LETTER I. FRANCES to HENRY.

THOUGH I have not any Thing to ſay, which can amuſe you, yet I could not think of ſending you the incloſed Pamphlet under a blank Cover, as a ſilent Remembrance is worſe than none.

I return'd to Conduit-Street the Evening you left us, but found it was not the ſame Place.

[2]In ſhort, as Pope ſays, the Senſation is like that of a Limb lopt off, which one is every Minute unawares applying to Uſe, but finds it is not.

The Tune of Delia ſounded in my Ears all Night; and I could have ſat by, for the firſt Time, with Patience, while you play'd Alberti's twelve Concerto's, to have had you back again, for the Remainder of the Evening.

Now let me ſhift the Scene, and behold you galloping away, delighted with the certain Proſ⯑pect of giving as much Joy to thoſe Friends you go to, as you have left Concern with thoſe you parted from. At this Thought I begin to hate you and myſelf, for being one Moment uneaſy about a Man, who perhaps hardly remembers me enough, to forget me. I am ſo mortified at this, that I am angry at myſelf for having ever thought of you, but as a common Acquaintance, if indeed your Merit or particular Behaviour to me would have ſuffered me to remain in ſuch a State of Indifference. Theſe Thoughts, how⯑ever, do not proceed from any ſlight Opinion I have of your Sincerity, but a mortal Apprehen⯑ſion that neither my Senſe or Merits can pur⯑chaſe your Eſteem, without which your Love would ſhock me.

I am running on too far, mais il y à quelque choſe de dans qui m'entraine: So I ſhall con⯑clude with ſome Lines of Cowley tho' you call him a ſurfeiting Author:

I know you will laugh as you did at Tom's Correſpondent for tagging her Letters; but con⯑ſider, I want a Poet's Help to ſpeak to you, though I need none to think of you.

LETTER II. HENRY to FRANCES.

QUELLE foule des affaires m'accable!— I thought to have wrote this Letter in French, but you are too nice a Critick for me. Only imagine to yourſelf a Perſon, who has, every Day of his Life, as much Buſineſs to do, as can be well compaſſed in twenty-four Hours, to have three Months Affairs come upon him at once! One, who could ſcarce ſpare Time from the Hurry of Buſineſs in Town for Love and Alberti, to be confronted with ſuch an Embarras du Monde!—Without your ſprightly Converſa⯑tion, or my Twelve Concerto's, to ſupport my Spirits.

[4]Your very agreeable Letter I confeſs to have more than have repaid me for Alberti, giving me Senſe for Sound; but nothing you can ſay, or any one elſe can do, will make me Amends for the Want of your Company, if you would be as kind when preſent, as you expreſs yourſelf in Abſence; but, as I have good Reaſon to think you Coquette in this Matter, I ſwear it is a moſt cruel Treatment, to give me Hopes, which you have not Generoſity or Courage to fulfil. This is diſingenuous Behaviour, and very unkind too; for I am of too ſanguine a Conſtitution to bear Diſappointments with Indifference, and, tho' I can faſt a Day upon a Page in Epictetus, yet I could not live one Night upon all the Volumes of Plato.

LETTER III. FRANCES to HENRY.

THE only Conſolation I had in the Midſt of my Anxiety for your leaving Town, was the pleaſing Hope of an agreeable Corre⯑ſpondent, but I find you deſign to rob me of that too; for you ſeem inclined to miſconſtrue the Sentiments of an Heart, touched with the moſt lively Eſteem, for the Effects of a Coquette Humour.

[5]Will you not ſuffer me to think of you, but in an hoſtile Way?—Are you afraid I ſhould love you too well, that you thus make it my Duty to hate you? I ought indeed to endeavour it at leaſt; to make a ſuitable Return for the Sentiments you ſeem to have towards me.

As to your Hurry of Buſineſs, I wiſh I could ſhare or alleviate that, or any Thing elſe, which makes you uneaſy; but this, like moſt of my Wiſhes, is fruitleſs. And I am poor, even in Thanks, for your obliging Compliment, but I dare ſay, that ſome new Acquaintance will ſoon make you ample Amends for the Loſs of an old one.

LETTER IV. FRANCES to HENRY.

I WAS never paſſionately fond of the Coun⯑try, but you have made me hate it. You know my Nature jealous, and I cannot help conſidering Belvidere as a beloved Rival, who monopolizes all your Time; yet, like a true Woman, I ſincerely long to ſee it, not to admire but to depreciate all it's Charms; tho' much I fear there will be no Room for Envy ſo to work, for I am apt to think that whatever you deſign and execute muſt be perfect.

[6]I have a great Mind, if I thought it would vex you, not to write to you this Month, for your failing to anſwer my Tueſday's Letter; but I will believe you did not receive it Time enough, for I dare hope you would not fail me in a Mat⯑ter of Buſineſs. You may ſee by this that my Spirits are much recovered, for, when they are low, I am always humble and deſponding.

You ſay that I never did, nor ever will do any Thing you recommend to me, and I am picqued into a Principle of Contradiction and reſolved—not to do any Thing henceforward, but what you deſire. In ſhort, you vile Men have ſtrange Ways with us poor Women, and you want but Power to be moſt admirable Tyrants.

I muſt repeat what I have often told you, that I never took ill any Advice you gave me; for I could not be ſuch a Child as to miſinter⯑pret the Kindneſs of your Deſign, tho' I might be feeble enough to reſent the Harſhneſs of your Diſcipline. I have, from my Infancy, been uſed to a fatal Delicacy: Fatal indeed to me, as it has enervated every Faculty of my Soul, and ſuperadded a thouſand tender Weakneſſes to the Weakeſt of the weaker Sex: You were your⯑ſelf, my dear Harry, as the Lawyers term it, "acceſſary after the Fact," and helped to aug⯑ment this Foible in me, perhaps, beyond a Cure. The Tenderneſs of your Manners, the [7] Fondneſs of your Expreſſions, and the Softneſs of your Letters joined to render my weak Mind more delicate. It is true, that, from the tranſi⯑tory State of ſublunary Things, I ought to know that our Paſſions are as variable as the Moon, "Which monthly changes in her circling Orb," and that we ſhould not depend on the Tempers or Affections of Men, which can ebb and flow as frequent as the Sea;

I acknowledge myſelf obliged for the friendly Concern you expreſs at my Want of Health.— But, for Heaven's Sake, why need you be ſo anxious to diveſt yourſelf of that little Tender⯑neſs which remains for me? At your Time of Life to ſet up for a Stoick is ſomething extraor⯑dinary indeed, and, without aſſuming that in⯑ſenſate Apathy which they pretend to, I cannot conceive what Glory you can find in an affect⯑ed Inſenſibility for one, who feels the tendereſt Friendſhip and Eſteem for you. Adieu,

LETTER V.

THE Indifference you mention is, like other Matters, unfairly laid to my Charge. I feel no ſuch mortal Symptom of a Decay in my Love; therefore, my dear^* Hygea, you have, with Reverence to your Divinity, miſtaken my Diſorder. If I do not indeed write in the ſame gallant, gay Stile as formerly, it is, becauſe no Man ever continued to do ſo, except ſome vain Fop, to ſhew his Wit, his Jeu d'eſprit, or Tour d'expreſſion. I had already ſaid every Thing, which a fond Heart could dictate; and inſtead of ranſacking the Poets for apt Expreſſions, which ſhew more of Fancy, than of Love, I for the Reſt of my Life, ſincerely meant, and purpoſed to prove my Attachments, by Actions, not by Words. Few Words among Friends are beſt, they ſay; then fewer ſtill between Lovers, whoſe whole Life ſhould be a Repetition of ſilent Minutes.

My former Letters, to which you allude, were proper to perſuade you into a Belief of my Paſ⯑ſion for you: But, when you ſeemed convinced of [9] that Truth, I thought it Time to quit roman⯑tick Flights for a more rational Converſe. In the Mathematicks ſome general Principles are, at firſt, demonſtrated, and then they are taken for granted, thro' the Remainder of the Study; for, if they were to be repeated on every Occa⯑ſion, Science would be intolerably tedious.

In ſhort, if my Profeſſions are not as frequent as uſual, or my Expreſſions as fond, it is owing to what Shakeſpear ſays for Cordelia,

The Paper you ſent me does not anſwer the Character of it; or, perhaps, I may have thought it inſipid, and inelegant, having read it juſt after your dear Letter.

LETTER VI.

THE Account of your Adventures diverted me extremely; for I am always pleaſed when you ſeem ſo. I wiſh you were not too wiſe, and too lazy to write a Novel, for I fancy you could do it admirably; and it would be an eaſier Taſk for you than almoſt any Man, for I think your whole Life and Character have a great deal of that Stile in them. I wiſh I had [10] any Thing equally entertaining to amuſe you with, but my Set of Acquaintance may be pro⯑perly called a Set; for there is ſuch a Sameneſs runs through them all, that they are hardly to be diſtinguiſhed, but by their Voice and Features, and are liable to ſuch a Cenſure as ſomebody blundered out when he wanted to compliment a Collection of Portraits, "All alike, all alike!" When I am confined to ſuch machine Society, which is too often my Fate, I fancy I am got into Powell's Commonwealth, and am looking about for the Wires to give them ſome Variety of Motion.

Oh! my dear Harry, how cruel is it in you to torture me thus! to raiſe my Taſte for higher Joys, yet leave me condemned to ſuch mean Society! for, while I correſpond with thee, I fancy myſelf ſomewhat like Dives in the Parable, condemned to Torments and converſing with Abraham.

Adieu! Adieu!

LETTER VII.

THOUGH you unkindly denied me the Liberty of enquiring about your Health laſt Night, yet, in a Matter where my Happineſs is ſo much at Stake, you muſt excuſe my diſ⯑obeying [11] your Commands; by intreating you to let me know how my dear Harry does this Morning. I will not be anſwered by the common Return to impertinent How d'ye's, but inſiſt on having, what I ſhall always give Credit to, nay, what I eſteem as an Oracle. I hope you will not refuſe me a Line, to give me an Aſſurance of your Health, and allow me to taſte of Eaſe, which I have not done ſince we parted, though it is all I hope for, 'till we meet again, ‘For, in thy Abſence, Joy is ſeen no more.’ I know not what I write, my Head is quite giddy with my Fears for you, which have not ſuffered me to ſleep an Hour all Night. You know, though I do not, the Greek Name for— Self-Tormentor—then ſave me from myſelf; and tell me, telling me Truth, that you are well.

LETTER VIII.

I AM much recovered ſince laſt Night, tho' Mrs. —'s Devil of a Cauſtick has made my Throat as ſore on the Outſide, as it was before within. I felt all Night as Hercules did, after he had put on Dejanira's Gift, not that [12] ſhe is any more to my Dejanira, than I to Her⯑cules, who reſemble him in nothing, but that I am ‘To a Diſtaff chained.’

This Day would perhaps diſcourage a Man in better Health and Senſes, from ſtirring out: But I have ordered my Horſes immediately, to ſhew the ſteddy Purpoſe of my Life; which tho' your Commands diverted me from laſt Night, neither the Severity of the Weather or acute Diſorder ſhall be able to alter on any other Occaſion. You have here a Paraphraſe Tranſ⯑lation of the firſt Ode of Anacreon, which I wrote laſt Night after you left me, to amuſe my Pain:

LETTER IX. FRANCES to HENRY.

IT has been a Fortnight ſince I heard from you 'till this Day, during which Time my Life has been ſo perfect a Vacuum, that I do not recollect Circumſtances enough to know whether I exiſted, during that Interval. I am apt to think with the Pythagoreans, that my Spirit, grown weary of it's Confinement in ſo ſmall a Priſon, had a Mind to animate ſome nobler Animal, which it was in ſearch of for ſo many Days, but like the gadding Dove, finding no Place of Reſt, has return'd again. I cannot ſay, it has brought the Olive-Branch in it's Mouth; tho', like Mahomet's Pigeon, it has returned with a Letter, more calculated for War than Peace, as it ſeems to denounce the Loſs of your Friendſhip, as well as your Love; but I ſhall not ſo eaſily renounce the Former, as my Prudence inſpires me to reſign the Latter.

You muſt ſurely have loſt all Senſe of either, when you could think ſo meanly of me, as you ſeem to do, in your laſt Letter. Have you for⯑got, with what Satisfaction I received that Proof of your Confidence, which you would now with⯑draw? You tell me, I ſhall hear no more of it, but let me tell you, if I do not, you ſhall never hear the Laſt of it; for I have fancied more Joy, [14] in embracing that dear little Adoption than ever you received in the Arms of it's Mother. I have not, Thanks to Providence, yet reduced myſelf to ſuch an abject State, as to have Reaſon to be jealous of your Amours, nor do I heed,

LETTER X. HENRY to FRANCES.

