north and south, verging towards the east, and from three and a half to six

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miles distant from the main land. They have over them, at all times, so little water, as not to be any where passable, unless by very small vessels, and at the ebb, are, in many places, dry: this occasions a lingering death to the unhappy people who are wrecked on them at low water: they often pass, with horrible view, the intermediate space between their getting on the sands and the return of the tide if they chance to be seen from laud, and a boat is able to put to sea, they are sometimes happily relieved: and, highly to the honour of the inhabitants of Deal, they are all ready to hazard their lives, to save those of their fellow-creatures.

A little beyond the town of Deal, is the castle, where Anne of Cleves, in November, 1540, made her inauspicious landing, as the wife of Henry Vill. but was only a disgusting object to the fickle monarch, who repudiated her, after bestowing on her the appellation of a Flanders' mare!

About a mile further, stands Walmer Castle, the third of Henry's upon this range: there, at no great distance from the church, are still some remains of the mansion of a Sir John Kiriel, who had a considerable command under Henry V. at Agincourt. His son, Sir Thomas, Knight of the Garter, was barbarously put to death by Margaret of Anjou, after the first battle of St. Alban's.

On the summit of a chalky cliff is the church of St. Margaret-at-Cliffe, a foundation of great antiquity: the windows, and the door beneath the ruined steeple, are of Saxon architecture, with round arches. The first mention of this church is in the reign of Edward I. when his Queen Elinor bestowed the advowson on ChristChurch, Canterbury: St. Margaret's church is a leading mark for seamen into the inner channel of the Downs.

THE CHIEFTAIN'S DAUGHTER; A TALE OF PAST TIMES.

SEATED in the baronial hall of the demesne given him by his master, Alfred, Duke Edrick was surrounded by his vassals, and, in receiving their oaths of allegiance, he fancied himself even equal to the sove reign of England. Many a Danish mother

had to mourn the effects of his prowessmany a Danish maiden had strained her eye over the whitened shore, expecting the return of her lover, whom the swords of Edrick's followers had laid low in the dust. Deeds of honour had gained Edrick the

love of his King; and the wapentakes of Sussex were given to him to reign over, as some recompense for the many leagues of land which he had caused the Danes to relinquish. His bosom was raised high in exultation, on finding himself Lord of so goodly a territory—a territory, lost by his father's disloyalty to Athelstan, but redeemed by himself on a return to his allegiance.

she burst into tears, happily unperceived by her father. Again the bard was inspired-he struck a prelude which enchanted all; they seized their arms, in rapture, as for the combat, but each tongue was silent, and all was hushed, save the repressed clank of armour, as the Knights regained their seats. The hoary musician's cheek was flushed with a hectic flush; a holy inspiration gave a fire to his eye; and while his fingers struck the chords of his harp, he sung the praise of the chieftain's daugh

This hall of audience was extensive to the gaze; it was built in all the majesty of feudal time—it rose in ample grandeur-ter-he sung the praise of Immasimple and unadorned, save by the waving trophy, the hauberk, or the cuiarss, intermingled with the cross-bow or the glittering spear. Looks of festive joy beamed in every visage, the wassail bowl passed off, and returned, till Duke Edrick called on the minstrel. All then was hushed, as the retiring wave from the distant shore, while the hoary bard sung of deeds of valour and of wisdom, achieved by England's Solon. In the midst of a crowd of warriors, shone, like a brilliant star, Duke Edrick's daughter, on whom her father doated, and considered as the stepladder to his ambition, and in prospect as a sharer of his monarch's bed. Imma's form was the most beautiful that can be imagined; she was fair as marble-her eyes were of celestial blue, lighting a face full of the most tender, bewitching, and expressive languishment-her cheeks were fresh-tinted by the rose blossom, but her lips and teeth were such as a painter might attempt to imitate, but could never realize. Her hair, of clear flaxen, unadorued and unrestrained, strayed over her fine and falling shoulders; she bent forward to the bard's notes, as if in admiration of his theme, but the harper's strains were far from occupying her thoughts. Unhappy girl! she was dwelling on those, which told her misery must ever be her portion, and how much more she thought her fate was to be lamented than that of any other damsel. The lay finished, the bard regained his seat-the carousal again commenced, and Duke Edrick roused his daughter from vacuity by a loud and deep reproach. He demanded, why she, alone, joined not in the general joy, on beholding him in the hall of his ancestors? Imma essayed to speak, but her words were inarticulate;

"Fair as chaste, as chaste as fair."

