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The Manor House, situate a short distance from the church at Stoke Newington, is a stately fabric, and was commenced by Thomas Gunston, Esq. who died in 1700, a short time before the building was completed. The house and manor then became the property of his sister, who was married to Sir Thomas Abney, an alderman, and afterwards Lord Mayor of London. On the death of the last surviving child of this family, who died in 1782, the lease of the manor was sold to Jonathan Eade, Esq. it afterwards, by purchase, became the property of J. W. Freshfield, Esq. whose residence it now is.

In the hall is a library, formerly Dr. Watts's study. In the gallery is the chamber in which the doctor always slept. In the Grecian room is some handsomely painted panels. In one over the fire-place is a piece of water, on which is a swan: this is said to have been painted by Dr. Watts whilst the artist, employed in ornamenting the room, was gone to dinner. The learned doctor painted the window shutters in the painted room, with various emblematical representations of Death; Time; Strength destroyed; Life poured out; the Gunston Arms in mourning; and the City Arms hung with crape. These paintings are still preserved with commendable care and veneration. The amiable and pious divine died here in 1748, in the 75th year of his age.

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Oh, what a glorious world I see !"
Exclaimed the raptured Deity;


Here, all things are as bright and fair
As in Elysium, I do declare!

Why have I lost these scenes so long,
Which now, for aye, I'll dwell among?"

He wandered on for many days,
Over the earth in much amaze;
When lo! a vision met his sight,
Which fill'd his bosom with delight.
"Who is't," said he, "that sweet reposes
Upon your bank of summer roses ?
Here will I rest and woo the maid,
And fix my empire in this glade.
But first I'll make her heart my own:"
He said-but lo! his bow was gone!

Much did he grieve, and sorely vex'd,
Roved up and down, in thought perplex'd;
When the young maiden ope'd her eyes,
And seeing Love, affrighted cries,

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Who art thou, boy, that thus intrudes In these sequester'd solitudes ?"

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LOVE," said the God," and thine for ever!?
Hence, vain impostor! where's thy quiver?

And thou hast eyes, and love has none,
And even the glittering wings are gone."

For once abash'd-young Cupid stood,
Pouring of tears a briny flood.
"Shall I thus baffled quit the earth,

And be in Heaven a theme of mirth?"

While thus he thought, he found a dart,

And instantly transfix'd her heart.

"Oh!" cried the maid, "thy tears must cease, I would not wound thy bosom's peace: No more will I repulsive prove,

For pity ope's the heart of love!"

She sigh'd, and Cupid to her arms
Glided, in all his brightest charms :
Put on his quiver, bow, and wings,
And many such etherial things.
His fillet laid aside for ever,

"She could not bear it! She, oh, never!
Love's language's spoken by the eyes-
If these are bound, his empire flies!"

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Here," said the god, "shall none intrude, For Love is fixed in solitude,"



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Whene'er her faltering tongue
Her lack of learned lore betray'd,
Love lent her eloquence, or hung

His veil o'er ev'ry fault she made.


Here is a letter for you, dear, dear grandmother; who
can it be from?" exclaimed Rose Blandford, as with almost
breathless speed she flew along the path of the field which join-
ed their neat little cottage.

The old dame hastily pushed away her spinning wheel, and
produced her spectacles; and Rose, throwing her white arms
round the neck of her aged parent, listened with mingled won-
der and delight to the concise epistle which announced that
Edwin Blandford, the prodigal, but still beloved, son of the
poor old woman, was then in Lancaster with his regiment;
but as they should only stop a few days, it was not worth
while, he said, to ask leave to come over to Dalton, though
he should have liked very well to have seen some of his old
companions, as well as his mother and Rose, who he supposed
was a fine girl by this time, if she was like her mother.

The old woman wiped away the tears that dimmed her spec-
tacles and prevented her proceeding, and Rose sobbed aloud
at this brief mention of a parent whom she had been taught to
love and regret, though she had never experienced her maternal
cares; for she had died of a broken heart, while she was yet
an infant.

Edwin Blandford was the father of Rose; but from the
time he had deserted her and her mother, to share the plea-
sures and the hardships of a soldier's life, until the present
moment, he had never evinced the slightest interest in her

He had, it was true, from time to time written to Dalton,
to ascertain that his mother was still living; but that was (as
the poor old woman with bitter tears often declared) more with
a view to the little property which he was to inherit at her
death, than from any impulse of affection. She still, how-
ever, fondly loved and cherished the deserted child, and with

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