THE Account you give me of Miſs —'s Rivalſhip is very entertaining; but I re⯑turn you the Letter, becauſe you ſeem to appre⯑hend I ſhould make an improper Uſe of it.

When ſhe ſaid that "Beauty is Vanity," her Moral was certainly very good; but ſhe betrays, at the ſame Time, that Uglineſs is ‘Vexation of Spirit.’

To be rendered an Object of Love is the Gift of Nature, and very few are indowed with ſuch a Bleſſing; but I think Providence has put it out of the Power of fewer ſtill to make themſelves eſteemed. —But Emulation, not Jea⯑louſy, muſt work this happy Effect.

[15]Beauty is at beſt but a flowery Triumph, and that Perſon muſt have a very poor Ambition, who does not ſtruggle for the longeſt and ſureſt Empire. Adieu.

LETTER XI.

I DID not receive your Letter according to the Date of it, and the Delay muſt have happened with you, for I was at the Poſt-Office when your Letter came in laſt Night.

Your Account of Miſs —'s Week's Route of Diverſions made me laugh, but I was actually out of Breath, by the Time I had got to Satur⯑day Night; ſuch a Paſſion for Shews and pub⯑lick Places is natural to young People, but there are many ridiculous Perſons in the World, who hurry thro' Life, after the ſame Rate, up to their grand Climacterick; and, in ſhort, the ge⯑nerality of Mankind ſeem rather to have a Sto⯑mach, than a Taſte for Pleaſure: ‘Call it Diverſion and the Pill goes down.’ Which is entirely owing to the abrupt Entrance into the World, which young People are too ſoon indulged in, and makes them continue Children all the Days of their Lives; as I have [16] obſerved, that if you broach a Veſſel of Liquor, before it has purged off it's Crudities, it will ſtill drink new, tho' you keep it on Draught never ſo long. I wiſh all the Children of our Kingdom, were made Children of the Publick, as was the Method of ſome antient States; but then without ſuch antient States-Men my Wiſh is abſurd, as Horace's propoſing to fly from Rome, as an Expedient againſt the Corruption of the People's Morals; as if the Vice was rather in the Stones of the Street than in the Manners of the Citizens. He, who would reform publick Politicks, muſt firſt reclaim private Morals; and I agree rather with Plato, who founds his Com⯑monwealth on the Baſis of Virtue, than with Harrington, who affirms the Body-politick to be a Machine.

Adieu!

LETTER XII.

I RECEIVED your Ballad, and read it to a large Company of Wit and Taſte, with pro⯑per Stops and Emphaſes. It was extremely liked; and Copies begged, which I refuſed, according to your Commands. It really is in the true Bal⯑lad-Stile, and has a very pretty Turn of Poetry in it.

[17]I read Cowley's Tranſlation, or rather Imita⯑tion of Anacreon's firſt Ode, which you ſent me, and am better pleaſed with my own, than I was before; for it is cloſer to the Original, is ſhort, and has no affected Turn in it, but what is in the Original.

My reaſons for with-holding (not refuſing as you call it) my Friendſhip at preſent are theſe which follow.

I forget whether it is your favourite Rochefaul⯑caut, or La Bruyere, who ſays, ‘there may be an Affection between Perſons of different Sexes, without any farther Deſire or Thought, but as they certainly regard each other, as of different Genders, this cannot be called pure Love, or pure Friendſhip, but is a mixed Af⯑fection of a third Sort.’ Now, my dear Fanny, ſince our Friendſhip cannot be pure, let us ſtick to that Paſſion, which may be ſo, and is, in effect, but a warmer and more intimate Friend⯑ſhip. Your only Reaſon, for preferring Plato⯑nics muſt be, that you imagine they may laſt longer than Love; and, if we were Antediluvians, your Choice might be prudent; but he, that is born of the Women now-a-days, has but a ſhort Time to live; therefore it muſt certainly be better Oeconomy to make our Joys exceed, in Exquiſiteneſs, what they fall ſhort of in Dura⯑tion, by which Means we are before-hand with old Time, and he has leſs to cut us off from, [18] when he draws his Scythe. But, as they ſay, Time ſtrengthens Friendſhip, and weakens Love, you may, with a little Patience, ſee your ſtrange Scheme come to paſs at laſt; upon this Aſſurance, that I ſhall always add to one, what I diminiſh from the other, and perhaps we may become an hopeful old Couple in Time.

We ſhould do in Life, as Gameſters do at Play, puſh away for what they call, the great Game; but, finding the Run againſt us, we are then, and not 'till then, to play our Cards for the after Game. Now, when we find Love beginning to decline, we may ſhuffle a good ſober Friendſhip out of it; but Love never was pieced up out of a decayed Friendſhip. So that indeed, my Dear, you ſeem to begin at the wrong End, and have both Reaſon and Nature againſt you.

LETTER XIII.

HALF angry, Half pleaſed with my dear Harry's ſprightly Epiſtle,—I am quite di⯑vided, whether I ſhould make any Reply to it, or not; but I have ſtill ſo much Regard left for you, as to wiſh to convince you that your Opi⯑nion [19] is quite erroneous. Love, which is not founded on Eſteem, can neither be real, or per⯑manent; it is only the Effect of a wanton Ca⯑price, and is more likely to terminate in Diſguſt than Friendſhip. Pure Love, like pure Gold, cannot ſubſiſt without an Allay, which, tho' it debaſes the ideal Value, enhances the true one, by making them both (Love and Gold) more fixed, and fit for Uſe; and I dare anſwer for it, that the Love which does not begin in Friend⯑ſhip will never end there. But Friendſhip is in⯑dependent, requires no Mixture, no Allay; it's Purity, contrary to the Nature of Gold, is it's Strength and Stability; nor is it without it's Elevations and Tranſports; the mutual Contem⯑plation of Truth, and the Communication of Knowledge, being higher Enjoyments than mor⯑tal Senſe is capable of, and, as Young ſays, upon this Subject,

As Friendſhip then is independent of Love, and ſelf-ſufficient in it's own Nature, why may it not ſubſiſt, from it's own Purity, between Perſons of different Sexes? tho' with the Advantage of more Delicacy on one Side, and more Reſpect on [20] the other, which is more likely to make Friend⯑ſhip laſting than that Freedom and Equality, which is generally between male Friends. This Platonick Love, which I am deſcribing, is of the Nature of that Affection, which ſubſiſts between Father and Daughter, Brother and Siſter, which conſiſts of ſuch a guardian Benevolence on one Side, and ſuch a Gratitude on the other, as makes the moſt charming Society in the World.

Recant, thou Prophane! nor offend me again, by ſo much as hinting at that Love, which is independent of Friendſhip. Adieu.

LETTER XIV.

YOUR Eſſay on Love, and Friendſhip, I acknowledge to be ſomewhat too abſtract⯑ed and refined for me;

In the mean Time, my Dear, ‘let us e'en talk a little like Folks of this World.’

I know the Objections to my natural Scheme are, that it is vulgar and brutal; now, by calling it vulgar, they acknowledge it to be the com⯑mon Senſe of Mankind, and what all Men agree in muſt be right. ‘Vox Populi, Vox Dei, is the Adage for it.’

[21]As to the Groſſneſs of the Paſſion, I think, as Brutes are indulged but once a Year, and Man, the Year round, we may fairly conclude Provi⯑dence to have ſet the Mark of a rational Plea⯑ſure, upon, what is called, a brutal Deſire.

I believe it poſſible in Nature, tho' not in hu⯑man Nature, that there may be ſuch a refined Love as you deſcribe; but then it muſt be re⯑ſerved for that State, where we ſhall live with⯑out Food, and, wrapt up in Hallelujah's, reſign the Pleaſures of Senſe for a Song.

I have been very ill, theſe ten Days paſt, but no Matter for that.

Adieu.

LETTER XV.

I RECEIVED your voluntary Epiſtle, and am therefore to return you double Thanks; and that I do not perform ſuch Works of Super⯑erogation is not, on the Word of a Chriſtian, for Want of a ſuperlative Devotion, but the mere moral Want of Power, perhaps the Want of Grace. I am like a bad Pump, into which you muſt pour Water, before you can work it to Effect: But then, alas! in Return for your [22] Pierian Spring, you have, from me, but the Rakings of a Kennel. I am a mere Ghoſt in Wit; and cannot ſpeak, 'till ſpoken to. My higheſt Boaſt is, to be your Shadow; and muſt wait on your Subſtance, in order to my own Appearance; and, if ever I put in the leaſt Pre⯑tence to Wit, it is owing to that Faculty in you, which Falſtaff pretended to, of being, not only witty yourſelf, but the Cauſe of Wit in other People.

I am extremely concerned to find you in ſuch a gloomy Habit of Mind; for Heaven's Sake, why do you indulge ſuch Spleen a Moment, while you have the Powers, from your own proper Fund of good Senſe, natural Spirit, and Capa⯑city of entertaining yourſelf, of chacing away the Fou fiend? If I hear any more from you in this Strain, I ſhall recall the Compliment, I paid you in a late Letter, of a tenth Muſe; and rank you among the former odd Number of muſty old Crones, and give you the Place of the worſt of them all; namely, a diabolical, miſe⯑rable Pelt of an old Maid called Melpomene.

I beg to hear from you conſtantly; and never wait the Slowneſs of my Motions in Writing, when you may be truly aſſured that my Heart, at leaſt, keeps Time with yours, tho' you may per⯑haps have more Love as well as Wit, at your Fingers Ends.

LETTER XVI. HENRY to FRANCES.

I AM extremely pleaſed to find you in ſo chearful an Humour, as your laſt informed me of; it, at the ſame Time, flatters my Vanity, as I appear, in ſome ſort, to be the Occaſion of it, and in this I triumph, that the Effect has, at length, anſwered the Conſtancy and Sincerity of my Endeavours. Never ſuſpect my Friend⯑ſhip, or my Love, after the Aſſurance I gave you, that, when I grow indifferent in either, I will ingenuouſly confeſs it to you; though, How ſhould I have Courage enough to declare a Thing, for which I can never have a Reaſon?

It concerns me indeed to hear you ſtill com⯑plain of your Diſorder; but I often told you, your Aid was not ſo much from Medicines, as Regimen, and Peace of Mind. Let me have a better Account of your Health in your next, or don't ſay any Thing about it; for talking of thoſe Things but makes them worſe, and muſt be uneaſy to me as well as you.

I am the ſame Man ſtill to you, and, I bluſh to ſay it, the ſame to myſelf too.

LETTER XVII. HENRY to FRANCES.

I RECEIVED your Letter: I ſhall not ſay Favour. What you mention to me, in re⯑lation to a Lady, is Part of the World's Imper⯑tinence, theſe many Years, plaguing me with one Wife or other, which I never thought of; and the World is very much obliged to you, for authorizing it's Impertinence, for I ſhall bear it henceforward with better Temper, when I find that a Perſon of your Underſtanding, and good Breeding, cannot avoid falling into the ſame provoking Raillery.

If I were really ſuch a good-for-nothing Fel⯑low, as you take me for, you have given me great Encouragement, by ſhewing with what good Temper you can bear ill Uſage; for ſurely, if I was when in Town, or ſince I came down to the Country, in any Manner engaged, by Con⯑tract or Affections, to any Woman alive, I ſhould have merited the higheſt Reſentment, to have ſaid, or wrote, what I did to you. Were the Merits, and Fortune of the Lady you mention, equal to my Wiſhes, and within their Power, the Conſideration of the Friend you likewiſe mention would make me turn my Thoughts another Way, and ſay with Tamerlane to Moneſes, ‘I will not loſe thee poorly for a Woman.’

[25]Thus am I obliged to your Opinion, for be⯑ing thought capable of two, the baſeſt and moſt diſingenuous Acts, human Nature can be guilty of; Falſhood in Love, and Diſhoneſty in Friend⯑ſhip.

While I labour under ſuch vile Suſpicions, it would pay you no Compliment, the ſubſcribing myſelf either your Lover or Friend.

LETTER XVIII. FRANCES to HENRY.

ROCHFAUCAULT ſays, ‘that nothing ought to make us wonder, but that we ſhould be ſtill able to wonder at any Thing.’ But, among all the Things I have ever met with, to aſtoniſh me, nothing has equalled your Letter, I ſhall not ſay Favour, any more than you. In ſhort, the Statue of Surprize, tho' done by Phi⯑dias, would but faintly repreſent my Figure, by the Time I had got to the End of your well penned Acroſtick."