At such a congratulation, she rose, in virgin diffidence, and thanked him, though in a voice checked with sobs; and, overcome by the praises of her father, she cast her eyes fearfully around the hall, and sunk senseless into his arms. While the stern Edrick was chiding her, and the timid Imma was ascribing the acuteness of her feelings to some ominous cause (which, in those days of superstition, haunted, occasionally, the strongest mind), a confusion of sounds arose from that part of the hall from which Imma had withdrawn her sight; it broke out, as though the foeman had them in his toils. As the smoke of battle rolls on in destruction-as the dust of the war-horse approaches nearer and nearer still-so come the sounds of discontent to Duke Edrick's seat.-"I heed thee not," exclaimed Lord Hildebrande, in a voice above the din; "I tell thee to thy teeth, and I'll tell it all who'll hear, Duke Edrick is deceived, and Imma is no longer chaste as fair-she is a wanton!"

At such a charge, again were murmurs loud and deep; they poured through the hall of audience. A hundred helmets shook, a hundred swords left their scabbards, but Lord Hildebrande again exclaimed, aloud, "By the Holy Ghost she's false; Imma has disgraced her sex."

"Proud Hildebrande, thou liest," exclaimed Childe Edmund ; the storm of passion shook his heaving frame-he snatched off his greave, it whirled in the air, and striking the accuser of Imma, who took the pledge, and demanding the ordeal, swore to prove the charge. The affrighted Imma now raised herself, in conscious innocence; she indignantly threw back those

he dared not subject her to another by en

not, and, becoming a prey to the acutest anguish, he wandered about the dwelling, unconscious where he bent his steps.Childe Edmund, as he was called, had long loved the gentle Imma, and, ere she was aware, she returned his love; they feared it was impossible they could ever be united, but there was such a luxury in even their cheared hopes, that they rather chose to encourage a mutual attachment, accompanied with future misery, than to call upon the resources of sense and reason, and to use that fortitude which teaches us to endure misfortune patiently. Childe Edmund was merely the protegée of Duke Edrick, and, without a single quarter

tresses which would have hid her face; she would have defended, with an undaunt-tering the castle; he, therefore, saw her ed eye, her character, but she met a father's reproachful look; a chilly paleness overspread her, and she bent, like a lily in a storm, into the arms of Childe Edmund. When Lady Imma awoke from her trance, every thing bore a dreadful silence; in vain she attempted to raise herself from her couch, her limbs appeared paralyzed; she put her hand to her head, her brain was maddening; it is true, a refreshing breeze burst in upon her from the open casement, yet it lasted but a moment; a hotter glow succeeded, and threatened to check all respiration; she gazed wildly around her; she paused, to think, but yet seemed fearful of recalling remembrance; she put her finger on the blood-bursting lids of hering of nobility in his shield, had been ever eyes, distended with fever ; she pored over, viewed with contempt by Lord Hildeunconsciously, the storied painting, which brande, as a protected vassal: this vassal the last rays of a setting sun emblazoned had, however, been preferred to him by and reflected from the bay window; and the Lady Imma, and he swore to be his as conviction of what was to happen dawn- ruin, by bell, book, and candle. ed in her mind, she endeavoured to shut out its reality she shrunk into herself-a frightful slumber steeped her faculties in misery, and tortured her diseased imagination. Such a charge as Lord Hildebrande's, || presumed to be those of females; and a was not to be made with impunity. When lady was deemed a prodigy who was enthe first storms of indignation were over, abled, by her pen, to carry on a correshe was allowed to speak, as follows:-pondence. No pert chambermaid was "Returning last, on the eve of St. Francis, from a border post, I entered a dingle in the forest; there I saw the Lady Imma rush into the arms of a man, who wore the scarf that now Childe Edmund wears. I am not mad-I am Lord Edrick's friend: I pledge myself for the truth of what I utter, and let her disloyal Knight defend her if he can."-In saying this, each warrior slunk away, to see the decision by mutual combat.