How could you poſſibly return me ſuch an Anſwer to a Letter made up of Softneſs, Tender⯑neſs, and Fears? And where, for your Happineſs, or Advantage, I generouſly offered to reſign that [26] Love, which you flattered me with; and which, 'till I received the Rudeneſs of your Letter, I had Reaſon to think might have made the Happineſs of my Life.—But we are now quit; and your Generoſity is equal to mine, in throwing off the Maſque, which might have deceived me too far; and it was extremely kind to open my Eyes, be⯑fore I was quite got to the Brink of a Pre⯑cipice. You ſeem to underſtand that Maxim very well, ‘That the Violence which we uſe to preſerve Love, is worſe than Infidelity.’

How ſhould I imagine, that your Marrying that Lady was a Breach of Friendſhip? I ra⯑ther thought that, whom you honoured with your Friendſhip, you honoured with your Alliance; and he would be unworthy your At⯑tachment, who did not think ſo. And, as for my own Part, I endeavoured to repreſent what you ſaid, or wrote to me, merely as the Effects, or Eſſay of a certain vague Gallantry, which Men of Wit and Spirit exerciſe upon every ſilly Woman who comes in their Way.

If you do not credit me in this Juſtification, you may, at leaſt, believe my Pride, which would ſcorn to harbour a baſe or mean Opinion of one, whom even that very Pride eſteemed.

I have thus condeſcended to make an Apology for the Letter, which has offended you; but more to vindicate myſelf, than to ſatisfy you; and I mention the Word, Condeſcenſion, from [27] no other Idea of Heighth, or Superiority, but what the Injured have over thoſe, who wrong them, by having it in their Power to forgive, which, as it is a Thing you may almoſt plead a pre⯑ſcriptive Right to, I ſhall not be diſappointed, if I receive no Thanks for.

LETTER XIX. HENRY to FRANCES.

WHY, my little Pet, and a ſpoiled Pet thou art; what Reaſon in the World had you to reſent my Letter, except as Children do, be⯑ing whipt, when they do Miſchief?

I muſt have been extremely unworthy your leaſt Regard, if I had not reſented being thought a Trifler, at leaſt; which indeed was the ſmall⯑eſt Part of your Charge againſt me; and I muſt have thought you unworthy mine, if I had not been highly piqued, at being thought ſo by you.

You ſtill carry on your Unkindneſs, by charg⯑ing me with Rudeneſs in my Letter; which I remember not, at leaſt I am very ſure, I had no Sentiment of Ill-breeding in my Mind about you; but, if the Roughneſs of my Manners has offended you, I aſk your Pardon.

[28]Then you tell me, I have thrown off the Maſque, &c. &c. In ſhort, I make ſuch a paultry Figure, thro' the Courſe of your Anec⯑dotes, that I ſhould be aſhamed to re-offer you my Love and Friendſhip, if my Inclinations did not get the Better of my Modeſty; to aſſure you, that they are both at your Service, when ever you think them worth your Acceptance.

LETTER XX.

I RECEIVED your fond and elegant Letter, I mean of the 29th Date; for thoſe Cha⯑racteriſticks could hardly diſtinguiſh which of your Letters I allude to.

I am pleaſed to find, I am, at length, brought to ſuch a ſteady Temper of Mind, as to be able to bear, without Emotion, thoſe giddy Heighths, to which your Praiſe uſed to raiſe me; ſo that your Approbation now rather makes me emu⯑lous than vain. However, I owe this Strength, not to my own Senſe, but to your Conſtancy; as Uſe prevents our being affected with elevated Situations.

Whatever Senſe, Accompliſhment, or Merit, I have, were inſpired from your Precept, Exam⯑ple, and Inſtruction; and, like Pygmalion, you [29] are become inamoured of the Works of your own Hands. How doubly kind is it in a Maſter, firſt to make his Pupil perfect in his Art, and then commend him for his Excellence in it! Farewel, my Guide and Safeguard too, thro' all the dangerous Paths of Life.

LETTER XXI.

WE might have got farther To-night, but I choſe to ſtop here, for two Reaſons; the firſt was my Impatience to write to you; and the next, that I was heartily tired of my Com⯑panion, who was too well mounted, to eſcape from on the Road,—but I have locked myſelf up here.

He is one of thoſe Matter-of-fact Men, who, being incapable of ſtriking out any Thing, or Idea, from their own Senſe, or Imaginations, are eternally talking of what they have ſeen or heard; as if they were reading over a Memo⯑randum-Book; and whoſe whole Converſation is, a Diary of their Lives; for which Reaſon, they are never tired of talking, becauſe they are themſelves the chief Subject-matter of their Diſcourſe: I aſked him, a little peeviſhly, this Evening, whether he had ever committed Mu⯑der, [30] that he could not bear his own Thoughts a Moment?

Perhaps I ſhould have borne him, with more Patience, at any other Time; but, having ſo lately parted from your charming Converſe, I became more nice about my Company, and leſs capable of any Entertainment, except this of Writing to you; while the happy Wretch is prating, below Stairs, to the Waiter.

I have not Time now to ſend you the Rules, or Maxims, you promiſed to conduct yourſelf by, with Regard to your Life and Health; but, if you conſult your own Reaſon and Un⯑derſtanding, I flatter myſelf, you will have the Eſſence of them, before I can reduce them into a dull Form.

Adio Cara.

LETTER XXII.

I HAVE no News to write, but what I be⯑lieve is none at preſent, that I am very an⯑gry with you. Now, do but obſerve, Spectators, what an innocent Countenance he puts on, ſuch Gentleneſs of Manners, and Demureneſs of Fea⯑tures, that it would require Proofs, equal to Mathematical Demonſtration, to convict him; and yet I know this plauſible Man to be worſe [31] than a Devil; becauſe he has Art enough to hide his cloven Foot. But, alas! Rage is the ſhorteſt Paſſion of a Woman's Soul; and I find (to quote a Paſſage from one of your Letters) that ‘Abſence to Lovers, like Death to Ene⯑mies, buries every Fault, and enlivens every Virtue.’ However, I am glad that you are in the Country, that I may have the Pleaſure to think of you, in the moſt amicable Light; tho' it is poſſible I lye; for, perhaps, I have done nothing elſe, but wiſh you back, ever ſince you went. Yet it is a vain Taſk to think of ri⯑valling your Naids, Dryades, and Hamadryads, ſo, in Alluſion to your Song, I muſt "make a Virtue of Neceſſity," and be content.

I am quite aſhamed of this vile-penned Scrawl, not of Quality; but I hope you will excuſe it, when I tell you, that this Pen was made by Noah, and plucked from the Wing of that ungrateful Raven, which flew from the Ark, and returned not again; and has been worn to the Stump by old Maids, in making Anecdotes of Tea-table talk ever ſince.

Adieu.

LETTER XXIII. HENRY to FRANCES.

I DID not write to you before, becauſe I thought it a Soleciſm, in good Breeding, to pay you a Viſit, en paſſant, as Country Gentle⯑men call it, making an Inn of one's Houſe. Beſides, it would have been no Compliment to you, to have wrote from an Inn, where I was dull and idle; ſo deferred it, 'till I came here; where I have a World of Buſineſs, and the higheſt Entertainment, that a Number of agree⯑able Women can give to a Man of my Conſti⯑tution. And, to raiſe the Compliment higher, ("car il eſt bon de ſe fair valoir") I aſſure you, I have a Struggle with myſelf, at preſent, about Writing to you at all, leſt my Letters ſhould fall into aukward Hands, during Tom's Illneſs; but my Inclinations, with Regard to you, have always been too ſtrong for my Prudence; ſo on I venture, with a "hoping theſe few Lines, &c.

I cannot forgive your making Noah's Meſſen⯑ger a Raven, a Bird of ill Omen; when you might have made ſo many pretty Alluſions to the Dove, Emblem of Love and Peace. I beg henceforward your Quills may be gently drawn from the Pinion of the fond cooing Turtle, and [33] that the harſh Croking of that boading Fowl may never once aſſault my Ears.

Here I might bring in a Subject-matter appli⯑cable; but ſhall poſtpone it 'till I am ſure there are none but Friends by. The ſame Reaſon ſhall prevent me from giving my Thoughts upon the Buſineſs you mentioned to me at parting, 'till I hear Tom is able to walk Abroad; ſo ſhall con⯑clude, at preſent, with an extempore Tag:

LETTER XXIV.

MY dear Harry's Letter, at laſt, relieved me from ten thouſand Anxieties, while you were on your Journey, which are better felt, than expreſſed. If you knew what Pain your Negligence gives me, I am ſure you would be a little more punctual in your Correſpondence; but I almoſt deſpair of ever making you ſenſible of the Delicacy of my Sentiments, and am ſorry to find that you are ſtill unknowing in my Heart. However, I accept your Apologies, for ‘with Eaſe, alas! we credit thoſe we love.’ But I beg henceforward, that you would not be guilty of voluntary Faults and [34] Omiſſions, merely to ſhew, with what Addreſs you can excuſe them.

I do not at all doubt your being perfectly happy, in the Company of agreeable Women; and more ſo than other Men can [...]oaſt, in be⯑ing approved by them. But, ‘why am I told how Pyrrhus loves or hates?’ unleſs it be to mortify my Vanity, or hint that my Letters may be an impertinent Interruption to your Pleaſures at Elton. Yet I am encouraged to write more particularly at this Time, becauſe, perhaps, you may more readily come into my Platonick Scheme; and, that we may, without Loſs of Time, enter upon that charming Syſtem, I beg, that, by Return of the Poſt, you will ſend me a full and true Hiſtory of your giddy wandering Heart, from the Time it laſt trembled at a Rod, to its preſent Fluttering at Miſs Rawley's Feet, whom I know to be one of your Company, and probably the faireſt; but I ſhall purſue this Subject no farther, for I find my⯑ſelf beginning to grow grave, which is the next Step to growing dull.

I am offended at your ſeeming to doubt my Knowledge in Sacred Hiſtory; ſo ſhall refer you to the 7th Verſe of the 8th Chapter of Geneſis, where you will find, that the firſt living Crea⯑ture, which fallied out of the Ark, was that very identical Raven, mentioned in my laſt Let⯑ter. I diſclaim all Commerce with the Dove, [35] becauſe it returned with an Olive-Branch, and I here declare War with your whole worthleſs Sex; be you alone excepted from my general Reſentment. I wiſh you that ſoft Repoſe, which has been, this Week paſt, a Stranger to

LETTER XXV.

TAKE Notice that this Letter is dated the 26th of April, 1747, Old Stile, that you may ſee how punctual I am, in anſwering your's. For, by your ſaying, I was a Fortnight ſilent, I ſuppoſe Tom forgot my Letter in his Pocket, and I was really juſt ſitting down to inquire what was become of you, when I received your's. I aſſure you I never ſuffer a Poſt to in⯑tervene between our Correſpondence, and I will date my Letters henceforward to convince you of it.

I am ſorry you are ill—I am not much better myſelf; and am reduced to ſuch a Degree of low Spirits, as I ſhould be aſhamed to own, but that I never diſguiſe my Foibles to you. I hope it is owing merely to my Diſorder, that your [36] Letter appears very unreaſonable and unkind; but that and other Matters be referred to our Meeting, which ſhall be as ſoon as I am able to ride up to Town; and, tho' you ſtint me the Pleaſure of your Company to Half an Hour, I ſhall find nothing new in that, for I never thought I had that Happineſs longer in my Life.

I thank you for the Trouble you have had about my Things, and have here ſent you a Bill for the Coſts: I have not ſeen them yet, but am reſolved to like them, except the Green you have choſen be a Willow, which, from your Letter, I have Reaſon to apprehend.

I may hear from you, once at leaſt, before I ſhall be able to ſet out; and hope to have a better Account of your Health, to know when you have fixed for your Journey, and whither you are going.

Adieu! I am Your's, in Sickneſs or in Health.

LETTER XXVI.

I AM extremely ſorry to hear that you are ill, either in Body or Mind; and I ſincerely wiſh, that my preſent Sympathy could alleviate your Pains; for I could with Pleaſure ſay, ‘[37]Ah! more than ſhare them—give me all thy Griefs.’

I took the Air three or four Times in a vile Hack; and this has encumbered me with two new Diſorders, a Cold and Tooth-Ach. I have quite loſt my Appetite; and oh! how long are the Nights, and how ſhort my Slumbers? I am quite feeble, and my Spirits ſo low, that I can hardly ſpeak, to give neceſſary Directions about myſelf; and you know what a helpleſs Family I am in. Oh! haſte thee quickly to my Aid; and bring Hygea with thee, more welcome, as alone enjoyed in thy loved Preſence, and ad⯑mired Converſe—at leaſt, oh! ſend me a Ray of Divinity in your next Letter, by telling me you are recovered.

You call my laſt Letter unreaſonable and unkind, and ſay you are preparing the Willow. If to eſteem you with unwearied Conſtancy, and to preſerve the ſtrongeſt Friendſhip for you, even tho' you do not merit it, can be called unkind (tho' I acknowledge it to be unreaſon⯑able) I ſhall then own your Charge is juſt. Yet, notwithſtanding all this Weakneſs in my eaſy Nature, I am determined not to ſee you, but for the Time I propoſed; and I hope to have Courage enough to keep a Reſolution, upon which, perhaps, the Happineſs of my Life de⯑pends.

[38]My Head is ſo bad, that I am hardly able to hold it down any longer, tho' I have ten thou⯑ſand Things to ſay; but, if I am able, I will write again by next Poſt.

I beg you will let me know, when you in⯑tend to be in Town; for I have a Queſtion to aſk you, which is of ſome Conſequence to my Repoſe.

Do not aſk me what it is, for I will not tell you 'till we meet.

LETTER XXVII.

I AM very ſorry for the Account you give of yourſelf, and is it not, at the ſame Time, an extraordinary Thing, that I ſhould wiſh it were all true? For I would rather you had real, than imaginary Ills; as one is much eaſier cured, than the other; and I have often had Reaſon to ſuſpect you of Spleen and Vapours before now.

[39]I am quite recovered, and deſign going to London in ten Days; but think it needleſs to carry Hygea with me: "Nec Deus interſit, &c." for you poſſeſs her already, and bear her about as ^* Jupiter did of old, for Hygea is but one of the Names of Minerva.

As ſoon as I get to Town, I ſhall wait upon you, to talk over your extraordinary and cruel Scheme of baniſhing me from your Preſence for ever; and, as to the Queſtion you mean to aſk me, I will lay open my Heart and Mind as freely to you in any Particular you have a Cu⯑rioſity to inquire into, as I would to Heaven, "from whom no Secrets are hidden;" for, in⯑deed, I know nothing, merely relative to my⯑ſelf, which I need, or would chuſe to conceal from you; and, for what concerns other People, you can have no Reaſon to be anxious.

LETTER XXVIII.

I AM extremely pleaſed to find that my dear Harry has neither forgot his Promiſe, nor his Fanny. You ſee my Pulſe keeps equal Time [40] with your's: I wiſh I could ſay, they made as healthful Muſick. However, you may be aſſured, your Letter has been the moſt efficacious Medi⯑cine I could poſſibly have met with:—As the Mind has often an Effect upon the Body to its Detriment, which you hint to be my Caſe; it is but fair it ſhould alſo have the ſame towards its Good; and as there has been a Sympathy between us, in Sickneſs, it would be a provoke⯑ing Circumſtance, if it did not continue in Health.

Forgive me if I am laconick To-night, for I write in a Room, where there are as many different Tongues, as the Apoſtles were inſpired with; tho' I think the Alluſion would have been juſter, if I had mentioned the Building of Babel.

I thank you for your refined Compliment, which, tho' I have not Vanity enough to give Credit to, I am however pleaſed at; as I am with any Thing which gives you an Opportu⯑nity of ſhewing that lively Wit, which is ele⯑gant even in Trifles; and perhaps that Paſſage in your Letter was deſigned as a Supplement to the ^* Moriae Encomium of Eraſmus.

A Well-bred young Man threatens to read my Letter; ſo I will cloſe it, to ſave you from the Scandal of having ſo ſtupid a Correſpondent.

LETTER XXIX. HENRY to FRANCES.

I HAVE been abroad about Buſineſs, theſe two Days, tho' not very well able to go; and am juſt returned to Belvidere, which I call coming to myſelf again; and the firſt Thing which occurs to me, of Courſe, muſt be the applying myſelf to you.

Your Letter was, as you ſay, laconick; but I ſhould have thought ſo, if it contained a Quire of Paper. However, I kiſſed your laſt Billet, as it was, in ſome ſort, an Emblem of yourſelf, ſhort and ſweet.

I ſincerely wiſh there was ſuch a Sympathy between us, as you hint at, of mutual Affec⯑tions and Paſſions; but all the Effect, I feel, is like what is perceivable in Iron, touched by the Loadſtone; I am ſenſible of an Attraction, but alas! my Needle points ſtill to the North, which is the Region of your Chaſtity.

I will make my Letter as ſhort as your's, to ſhew you, I can keep to a Pattern, tho' I have not been able to put as good Stuff in the Suit.

LETTER XXX.

BECAUSE a Surprize is an agreeable No⯑velty in this ſame repetitious World, I would not give you the leaſt Hint of our in⯑tended Frolick. Kitty and I ſet out on Tueſday Morning for this Place; which we reached much fatigued that Night, partly by Stage, and partly Horſes, which her Brother brought to meet us at —; which Town was all in Flames, as we paſſed thro' it, but our Virtue carried us ſafe thro' the Fire Ordeal.

Direct for me at —, for we ſhall be all next Week at the Aſſizes, which are expected to be very gay. I have often thought this a very odd Time for Diverſion; and that a Jury ſhall now paſs a Verdict of Death, and then go dance. There is alſo a Sort of Cruelty in it to the miſerable Wretches, who ſuffer Death or Baniſhment at ſuch Times; for the Weight of all Ills is increaſed by comparing ourſelves with thoſe, who ſeem to rejoice in Health or Hap⯑pineſs.

We ſhall return to London in ten Days.

Adieu.

LETTER XXXI. HENRY to FRANCES.

I HAVE delayed anſwering your Letter, 'till the Poſt is juſt going out, that I might have as little Time to ſpare for that Purpoſe as poſſible, leſt I ſhould anſwer it too fully and circumſtantially; therefore ſhall only ſay, that, if you will recollect yourſelf, you will find, that, ſince the Firſt of our Acquaintance, there has not been an Act of Diſhonour, Unkindneſs, or even the loweſt Baſeneſs to be imagined, which you have not, at ſeveral Times, charged me with; my Love, my Friendſhip, my Honour, my Word, my Oath, all ſuſpected: And the higheſt and often repeated Teſtimonies of them all diſcredited.

"Are theſe Things ſo?" and are you ſurprized, I ſhould warmly expoſtulate about them? Which was in Truth all I did in that Letter, that has moved you to ſuch intemperate Reſentment.

When I preſs you home, about ſome Parti⯑culars in your former Letters, you pretend to be in Jeſt:—Is this ingenuous Dealing?—When I invite a large Set of Company to paſs the Summer at Belvidere, merely to ſave Appear⯑ances in your coming, you tell me you under⯑ſtand this, but as a Pique of Honour. But in⯑deed, Fanny, if I had not more true Love for [44] you, than I find I have Credit for, the Caprice and Unreaſonableneſs of your Behaviour, in ſe⯑veral Inſtances of our Lives, would have left me no Neceſſity for preſerving ſuch a Pique.

I ſhall ſay no more 'till we meet; nor then, I hope, one Word upon this Subject; for I believe Half an Hour's Reflection, upon the Subſtance of this Letter, will prevent all Occa⯑ſion of ſuch Altercation for the future.

LETTER XXXII. FRANCES to HENRY.

IT is a provoking Thing, that I have not any Perſon to whom I dare appeal, upon a Difference, or Diſpute between us. Yet it would avail me nothing, if I had; for that pro⯑voking, inſincere, plauſible, philoſophick Tem⯑per [45] of yours, would prejudice any Judge in your Favour. In ſhort, the Reaſonableneſs of my Reſentment cannot always appear; but the Calmneſs of your Anger may; for, while I am raging like one bit by a mad Dog, you are looking as demure and wiſe as a Phyſician feeling a Pulſe. Thus ſuperficial Obſervers are impoſed upon; but the Searcher of Hearts would find mine all the Time overflowing with Tenderneſs and Good-nature, your's rendered callous by deliberate Malice, and calm Rancour.

I know you will be angry at this; but ſo you have pleaſed to be with, almoſt, every ſe⯑cond Letter I ever wrote to you, and every ſecond or third Converſation has been a Quarrel.

I find we are both apt Scholars at a Game they call Snap-Dragon; but it ſhall not be my Fault, if we do not leave off, before we have burnt our Fingers; therefore, for the Sake of Peace and Friendſhip, let our Correſpondence end here.

LETTER XXXIII. HENRY to FRANCES.

YOU began your laſt with a Quotation which aptly deſcribes the Life, we have led for ſome Time paſt; but that I think our's is more unaccountable; for, tho' a Dog and Cat begin with Squabbling, yet Uſe ſoon reconciles them to each other; and I have ſeen them, in a ſhort Time, quietly occupy each a Chimney-Corner, as becomes domeſtick Animals to do. While, on the contrary, we met, at firſt with that mutual Love and good Liking, which might promiſe a long and conſtant Harmony; yet were not one Month acquainted, before Puſs, in her Majeſty, had her Back up, and Curr fell a Snarling, as if Uſe, Habit, or Cuſtom, whoſe conſtant Strife is againſt Nature, made a Sport of reconciling Antipathies, and deſtroying Sym⯑pathies.

But, to quit this Allegory, I beg my Dear, you will conſider, that I never reprimanded you for any Thing, but what I thought ſome Injury to your Fortune, Character, or Health; moſtly the Laſt; for the Firſt is too ſmall for Oeco⯑nomy, and the Second too good for Scandal. But you are conſtantly complaining of bad Health, and yet always doing the very Things which deſtroy it; you are eternally taking Me⯑dicines, [47] and, at the ſame Time, doing irregular Things, to prevent their Operation. Now it is probable that there are but few Drugs in an Apothecary's Shop, which may be ſaid, if they do no Good, to do no Harm; ſo that you may find the beſt Medicines, without a Regimen, turn to Poiſon; and, tho' frequent Parties to Ranelagh may be extremely agreeable to the Rules of a Novel,—they are, I aſſure you, quite contrary to the Laws of Phyſick. Such Irre⯑gularities, or Exceſs of any Kind, may not probably, ſo ſoon as you imagine, anſwer the End you have ſometimes ſo wickedly wiſhed for, the End of Life; but may, perhaps, take that ſhocking Turn, I mentioned to you lately, from an Hint of your Phyſicians, who ſaid you ſometimes ſpoke like a Perſon who was going mad, and, with Regard to your Health, you acted like one that was ſo.

If, from all theſe Apprehenſions, I ſhould endeavour to exert, perhaps, a little too rough⯑ly, the Power and Influence I thought I had over you, and which I never will make Uſe of, but for your own Advantage, I was in Hopes of having the Reaſon and Nature of the Thing calmly and diſpaſſionately conſidered, and ex⯑pected your Thanks (tho' I acted not on ſo poor a Motive) rather than your Reſentment.

But I have done, and do here promiſe you, that I will never give you any farther Offence [48] this Way; for I find you will have no Regard to your Health, for your own Sake; and am afraid you have not Kindneſs enough to take Care of it, for mine; ſo I ſhall, at leaſt, keep the Sentiments of my Heart to myſelf, however I may be made uneaſy with the Affections of it.

LETTER XXXIV.

I VENTURED no farther than this, To-day, for I had a great deal of Rain on the Road, and was afraid to puſh on, thro' the Night Air, for the three Reaſons I gave you this Morning, as the ſole Things which could make me uneaſy at the Thoughts of Death. I am now very well, thank your aſking, have juſt dined, and am drinking your Health.

I thought, with great Pleaſure, of your Meet⯑ing me at — upon my Return; but I do hereby releaſe you from that Promiſe; for, com⯑ing by the Houſe, I ſaw, even this bad Day, three genteel Coaches, two Hacks, a Poſt-Chaiſe, and two Four-wheeled Chairs unharneſſed be⯑fore the Door; now it is poſſible, and very pro⯑bable, that ſome Perſon, in every one of theſe [49] Equipages, know both you and me; and the Pleaſures I enjoy, in your Love, are not from open Vanity, but ſecret Pride, and, ‘Like a good Conſcience, ſolid Joy ſupplies.’

Of which, whoever could boaſt, never knew the Sweets. I would ſteal to your Love, as Miſers to their Wealth; leſt the Suſpicion of it might tempt others to ‘where my Treaſure is; for there, indeed my Heart is alſo.’ You ſee, what a Platonick you have made me; for I ſpeak of intellectual Joys now, as warmly, as I uſed to do of the Pleaſures of Senſe. But, in ſhort, what I mean by all this, is, that, ſince our Meeting at — would not have the charm⯑ing Conſequences of ſuch a frolick Appearance, I ſhould not chuſe to act "Hypocriſy againſt the Devil," and leave the World Room to ima⯑gine me, more happy than I am.