Fearful that violent emotions might rack the bosom of the gentle Imma, Edmund left the hall to seek her; love is seldom accompanied by prudence, or he had never sought a secret interview. Now the Baron Edrick trembled with passion, and he swore, if guilty, to sacrifice both to his revenge. From the maidens of her house, Childe Edmund learned Imma was in her chamber. As he was the cause of the indignity which Hildebrande had offered her,

Love, in those days, had no employment, save to chide the time with sighs and exclamations; for the life of a murderer was sacred, on being proved able to read and write; these attainments were not

then the conveyer of a billet-doux. Thus Imma and Childe Edmund were obliged to vent their complaints to the air, to themselves, or to inanimate things, without consolation, and without pity. “My father," said the unfortunate Imma, "believes me guilty, but I am not, and Edmund knows I am innocent: and oh! my dear mother, look down from heaven, pity your poor child, and shield her from despair."

The following morning, Imma arose unrefreshed from her couch; she walked as one whose soul was fled, but whose body was doomed to wander in unconsciousness: it was yet but twilight, and the spear and the lance trembled in the cold air; soon the guards paraded in a quicker step on their posts, and, at length, all was bustle and animation. She had walked on the battlements, and, seated like the genius of suspense, her tresses spreading in the wanton air, she started at the sound of the

bugle; the chain of the draw-bridge rattles
-the portcullis rises, and an host of armed
men pour from the keep, and form a pro-
cession. Childe Edmund is preceded by a
page, who bears his favour of azure blue;
a lover gazes towards the castle-he seems
to breathe a sigh towards her; a train ac-
companies him, and Lord Hildebrande,||
who, seated on a white charger, seems
conscious of victory: they are followed by
the herald at arms.

ants, apprehensive of her fading reason, were fain to let her pursue her inclination. To paint her agonies of suspense, during a rencounter in which was engaged all she loved, is impossible-it was, indeed, intense. At length, the sound of music proclaimed, all was over-that the dreadful truth must soon be known. They play a mournful theme, and she rushes forward to behold the cause. The procession is only to be seen ever and anon in the distance, now This appearance of knightly combat lost among the hills, and now again emergdarkens her vision." He is going," she ing nearer sight. On a carriage, she, at cries, "to sacrifice himself! and for me :" || length, perceives the stiffened corpse of one. she uttered a scream, and fell, unheeded, Oh! the virgin, the blue scarf is wrapped on the terrace. Ill-fated maid! thy suffer-round his body. An hysteric laugh bursts ings are, indeed, acute; if this be the from her, as she runs to meet it: it is not punishment of presumed guilt, what ought her lover's form she would clasp, but, with to be that of conscious depravity? They wounds staunched by the trophy of love, had met, it is true, clandestinely, but | Lord Hildebrande's; a victim to his own angels might have been present at the in- evil passions, who, dying, confessed the terview; they met but to breathe vows of guilty assertions of falsehood. Even this constancy, and to indulge in mutual sor- would not have procured the consent rows, dearer to them than all the jocund of Lord Edrick, to give his daughter to hours of mirth. On returning to a sense Childe Edmund, had he not received letters of feeling, she crawled to her chamber, from his King, inviting him to his marriage revived by the blood which flowed from a banquet, and declaring Edmund his relawound she had met with in falling; the tive. Childe Edmund then, by royal comcut she received in her temple was healed mand, wedded the lovely Imma: the bard's by a domestic, but the wounded heart resong was once more heard in the hall, and jected all mortal medicine; and her attend. || the foeman spoiled not their delight.

DEPRECIATION OF BENEFITS RECEIVED.

LETTER FROM J. J. ROUSSEAU TO M. GRIMM.

TELL me, Grimm, whence it is, that all my friends pretend that I ought to accompany Madame d'Epinay? Am I only in the wrong, or are they all bewitched? Are they all possessed of that base partiality which is always ready to pronounce in favour of wealth, and to burthen the indigent with an hundred useless duties, which render poverty still more hard and inevitable? I will only speak of this to yourself. Although, no doubt, you are prejudiced, like every one else, I yet think you possessed of equity enough to put yourself in my place, and to judge of what really is my duty. Listen, then, my good friend, to my reasons, and determine what part I ought to take; for whatever may be your opinion, I declare myself ready immediately to abide by it.