At ſome Diſtance from this Town, I amuſed myſelf with one of the moſt curious Pieces of exquiſite bad Taſte, I have ever met with; and which put me in Mind of that Epiſtle of Pope's which we read together, the other Evening. It was the deceptio viſûs of a Ship in Sail, on the Top of a Mountain, which, I ſuppoſe, termi⯑nated the Viſto of ſome abſurd Fellow's Unim⯑provement thereabouts; which ſhews Miſtreſs Johnſon's Expreſſion ^*, hinted in one of your Letters, tho' a Tautology in Senſe, not ſo much ſo in Terms. This may be ranked among the [50] unnatural Pleaſures, I mentioned to you lately, with which the Daemon of Caprice has poſſeſſed the human Brutes of this World. The curious Artiſt too, leſt any of his Merit ſhould be loſt, by the natural Appearance of the Object, had placed it on the left Hand, while the Sea was roaring on the Right, that the paltry Contri⯑vance might be obvious to the meaneſt Capa⯑city; or, if there was any Deſign to deceive the View, it was, by fixing the Ship among a Parcel of horrid Rocks, ſo that one might ſug⯑geſt to himſelf a ſhocking Object of Diſtreſs, thrown up there, by the Raging of a Tempeſt, or the Violence of an Earthquake; which but heighthened the Idea of falſe Taſte, and put me in Mind of ſeveral famous Pieces of Paint⯑ing, which have diſpleaſed me greatly; ſuch as Storms, Battles, Cities on Fire, Executions, chained Slaves, &c. which I never could en⯑dure the Contemplation of, for a Moment. The only Thing, which can recommend, in ſuch Pieces, is, their being well drawn; but this only renders them ſtill more ſhocking, as a bad Man needs but Senſe and Courage, to be a Devil.

There are ſome much admired Paſſages in Poetry, which I am diſſatisfied with, for the ſame Reaſon; and that a Reliſh for ſuch Things is an Inſtance of falſe Taſte, I think may be deduced from this one Reflection, that Provi⯑dence [51] has ſo wiſely and juſtly ordained it, that nothing, which gives us Pain, can poſſibly give us Pleaſure; except overcoming the Diſtempers of the Body, or the Vices of the Mind.

LETTER XXXV.

I DID not mean to trouble you, about ſuch a Trifle, at a Time you were ill, and only deſired Tom to aſk where you had bought the Silk, that he might match the Colour. Let me know what the Charge is, that I may not owe you paltry Debts, already ſo bound and mortgaged to you.

I am extremely ſorry, any Thing in my Let⯑ter ſhould provoke you, or make you uneaſy; tho' I need not make any Apology for being guilty of an Error, any body, who knows you, might be led into, the Believing you never ſay or do any Thing without a Meaning, or De⯑ſign. What I hinted at, were Paſſages out of your own Letter; and tho', upon my Honour, I did not take them ſeriouſly, I thought, at leaſt, you meant to make me uneaſy by them; and, [52] not having the Malice to diſappoint the Deſign, I thought it would be ſome Amuſement to my little Snap-Dragon, to find her Scheme was anſwered.

You have a Right, I think, and a Power, I ſwear, to make me uneaſy, whenever you pleaſe; and I ſhall henceforward never repine at your Prerogative, but when you extend it, as you often do, to the cruel Height of rendering your⯑ſelf unhappy in Health or Spirits; which is a Method of wounding me, beyond the Power of Temper or Philoſophy.

LETTER XXXVI.

WHEN my dear Harry left Town, I flat⯑tered myſelf, that I ſhould enjoy ‘a cool Suſpence from Pleaſure and from Pain,’ and that I ſhould recover my ſhattered Spirits and broken Conſtitution, firmly reſolved to live ſoberly, quietly, and righteouſly, all the Days of my Life. But, ſee the ſtrange Perverſeneſs of my Stars, more in Fault, than I, which drive me on the Rock, I thought to ſhun; for [53] I have not been one Evening at Home, ſince I ſaw you; but have been continually immerſed in Noiſe, Folly, and Hurry; dragged about in melancholy Parties of Pleaſure, where, as Pope ſays,

And ſurely it is a Vice, which the Devil was not Fool enough to recommend, to ſacrifice one's Life and Health, without ſome Joy in doing it. I wiſh you had died three Years ago, for, if I had not known you, the now inſup⯑portable Stupidity of Half the World would not have been ſo irkſome to me; for nothing is good or bad, but by Compariſon. You will oblige me extremely, if you will ſend me a Diſ⯑ſertation upon Fools; why there ſhould be ſuch Difference between Men of the ſame Family, and ſame Education, as may frequently be ob⯑ſerved; and, at the ſame Time, explain to me the Cauſe, for Reaſon there can be none, why Women are generally ſo fond of them. You muſt know that a Lady in Queen's-Square, whom you ſometimes have heard me make whimſical Mention of, has, in one of her Flights, taken a moſt unfortunate Paſſion for me; and, as Love is importunate, ſhe has not let me reſt an Hour in Peace, ſince that unlucky Aera; tho' what I ſuffer from her, is not the worſt Part of the Ad⯑venture; for the Oddneſs of her Character is [54] not unentertaining; but ſhe is generally ſur⯑rounded by a Groupe of miſerable young Men "of Wit and Humour about Town," who, by the Way of being ſprightly, talk Nonſenſe by the Hour, then, by Way of Gallantry, cram us into Hacks, and away to —, where I have ſupped with the ſame Set, twice this Week; and,

But, now I think of it, why did you not write laſt Poſt? I confeſs indeed that your ſprightly Letter had more fine Things in it, than I ſhould be able to pay you back, in a thouſand Years; but, to ſome the Gods have given Fortitude, &c. and, ſince Writing is not my Talent, I think you would be more unrea⯑ſonable than the Aegyptian Taſk-maſters, if you expected a Return from me; but, to play back the Pertneſs of your own Expreſſion in one of your Letters, ‘You may be aſſured that my Heart, at leaſt, keeps equal Time with your's; tho' you may have more Wit, as well as Love at your Fingers Ends.’ And tho' I can⯑not pay you off, in your own Coin, you may ſee by the Length of this Letter, that I make you the only Tender I have in my Power; and, like a compounding Creditor, you muſt accept of Quantity for Quality.

[55]We have dreadful Weather here; long, tedi⯑ous, wet Winter-days, and ſhort Nights, which hardly give us Time to warm ourſelves in Bed, before the Ghoſt of Phoebus returns, to haunt us with another uncomfortable Day. The Streets are not much above Ancle-deep; which is an entertaining Circumſtance to thoſe who have no Equipages. In ſhort, I am almoſt ruined with the Expence of Chair-hire.

I wiſh you could prevail on yourſelf to write oftener than once a Week; for, if I am reduced, I vow, I will print your Letters—I think they will keep me in Tea, clean Linnen, and Plays; which, you know, is all my Food, my Appa⯑rel, or my Amuſement.

Adieu! and think often of Your affectionate Pauper.

LETTER XXXVII.

I RECEIVED your pretty lively Letter, and am now ſet down to conſider of the Queſ⯑tion you ſtarted in Natural Philoſophy, relating to Fools.

As Nature is ſaid, to have made nothing in vain, what Apology then for Fools? This Difficulty, which has ſo long puzzled the Learn⯑ed, [56] I will offer you two Solutions to anſwer; one by denying, and the other, by admitting the Fact.

Firſt then I deny that Nature ever made a Fool, but as ſhe makes any other Monſter; not by Deſign, but thro' ſome accidental Imper⯑fection in the Organs of Conception, or caſual Event, happening afterwards to the Infant in the Cradle.

Next, I admit Fools to have been made by Deſign, and, no Offence to you, ſhall take the Liberty to offer you this Hypotheſis of the Matter.

Providence made Man; and, ſeeing it not good, that Man ſhould be alone, made Woman; then, ſeeing it not good that Women ſhould be alone, he made a Fool; before which Time, it is ſaid ſhe amuſed herſelf with the Devil. From which Time Knaves and Fools have divided the Favours of the Fair.

Let me now attempt a Metaphyſical Account of this extraordinary Matter, which has ſo much ſurprized natural Philoſophers: That two Men, who have had the ſame Education, and, upon Diſſection, have been found anatomically the ſame, have yet ſo greatly differed in their Underſtanding. For this, ſee the Metempſichoſis, on Tranſmigration of Souls, according to Virgil's Account of it. He ſays, in the ſixth Aeneid, that the Souls of thoſe who die, return to this [57] World again to animate other human Bodies; except ſuch as, having compleatly acquitted themſelves on Earth, remain in Elyſium for ever. Now, ſince as many, or more, are born, as die; therefore, it is neceſſary to create a Num⯑ber of new Souls, to ſupply the Place of thoſe, who have finiſhed their Courſe. Thus I con⯑clude, that what is ſtiled Senſe, or Parts, in Men, is, but a Recollection of former Experience; and their having no Conſciouſneſs of this Matter, need be no Objection to the Truth of it; for Men have often, in their Sleep, exerciſed the Arts, they have been bred to, without any Re⯑collection of their former Practice. The Fools then of this World, I take to be ſome of thoſe new-faſhioned Souls, occaſionally created, who muſt neceſſarily paſs thro' an Infancy of three-ſcore Years, and be re-born to every Stage of human Life, before they can arrive at an adult Underſtanding, and find Reſt for their Souls in Elyſium.

The ſecond Part of your Propoſition muſt be deferred, to be conſidered the next Poſt.

LETTER XXXVIII.

IN Anſwer to the ſecond Part of your Quere, I ſhall obſerve to you, that Fools are gene⯑rally ſaid to be [...] As I have not my Books by me, I muſt leave this Section imperfect, and proceed to another natural Reaſon; which is, that Thought and Reflection much waſte the Strength, and diſſi⯑pate the animal Spirits; which Weakneſs, Fools being eſpecially free from—, here again, I am at a Loſs—, ſo I ſhall quit this Subject, after having made one Reflection; that, as Wo⯑men are ſaid, in general, to be extremely fond of Fools, it is ſurprizing, that Men of Senſe find ſo little Favour from them, as they are al⯑lowed to be incomparably the greateſt Fools in Love. For a Man of Senſe muſt beat a Fool, all to nothing, even in Folly. But this remark⯑able Diſtinction, with Women, muſt be owing to their extraordinary Piety; paying greater Regard to Ideots delivered from the Hands of their Creator, than to Fools of their own Making.

Enough of this idle Subject,—Adieu!

LETTER XXXIX. FRANCES to HENRY.

DOST thou expect to live, after all this prophane Sarcaſm againſt Women? Or do you hope that Heſiod or Orpheus were to be the laſt Sacrifices to Female Juſtice? Obſerve that I enter the Liſts, and draw my Pen, as Cham⯑pion, for the Honour of my injured Sex, in which I ſhall proceed after your own Method: Firſt, by denying, and then by admitting the Fact.

Firſt, then, I affirm that Souls are not of different Genders: Therefore, in the metaphy⯑ſical Nature of the Queſtion, your Sex has, originally, no Advantage over our's. I have indeed ſometimes heard ſuch an arbitrary Diſ⯑tinction made, as Virtues maſculine, and Vir⯑tues feminine; but the Antients, who firſt claſſed all human Properties, were of a different Way of thinking; and tacitly confeſſed, that all vir⯑tuous Qualities belonged more properly to our Sex; for I have heard you ſay a very flattering Thing, that, ‘in all the learned Languages, the moral Excellencies were Nouns of the feminine Gender.’ If you anſwer for Greek and Latin, I will do the ſame for French and Italian.

[60]This ſhews, at leaſt, the general Senſe of lettered Philoſophers, as alſo of great and war⯑like Nations, in our Favour; and what led them naturally into this Way of Thinking, was, the Obſerving that all Refinement in Senſe, and all Improvement in Manners, was entirely owing to our Influence over your uncooth Natures, who afterwards poliſhed thoſe Virtues, which we firſt inſpired,—"ye had been Brutes with⯑out us."

But, not to inſiſt on any Superiority in this Matter, would it not be cruel and prophane to ſuppoſe that the Creator ſhould require as great Virtues from us, and ſubject us to as ſe⯑vere Trials, as Men, without inſpiring our Minds with equal Strength, or making our Souls capable of as high moral Perfection?

Your own Reading can furniſh you with In⯑ſtances in Women, of every manly Virtue, even of perſonal Courage, and Contempt of Death; ſufficient to prove the Force of my Reaſoning; which, however, I ſhall not enume⯑rate, leſt, my Memory failing me, you ſhould pertly ſay, theſe Examples were but juſt ſuffi⯑cient to eſtabliſh the contrary Rule, by their Exceptions to it. In Anſwer to which, I ſhall make a Reply, that a Lion did once to Man, you "keep the Art of Painting in your own Hands." But, grant that the Inſtances of female Heroiſm are but few, are not the Opportunities of ex⯑erting [61] it as few alſo? I mean with regard to Actions publick, and ſhining enough, for the Notice of Hiſtory; which, however, are neither more amiable, or more difficult, than many Virtues, you, vile Men, give us the Occaſion of exerciſing in private Life; to which you have arbitrarily confined the Sphere of our Activity.

Now even thoſe few extraordinary Examples, which you all admit of, ſufficiently prove, or declare, the original Excellence of our Natures; for Reaſon, or Philoſophy, may perfect Virtue, but cannot create it; tho' a narrow and illiberal Education may ſo depreſs and obſcure great Qualities, as to give that paltry Tenour to our Characters, which you ſo unfairly reproach us with;—which brings me to the ſecond Part of my Propoſition, and which, according to your Example, I ſhall make the Subject of a ſecond Letter;—ſo a Truce, 'till next Poſt, but no Peace, 'till you are fairly conquered.

LETTER XL.

IN antient Times, when Mankind began to frame themſelves into Societies and States, the male Part, perceiving they were born with greater bodily Strength, than the Female, vainly concluded, they were originally indued with greater Senſe and nobler Souls, ſo, partially arrogated to themſelves the Superiority; at the ſame Time, that they refuſed, very unfairly, the ſame Law of Reaſon, to an Horſe, though they acknowledge him to be an Animal of greater Strength, than they.

Now, in order to preſerve this unjuſt Domi⯑nion to themſelves, and their Heirs Male for ever, they concluded no Salique Law ſo effec⯑tual, as to fetter and inſlave our Minds, by ſuch a narrow, domeſtick, and partial Education, as ſhould bury the Seeds of Senſe and Philoſophy, and byaſs our Opinions towards a Notion of their ſuperior, "manly Senſe and Reaſon."

Thus un-educated, and un-improved; or, what is worſe, condemned to a wrong Educa⯑tion; it is as unfair to cenſure us for the Weak⯑neſs of our Underſtandings, as it would be to blame the Chineſe Women for little Feet; for neither is owing to the Imperfection of Nature, but to the Cruelty of Cuſtom.

When Women then aſſociate themſelves with Men of moderate Underſtandings (for I [63] think you too humble, when you brand thoſe with the Title of Fools, who fall ſhort of your own Senſe) it is only becauſe it is natural and reaſonable to prefer that Degree of Senſe, which they comprehend, to that which is be⯑yond their Apprehenſion, and this is nothing more than you would do yourſelf; for I do not know, what Pleaſure you could have, in Com⯑pany with a Rabbi, merely for his underſtanding Hebrew, of which you hardly know the Type.

I believe that Women, caeteris paribus, as Tom ſays, always prefer Men of the beſt Senſe, as far as the Limits of their own Underſtanding extend; beyond which, it would be Enthuſiaſm, not rational Affection, to carry their Regards. I confeſs indeed that there muſt be an intire Equality between the Rivals, with regard to Fortune, Titles, Dreſs, Perſon, &c.—before the Superiority of Underſtanding can have the Chance of being conſidered. But then this is owing to the falſe Byaſs of female Education, which directs us to wrong Means of Happineſs; and, inſtead of being cenſured for our Error, we ought to be pitied for not being rendered capable of judging right.

Henceforward therefore, I interdict you, wiſe Fools, from the Unjuſtneſs of any Satyr againſt our Sex, 'till you have, by a proper and more liberal Education, given our noble and inge⯑nuous Natures fair Play to exert themſelves. [64] Do this, if ye dare, ye imperious Tyrants, and ye ſhall ſee, how ſmall we will make you. Oh! let us once be free; for know that Arts and Sci⯑ences cannot raiſe their Heads under deſpotick Sway.

I ſhall mention but one Thing more, which appears to me a very natural Thought; that Providence certainly intended Women, rather than Men, for the Study and Contemplation of Philoſophy and ſcientifick Knowledge; as the Delicacy of our Frame ſeems fitter for Specula⯑tion, than Action; and our Home-province af⯑fords us greater Leiſure, than Men, who, from their robuſt and active Natures, ſeem calcu⯑lated more for Buſineſs, Labour, and mecha⯑nick Arts. Out then, ye vile Uſurpers of our natural Rights and Liberties; and oh! for an Army of Amazons to vindicate our Wrongs.

LETTER XLI. HENRY to FRANCES.

I AM charmed at the Senſe and Spirit of your Letters, and find it eaſy to recant from an Error, which was never ſeriouſly my Opinion; [65] and you may forgive the Spleen of a provoked Lover, who, as is generally the Way, abuſes the whole Sex, to ſhew his Reſentment to one. But I cannot help obſerving, how generouſly, and like a Knight-Errant, you have behaved, to fly to the Succour of a weak Combatant, by whoſe Fall you could no Way be affected.

To this you could not be induced, by any State Policy, to enter into an Alliance for your own Defence; but, like the Engliſh, bravely in⯑gage in the War, to preſerve the Ballance of Power; and, like them too, furniſh the whole Expence yourſelf.

For my Part, I declare, that, in general, I both like and eſteem Women better than Men; they often excite the Exerciſe of the moſt plea⯑ſing Virtues, Generoſity, Honour, and Com⯑paſſion, they inſpire us with the whole ‘petites Morales,’ as the French not unaptly term them, of Complacency, Politeneſs, and Gentle⯑neſs of Manners; without which, as you ſay, we had been Brutes indeed.

I never feel myſelf intirely chearful, but in their Company; for Sprightlineſs and good Humour more particularly become you, than us; as your gayer and more poetical Reading, with almoſt an intire Vacation from Buſineſs, enable you better to exert them: In ſhort, what was ſaid of Muſick, may very juſtly be applied to your Sex:

Your Senſe too is of a prettier, and purer Kind, than our's; un-incumbered with logical Diſtinctions, and untainted with the Subtleties of the Schools, "you ſtrike each Point, &c."

Your Virtues alſo are more conſtant and perfect than our's, as they flow from a natural Delicacy of Sentiment, a chaſte Education, and a more implicit Senſe of Religion, while our Morals, being firſt obſcured by a libertine Youth, are to be brought to Light by the La⯑bour of Thought and Reflection; then paſs thro' the Hands of Legiſlators, who ſo mix and blend them with human Policies, that the very Spirit is evaporated; or elſe they are ſo ſubti⯑lized by the Refinements of the Philoſophers, that the intire Subſtance of Virtue is deſtroyed.

I ſhall ſay no more now, on this Subject, but that, as I formerly hated the whole Sex, on Ac⯑count of one Woman, I ſhall henceforward love them all for the Sake of another; in Conſe⯑quence of which, I here throw this Palinode at your Feet.

I cannot reſiſt a Piece of Pertneſs, in Anſwer to the laſt Paragraph of your laſt Letter; by obſerving, that, whether, Knowledge was ori⯑ginally deſigned for Women, or no, I cannot tell; but ſhe certainly was the firſt who taſted of it.

LETTER XLII. HENRY to FRANCES.

ROCHFAUCAULT, or ſome other Maxim-monger, has theſe Words: ‘It is a com⯑mon Thing, with ſome People, to exclaim againſt Inconſtancy, at the ſame Time that they are pleaſed, to have an Example of Change; for ſometimes the warmeſt Love and ſtricteſt Friendſhip inſenſibly ſlacken, and we then ſeek a Quarrel, merely to have ſome Pretence to ſet ourſelves at Liberty.’

This, my dear Fanny, ſeems really to be your Caſe; for I'll be ſworn, there is not the leaſt Colour, in any of my Letters, for ſuch a Charge againſt me. I have not found Fault (becauſe I would not wrong you) with any of your Words, or Actions: I have not taken it into my Head, that you ſeem tired of the Com⯑merce between us, either in Converſation or Correſpondence; nor have I ever ſought a Pre⯑tence [68] to put an End to it: So far from it, that, tho' you have ſo fairly (ſay unfairly) put one in my Way, by your laſt extraordinary Epiſtle, I will not take the Advantage of it; tho' it has a Recommendation, which could make me do almoſt any Thing elſe, namely, your Requeſt.

You deſire too, that I would return you all your Letters, for indeed I have them all; but this too I muſt refuſe you, for I ſhould part even with your Writings, with more Reluctance, than it ſeems you would have, in reſigning mine, and their Author too, to help out the Bargain; which I do not think an Equivalent for the Exchange you require, and I am too poor in Wit, to part with any Thing for leſs than its full Value; tho', perhaps, it would be but ſlightly prized, if known how little I gave for it.

Tho' I will not part with any Thing of your's, you ſee how readily I give you what belongs either to myſelf or others: I ſend you incloſed a Lock of my Hair, which you deſired, when I ſaw you laſt; and, to pay the higheſt Compli⯑ment to female Vanity and Triumph, I alſo ſend you a Locket, to put it in, which was given me by a very pretty Woman, whoſe Hair I have taken out, and burned this Day in the Midſt of ſome of her Letters, which I had by me.

LETTER XLIII.

I RECEIVED my dear Harry's Letter, and am much better pleaſed to acquit, than con⯑demn you; for, as ſomebody ſays, I think it is Pope, ‘To ſay I have changed my Opinion, is no more than to ſay, I am wiſer To-day, than I was Yeſterday.’ I am doubly pleaſed to have my Knowledge increaſed by a Conſciouſ⯑neſs of your Regard; but, in Return for the Maxim you quoted, give me Leave to uſe one of the ſame Author's, where he ſays, ‘That the Violence done us by others is often leſs painful than that we do ourſelves.’ Now, my dear Harry, if this be the Caſe, I am ſtill un⯑happy in your Correſpondence: For, be aſſured, that my ſole Motive for deſiring to put an End to it, was, that I imagined it grew tireſome to you; and it would mortify me extremely, if I thought I owed more to your Good-breeding, than your Good-will. This Opinion of mine, however, did not proceed from any Suſpicion of your Inconſtancy, but from a Conſciouſneſs, that I had neither a natural, or acquired Fund, ſufficient to return your charming and frequent Letters, with that Senſe and Spirit they re⯑quired; and, if ever I neglected a Poſt, it was from that Awe, which has often made me ſilent in your Company. But, if you have indeed Condeſcenſion enough to read the Dictates of [70] my little artleſs Heart, with a more than partial Eye; if they ſometimes give you Pleaſure, even of good-natured Criticiſm, and that you ſtill regard me with friendly Opticks, I wiſh no higher Satisfaction than the Continuance of your entertaining and improving Correſpondence.

It humbles me ſometimes, when I ſuſpect that you only write to me, as Moliere uſed to read his Works to his Houſe-keeper, that he might be ſure there was natural Wit, in what⯑ever was reliſhed by her untutored Taſte. How⯑ever, your Condeſcenſion has, any Way, its Eſteem with me; and puts me in Mind of a beautiful Simile, I have ſome where met, quoted from the Antients, ‘that a Man of Merit re⯑ſembles an Ear of Corn, which ſtoops the more it is loaded with Grain.’

I thank you for the Lock of your Hair, but am angry, at what you call a Compliment to female Vanity. I aſſure you, I do not feel any Joy in this ſhort-lived Triumph, but rather look upon it as a Memento

Beſides, I ſhould have ſet it in a more elegant Manner, for your former Miſtreſs ſeems to have had but an old-faſhioned Taſte; but I will now keep it, as it is, for its own intrinſick Value.

[71]I ſhould be tempted to ſend you a Locket, to replace the one you have parted with; but, if Beauty could not keep its Situation near your Heart, I fear you would not let any Thing, which belonged to me, have any Place about you; nor even give it ſo honourable a Funeral, as that of the antient Romans. I wiſh, how⯑ever, I could prevail with you to deal with my Letters, as, you ſay, you have done with her's; for I can't be eaſy, while you have ſo many Proofs of my Folly in your Keeping.

Pray ſend me ſome more of your Poetry.

LETTER XLIV. HENRY to FRANCES.