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What is there that obliges me to follow Madame d'Epinay? Friendship, gratitude, the use that I may be of to her. Let us examine all these points.

If Madame d'Epinay has shewn me any friendship, I have shewn her yet more : the care we bave mutually taken of each other is equal, quite as great on my part as on hers. Both in a declining state of health, I owe to her no more than she owes to me; no farther; unless it should be required of the one that suffers most to take charge of the other. Because my afflictions are irremediable, is that any reason that they should be regarded as nothing? I will only add one word more she has friends less sick, less poor, less jealous of their liberty, with more time on their hands, and which are quite as dear to her as I am.

I do not see that any of these seem to think it a duty to follow her: why, then, should this lot fall on me alone, who am the least capable of fulfilling such a duty? If Madame d'Epinay was so dear to me that I must renounce myself to amuse her, how is it that I should be so very little so to her, that she would purchase, at the expence of my health, my life, my repose, and my resources, the attentions of one so awkward as myself? I know not whether I ought even to make her the offer of following her; but I know this, at least, without her having that hard-heartedness which opu. lence is too apt to give, but which seemed ever far from her, that she ought not to accept such an offer.

As to benefits-in the first place, I do not like them, I will not accept them, and I value not any that are forced upon me. I have told that plainly to Madame d'Epinay, before I ever received any from her; it is not that I have escaped being drawn in, like others, by those ties so dear where friendship has formed them; but when they want to draw my chain too tight, it breaks, and I become free. What has Madame d'Epinay done for me? You know better than any one, and to you I can speak freely she built for me a sinall house, close to the hermitage, made me promise to dwell in it; and I must add, with pleasure, that she made the habitation as agree: able and as safe for me as possible.

What, on my part, has been left undone for Madame d'Epinay? At the time that I was about to retire to my native country, which I so ardently desire, and which is my duty to do, she urged me, by every argument she could use, to keep me here. By dint of soliciting, even by intrigue, she vanquished my too just and long resistance: my wishes, my taste, my inclination, the improbation of my friends, all made my heart yield to the voice of her friendship, and I suffered myself to be dragged to the, hermitage. From that moment, I always felt myself at another person's house, and that moment of compliance was a source to me of the most bitter repentance. My tender friends, attentive only to the desolating me, without relaxation, did not leave me a moment's quiet, and often made me weep with anguish, that I was not five e hundred leagues distaut from them. In the

meantime, far from giving myself up to the delights of solitude, the only consolation of an unfortunate being overwhelmed with distress, and whom all the world chose to torment, I found I was no longer my own master. Madame d'Epinay, often alone when in the country, wished that I should keep her company and it was for that purpose she kept me here.

After having made a sacrifice to friendship, it is requisite for me to make another to gratitude. A man must be poor, without a valet, hate restraint, and have a mind like mine, to know what it is to live in a house that belongs to another. I have, nevertheless, lived two years in her's, in continual subjection, while nothing but the blessings of liberty were spoken of-waited on by about twenty servants, and cleaning my shoes every morning, my stomach a prey to indigestion, and I sighing incessantly after my own flock bed. You know also, that it is impossible to compose at certain hours-that I require the solitude of the woods, and time for musing; but I am not speaking on time lost, I shall only have to die of hunger a few months the sooner. In the meantime, reflect how much money an hour of the life and time of man is worth; compare the benefits of Madame d'Epinay with the sacrifice I have made of my country, and my two years of bondage, and tell me who has most obligation to the other, she or me?

We will now consider the article of utility. Madame d'Epinay has a good postchaise; she is accompanied by her husband, by her son's tutor, and by five or six servants. She is going into a populous town, full of society, where she will be only embarrassed as to the choosing of it; she is going to the house of M. Trenchin, her physician, a very sensible man—a man much respected, and sought after; she is going to dwell amongst a family of superior merit, wherein she will find resources of every kind to amend her health-resources, in friendship, and in amusement. Consider my situation, my misfortunes, my sufferings, my temper, my means, my taste, my manner of living-of more consequence to me than mankind, or even reason; then see, 1 beseech you, how I can serve Madame d'Epinay by taking this journey, and what I must endure, without

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