I AM very well pleaſed to find you are at length recovered to a right Way of think⯑ing: I ſwear you wronged me much, if you really imagined, I could any Way be tired of a Correſpondence with you, if you was kind enough to bleſs me with one, in every Senſe; nor can I believe you had even the leaſt Suſpi⯑cion about it; but had a Mind to make a far⯑ther Eſſay of my Fondneſs for you, like People, who riſe to go away, in order to be preſſed to ſtay. Theſe are, my dear Fanny, idle, ro⯑mantick [72] Experiments, and I beg you'll never make Uſe of them again, as they ſuit not with my Sincerity and Plainneſs

As to the Sacrifice, I made you, it was neither out of Inconſtancy, or Ingratitude; but ſhe has been married ſome Years, and lives very hap⯑pily; ſo I burned her Letters, and deſtroyed her Bracelet; becauſe I did not care to keep any Thing of her's, which might, at any Time, give Cauſe of unjuſt Suſpicion, or give me Oc⯑caſion to recollect any Thing about her. By which Means I thought to acquit myſelf with Honour, both to her and you.

The Incloſed I wrote the other Day upon my Friend's Illneſs; which I ſhould not think worth ſending you, if I had not received your Com⯑mands, laſt Poſt, to this Effect.

LETTER XLV. FRANCES to HENRY.

THERE is ſomething very provoking in your laſt Letter, which I have obſerved in ſeveral others, upon like Occaſions; and, in ſhort, there is, in your whole Behaviour towards me, ſomething which often diſtreſſes me to the higheſt Degree. You firſt ſay, or do ſome rude, ſlighting, or unkind Thing to me; and when I reſent it, by Speech or Letter, you throw your⯑ſelf into your provoking Calmneſs, and are Maſter of ſo much Politeneſs, Addreſs, and Power of Countenance, that you almoſt perſuade me it was impoſſible for you to offend: Which is ſomewhat like the Archneſs of an Academick, who, when he has burned your Fingers, will give you Logick, to prove there is no Heat in Fire; which, tho' it amuſes, does not not pre⯑vent [74] your Smarting; and, when I think to re⯑lieve myſelf by complaining to others, they do not believe me, againſt ſuch Gentleneſs of Manners, and ſpecious Shew.

In the Hiſtory of Reynard the Fox, there is a Story told: That, once upon a Time, all the Beaſts of the Field roſe in Arms againſt our Hero, on Account of ſome Rogueries charged upon him; which, they thought, brought a Diſgrace on their Bruteſhips. But, when they came to his Den, they found him reading his Credo, and concluded the Information to be ma⯑licious. When Nero was ſeen playing on his Harp, who could have thought it was he who had juſt fired the City?

In ſhort, my dear Harry, I wiſh you would reſolve to be either an Angel, or a Devil, (for you can be either) and preſerve Conſtancy in your Option; becauſe this Suſpence, you hold me in, is the moſt uneaſy State in the World, as I cannot determine on any certain Scheme of loving or hating you. So I ſhall conclude, at preſent, with a Tag from one of Martial's Epigrams: ‘There is no Living with you, or without you.’

LETTER XLVI. FRANCES to HENRY.

THERE is no News in this Town, but what, to be ſure, you have heard before, that — is gone off with —. I pity her extremely, for, as ſhe is very pretty, and very young, ſhe has probably a long and ſhock⯑ing Scene to go thro'. Had ſhe erred with any other Man, ſhe might have the common Excuſe of being deceived; of a Dependance upon his Honour, &c. But ſhe abandons herſelf to the [...]ileſt Infamy, ‘Who ſwells the Triumph of known Perjury.’

If a Woman is tempted to forfeit her own Character, ſhe ought, at leaſt, to take Care that the Man has ſome Character to loſe, ſo as, tho' ſhe becomes a private Victim, ſhe ſhall not be made a publick Sacrifice. If I was to do an Act, which I could not juſtify to the World, I would, at leaſt, take Care to have ſomething to excuſe me to myſelf. But poor Miſs — has nothing of all this to palliate her Indiſcre⯑tion, for ſhe has, as Young movingly expreſſes it,

I feel a mortified Pride and Indignation upon all Occaſions like this; as I ſuppoſe you Men do, when you hear the Story of a Coward; leſt [76] it ſhould bring a Reflection upon human Nature in general; for Cuſtom, tho' not Ethicks, or Religion, has put Courage in your Sex, and Chaſtity in ours, upon the ſame Footing. How inequitable a Law that is, may be proved from this one Conſideration: That you have but ſel⯑dom any Occaſion of exerting your imaginary Point of Honour; while poor weak Women may have, every Day, an Enemy to combat, either within, or without; and ſometimes, hard Fate! may be attacked by both at once.

Some French Writer ſays, ‘Qu'elle eſt a plaindre, qui à au meme témps, L'amour, et la Vertu!’ but I ſay more juſtly, ‘Qu'elle eſt a plaindre, qui à que L'amour ſeulemen [...] ▪’

I am aſhamed at having ceded ſo much in this Argument, but there is no diſguiſing our Sentiments to you Natural Philoſophers; and, to thoſe who are acquainted with the Frame of hu⯑man Nature, I think it prudent to own the Truth, leſt our Actions might be deemed as diſingenuous, as our Words; which puts me in Mind of a very juſt Remark of your's, upon a certain Occaſion, ‘That none but Cowards ever denied their being liable to Fear.’ And it was a noble Saying of Turenne to one of his Generals, who took Notice of an extraordinary Emotion, he obſerved in him, the Morning juſt before a deſperate Engagement: "This [77] Coward-body trembles, at what the brave Soul dares this Day."

I ſhall take Care to forward the Letters you incloſed to me laſt Poſt; and think they are wrote with that Senſe and Virtue, which is ſo familiar to you, as to appear in your moſt ordi⯑nary Actions. I am fond of your good Wiſhes for their Happineſs, as you juſtly limit it to their Merits; had you given them one Grain more, I ſhould have been extremely angry, as it would have been impiouſly preſuming to be more merciful than God himſelf. However, not to make too ſevere a Law againſt myſelf, I hope you will not deal ſo, Debtor and Creditor like, with

LETTER XLVII. Monday Morning, 5 o'Clock. HENRY to FRANCES.

I AM juſt returned from performing my uſual Ambarvalia in the Morning; and have rouſed all my Labourers to Work, except thoſe who are ill; whom I have viſited, and aſſiſted both with Advice and Money. Sometimes, [78] when I take theſe Rounds, I mend a Fence, drive Cattle out of their Gardens, and do many ſuch little benevolent Offices; which are ex⯑tremely pleaſing in the Exerciſe, and flatter my Mind too, as if I was a Sort of Guardian An⯑gel, aſſiſting unſeen, and watching over thoſe that ſlept.

When I am, as it were alone, awake among the Brute Creation, I feel myſelf, like Adam, ſole Lord of this Globe; and this Reflection cautions me, from his Example, ‘to take Heed leſt I fall.’ In ſhort, I have often looked upon early Hours to be as neceſſary to Virtue, as they are to Health; for I believe moſt Men are wicked, rather for Want of Reflection, than Want of Principle; and the charming Leiſure, which Riſing early affords for Contemplation, I take to be a great Help towards the Improve⯑ment both of Morals and Religion. How na⯑tural is true Devotion, when the Mind is at Liberty to reflect, with Gratitude and Admira⯑tion, upon the Bounties and Beauties of Provi⯑dence! and I am very ſure that the Seducer has infinitely more Power over a Man immerſed in the World, than over one who has ſecluded him⯑ſelf from it; inſomuch, that I never knew a very contemplative Man, a wicked one, ſince I have been capable to obſerve upon the Manners of Mankind. It is in ſuch Retirement, that the Conſcience has fair Play to exert itſelf; and [79] that a Man has Leiſure, as it were, to con over his Leſſons of Philoſophy, Morality, and Re⯑ligion, before he is called upon to repeat them, when the School of the World is met; by which Means, he muſt be more perfect in his Part, as he will have an Opportunity of getting it by Heart, before he has Occaſion to put it in Practice.

LETTER XLVIII. FRANCES to HENRY.

YOUR Thoughts upon the Nature and Paſ⯑ſion of Reſentment, are philoſophical and ingenious, and are wrote with that ſenſible Calmneſs, which I always admire in you; tho' I am ſometimes provoked at it. In ſhort, I have often thought it was your peculiar Happineſs to have been bleſſed, by Providence, with a Judgment to direct you right, and an Heart to [80] purſue its Dictates; for you really do not ſeem to be born with a Spirit ſufficient to actuate your Virtue without it.

But, in Anſwer to your laſt Letter, I think, I may obſerve this, that you ſeem rather to argue againſt the Paſſion of Anger, than the Principle of Revenge. That we are to ſubmit to the Viciſſitudes of Fortune, with Chearful⯑neſs and Reſignation, as they are preſumed to be the Diſpenſations of Providence, who knows both what we are able, and what it may be for our Advantage to bear, is a Point we are both agreed in; but, whether we are to look upon thoſe Misfortunes, which proceed from the Ingratitude, Perverſeneſs, Envy, Hatred, or Malice of Mankind, as the Chaſtiſement of Providence, ſo as to conſider our Enemies as evil Agents, directed to good Purpoſes, as Di⯑vines tell us is ſometimes the Caſe, is a Doc⯑trine, which does not appear quite ſo plauſible to my Underſtanding. Why may we not ſup⯑poſe, that human Frailty, or the Inſtigation of the Devil, ſometimes prompts Men to Enmity with their Fellow-creatures; tempting them to communicate ſome Portion of that Miſery to others, which the evil Spirit of Miſchief tor⯑ments their own Hearts with? In this Caſe then, I look upon Revenge to be not only Natural, but Moral too; for the Diſappoint⯑ment of Malice, or the Retorting of it with [81] Vengeance, is a more likely Method of curing the vicious Habit, than Non-reſiſtance and For⯑giveneſs, which but nouriſh the Diſtemper.

Your Sentiment, ‘That we ſhould behave well to our Friends out of Love, and to our Enemies out of Picque,’ is certainly very noble; but give me leave to obſerve, that this is but a partial Virtue, as it regards intirely our own Advantage, but tends not to the Reforma⯑tion of another's Manners. This may have an Effect, perhaps, upon ſome ingenuous Natures, but of ſuch our late Letters have not been con⯑verſant; and, in Truth, they are ſo few, that this can only be conſidered as a particular, not a general Rule.

I may be wrong in my Opinion, but Nature never errs; and, as the Brute Creation is in⯑ſpired with ſuch a Paſſion, we may ſtile it the ſecond Principle, as Self-preſervation is the Firſt; and I dare ſay, that Seneca, dying in the Bath, would have ſmiled, in his laſt Moments, to have ſeen Nero pale and breathleſs at his Feet. Perhaps too, it was ſome Idea of Re⯑venge on Caeſar, that prompted Cato to put himſelf to Death (otherwiſe he acted very un⯑accountably) to diſappoint the Conqueror's Tri⯑umph, and to draw off the Acclamations of the World, in ſecret Murmurs, at their Hero's Fate. However, to compound this Diſpute upon Revenge, I will agree with you, that, as a Paſ⯑ſion, [82] it is a Vice, provided you will admit, that, as a Principle, it may be a Virtue.

LETTER XLIX. HENRY to FRANCES.

THANKS to your Enquiry, I am much better in Health and Spirits, than I was Yeſterday; which I attribute chiefly to your Viſit. If you really have any Thing to ſay, as you hint in your Letter, are you like a Spright, not able to deliver it, 'till you are firſt ſpoken to? I wiſh you would only give me the Clue, that I may be able to trace your Labyrinth: For I am not ingenious enough to unriddle your Meaning without it. In ſhort, my Dear, you have ſo ſpeculated away your Senſes, that one muſt have the intuitive Science of an Angel, to converſe with you, by the Intelligence of Souls.

As for the Antitheſis of your Regards for me, it is no other Ways to be accounted for, but by ſuppoſing, that you have either im⯑poſed on me, or yourſelf. If you ever loved [83] me, you do ſo ſtill: I need not add, that you have more Reaſon for it now, if Reaſon has any Thing to do in ſuch Affairs. If you never loved me, you are only grown indifferent to me; and, being aſhamed to own it, as that is a State, which Lovers never come to, you pre⯑tend to hate me.

Pray who are thoſe Friends you hint at, who have merited more from you than I? None indeed, thou Child of Fantaſy and Caprice, except, by greater Merits, you mean more perſonal Worth; and, in this Particular, I muſt confeſs myſelf the meaneſt of your Admirers, tho' the ſincereſt of your Friends. You have cer⯑tainly a very whimſical Manner of playing with my Paſſion for you; and, after the Kindneſs and Condeſcenſion of your Viſit Yeſterday, I confeſs myſelf ſurprized at the Unaccountable⯑neſs of your Letter this Morning. I ſhall do myſelf the Pleaſure of waiting on you this Evening; and, if I have the Happineſs of meet⯑ing you alone, and at Leiſure enough, I deſign to have ſome Converſation with you farther upon this Subject.

LETTER L. FRANCES to HENRY.

I AM extremely obliged to you for your ſprightly Poem; there is an uncommon Fancy in it, which pleaſes me; and it is ſome⯑thing of this Stile in your Character which attaches me ſo remarkably to you; for, were you but like the beſt of other Men, you might find me oftener yawning in your Face, as I do at them. The only Variety I find, in the Circle of my Acquaintance, is in the Cornet, who is grown ſo lively of late, that, as Bayes ſays, he has "elevated and ſurprized me;" and, as a Man of Gaiety, without a Miſtreſs, is, in the Opinion of the Town, no Man at all, he has bethought himſelf of throwing his Devoirs at my Feet; and, taking Advantage of your Abſence, proceeds with ſo much unwonted Gallantry, that your poor Iphigenia may be in Danger of being ſmitten by her Cymon, or like, Pygmalion, become enamoured of a Statue of her own inlivening.

Perhaps, you are very little concerned about all this Danger; and, leſt you ſhould lead the Way in the high Road of Inconſtancy, I think it would be prudent to take Prior's Advice: ‘[85]Change thou the firſt, nor wait thy Lover's Flight.’

Beſides, it is a good Maxim, that they, who are firſt cured, are beſt cured; which, I hope, is pretty much my Caſe, Thanks to ſome Part of of your late Behaviour; which has been the moſt efficacious Medicine, and, perhaps, the only one, which could poſſibly advance my Re⯑covery;— ſo far I am your much obliged Debtor.

I wrote to you laſt Tueſday; but was then ſo much in the Elegiack Strain, that, I fear, it was a diſmal penned Piece. I am not much in a gayer Mood, at preſent, than at that Time; but why ſhould I complain, where I can hope for no Redreſs, but merely to have my Griefs inſulted by Philoſophick Lectures?

It is eaſy for us to bear what we do not feel; and they are beſt capable to give Advice, who are not concerned. However, I cannot help ac⯑knowledging the Generoſity of your Behaviour upon ſuch Occaſions; for ſurely it is kind to take even ſo much Trouble in Matters, where you ſeem to have no Sort of Intereſt.

LETTER LI.

I AM extremely ſorry for the Diſorder you complain of, as I know your Frame deli⯑cate, and your Conſtitution tender; your pre⯑ſent State of Health is indeed a proper Apology for your Lowneſs of Spirits, but, at the ſame Time, a ſtrong Reaſon for your exerting them to the utmoſt.

As for the Gentleman, who, you ſay, has attempted in ſome Particularities, as the Phraſe is, to take me off; I beg you, in Return, will preſent him with my Thoughts, upon his Pan⯑tomime Art, in the following Eſſay.

If Fools are not the only Mimicks, they cer⯑tainly are the beſt in the World; for, having no Characters of their own, they can, with more Eaſe, adopt another's; like the Cameleon, which has no Colour itſelf, and is reported to catch the Hue of any Object near it.

To ſhew the Trivialneſs of this Art, Chil⯑dren are obſerved to be the moſt natural Mi⯑micks; and a Girl in Leading-ſtrings, will ſhew you how Mama, and how Dada, dances or takes Snuff.

Even in mimick Life, where one ſhould ex⯑pect this Practice to be in moſt Eſteem, among Stage-players, the Mimick is held among the loweſt Claſs; for, in the ſame Proportion as [87] the repreſenting the Excellencies of human Na⯑ture is the nobleſt Part, ſo is ridiculing its Foibles the meaneſt.

A Buffoon, who values himſelf upon this Imperfection, has the ſame Pride with a Baboon, who itſelf the moſt ridiculous Animal in the whole Creation, is, notwithſtanding, the higheſt Caracatura upon the human Species.

Adieu!

LETTER LII.

MY dear Harry may ſee, by the Quickneſs of my Diſpatch, the Pleaſure I take in obeying his Commands; for, tho' I have not any Thing to ſay, yet I ſhould think it a Breach of them to omit a Poſt. But, not to take more Merit upon me, than I deſerve, I will honeſtly own that Self-love dictates moſt of my Letters, and I undergo the Fatigue of writing many a tedious Page, in order to purchaſe a few Lines from you, "Point de Roſe, ſans Pique;" and am as well pleaſed, with the Exchange, as the French and Spaniards have Reaſon to be with their Traffick to the Indies, where they purchaſe Gold and Jewels, by Toys and Baubles.

I was a great deal worſe, when I wrote laſt, than I owned at that Time; for I apprehended an [88] Inflammation on my Lungs, which, I was in Hopes, would have proved mortal:

My Reaſon for not telling you, was, becauſe I was unwilling to anticipate your Pleaſure on the Occaſion; beſides, when People are ſur⯑prized, they generally make a Simile; and, tho' I could not be ſenſible of what you might have ſaid, I have too much Regard to Poſterity, to prevent their Profiting by your Wit. I am ſtill as ill, as a violent Cough, Shortneſs of Breath, ſore Throat, and Lowneſs of Spirits can make me; and yet I am mightily afraid, I ſhall recover; and ſo I ſuffer to no End, but to make me deſpiſe Life ſtill more, if poſſible.

I aſſure you this is not Raillery, for I was ſo ſerious, as to make my Will; and left you every Thing in Life, which I thought valuable; I chiefly mean, your own Letters, for, alas! I have little elſe, that is worthy of your Accep⯑tance.

Farewel, my deareſt Harry, living or dying,

LETTER LIII. HENRY to FRANCES.

I RECEIVED two Letters from you, laſt Poſt, of different Dates; and find you are returning again to the Melpomene Strain, and are as great a Riddle as ever. You trifle with yourſelf very idly; for ſure, if Life is not worth your Care, Health is. I felt your Diſ⯑order, before I heard of it; for I have been in the ſame Way, myſelf, for ſome Time paſt. I am ſorry to find the Sympathy of our Bodies ſo great—at this Diſtance—but, I find, the Sphere of your Activity is very extenſive; nay, more powerful than any of the fixed Stars; be⯑cauſe you can influence, as far as you are capa⯑ble of being contemplated. But, no more of your malign Aſpects; and I beg that all your future Letters may be wrote in a chearful Strain, tho' it ſhould be even a Strain to you;—forgive the Quibble, —for, be aſſured, that nothing keeps off either natural or moral Evils, ſo well, as Chearfulneſs, ſomebody calls it, ‘the Health of Virtue.’ And I will not venture to carry it ſo far as to pronounce, that a Man, who is not chearful; is either a Knave, or a Fool. Take Notice that all Diſtempers ſooner ſeize on us, when we are low-ſpirited; and all ill Luck, [90] and Misfortunes, afflict the coward Mind, more than the Brave. Chearfulneſs I take to be the beſt Hymn we can offer up to our Creator, as it ſhews Gratitude and Acquieſcence; while Melancholy betrays Repining, and Deſpair at the Ways and Diſpenſations of Providence. It is a Degree of the greateſt Crime Man can be guilty of, Suicide, and the greateſt Degree of it too; for Deliberation is the higheſt Aggrava⯑tion of a Crime.

One of the ſtrongeſt Articles of Guilt too, inſtanced in the Crime I mention, is, the de⯑priving the Society of a Member; by how much more then the Victim's Merit is, by ſo much greater muſt the Deſtroyer's Sin be.—Think of this and tremble.

LETTER LIV.

I HOPE you have, before this, received my congratulatory Epiſtle, on the Day that gave you Birth; and, I think, I ought to con⯑dole with you now, for having entered into the old-faſhioned Scheme of Houſe-keeping. I thank you for your obliging Wiſh, but am angry with you for ſuſpecting that I ſhould be [91] tired of the Place, for I could ſay, with Cowley,

So much by Way of Anſwer to the civil Part of your Letter; but, I confeſs, I am quite at a Loſs to know what Return to make to the Remainder of it. I have ſo often ſpoke my Sentiments, upon ſuch Occaſions, that I have ſcarce any Thing left to ſay, but Repetitions; which I am not fond of, upon ſo ungrateful a Subject.

If I knew any Method to convince you I am ſerious, and reſolved in what I ſay, I would, upon my Honour, attempt it with the greateſt Pleaſure, tho' it were parting with a Limb; as it would thenceforward ſave you a great deal of needleſs Trouble, and me from a World of Anxiety and Mortification. This might, per⯑haps, give ſuch a Turn to your Regards for me, as I could wiſh; or prevent your ever thinking of me at all; even which I ſhould prefer to your thinking of me as you do. I ſhould then be at Liberty to love you, without hating myſelf; becauſe I ſhould then have an Eſteem for you, which might juſtify my Paſ⯑ſion. [92] I ſhall only add, that, if you have a Mind to convince me you deſire either to ſee, or hear from me again, you will never mention ſo un⯑kind, ſo ungenerous, and ſo unmannerly a Sub⯑ject more; for I ſhall never anſwer another Letter of your's, wrote in ſuch a Stile; which, if you ſometimes uſe, to ſhew your Wit, you have no Excuſe for, as your Fund does not re⯑quire the Aid of Libertiniſm.

That I do love you, I own, and confeſs it more freely, ſince I find I have, thank God, ſufficient Strength to acknowledge it with Safety; for, I am glad to find, I do not love you better than myſelf; and, tho' I would chearfully ſa⯑crifice all that is periſhable of me, for your Happineſs, I ſhall take Care to preſerve that Part of me, which may make you, at ſome Time of your Life, not aſhamed of having loved me. In ſhort, if you bear any Affinity to that Omnipotence which accepts a contrite Heart, you cannot meet a more ſincere De⯑votee; but, if you are like one of thoſe Hea⯑then Deities, which required an human Sacri⯑fice, I declare, I have no Offering for your Altar.

LETTER LV.

THO' you have ventured upon that ſame Subject again, yet you have done it with ſo much Addreſs, that I need not hold any Re⯑ſolution of not anſwering your Letter. The ſudden Change in your Morals, I confeſs, ſur⯑prizes me; but too prompt Converts, they ſay, are ſeldom ſincere; and it muſt be a Gooſe indeed, that is not aware, when a Fox preaches.

Now, I think, even your former Letter more tolerable than this; for there you declared open War, here you would circumvent; and it would humour my Pride, rather to be over⯑powered, than to be over-reached. What you propoſe, would do well enough for a Woman, who only waited for an Excuſe: But, in my Opinion, this would only mend the Matter, like Hypocriſy added to Vice; or, at beſt, a Sort of don't know, as it were, neither this, nor that, nor one, nor t'other, nor good, nor bad; but hanging, like Eraſmus's Paradiſe, be⯑tween Heaven and Hell; without Vice enough to repent of, or Virtue ſufficient to boaſt of.— Away, away — I'll ha' none on't, I'll ha' none on't.—

[94]I am not ſo unreaſonable to take it ill, that you do not offer what, I know, is not, at pre⯑ſent, within your Power and Prudence; but, I have really great Reaſon to reſent, that you ſhould attempt to offer me any Thing ſhort of it.

You rally me, very unfairly, upon what you call my Platonicks: For, I never pretended to carry Affectation to ſuch a ridiculous Length; ſo that I only declare myſelf a Platonick in Vir⯑tue, not in Romance.

Your Scheme is, perhaps, a very plauſible one for the World, if I ſhould have Occaſion ‘To tell them by and by, how the Rogue ſerved me.’

But, notwithſtanding, there is wanting to me a certain Self-conviction, without which, all your Senſe and Logick ſerve only to puzzle the Will, not to determine it.

You have, without Doubt, a very extraor⯑dinary Art, which I never perceived in any other Perſon, and which it is impoſſible for me to deſcribe without a Paradox; it is a Faculty of convincing the Reaſon, without ſatisfying the Mind. I know, before-hand, your ready Anſwer to this, that it ſhews People's Preju⯑dices ſtronger than their Reaſon: But be it ſo, for me,—when Prejudices are on the ſafe Side, it is a Virtue to liſten to them; and I have juſt now luckily recollected an admira⯑ble [95] Sentiment, I heard you once quote, from ſome antient Ethicks, ‘That we ſhould never venture upon any Action, where we have the leaſt Doubt about its being honeſt or diſho⯑neſt; for this very Doubt declares, at leaſt, our own innate Conſciouſneſs about it, which is higher, and prior to Logick and Caſuiſtry.’ This, and ſuch other good Things, has my dear Harry often ſaid, read, and wrote to me; for, when you are not on your Guard, I have often detected you to be a Man of Honour and Virtue; and, whenever you appear otherwiſe, I am convinced that it is more the Vice of the Times, than of the Man; which was the Apology made for the Puns of Shakeſpear.— Indeed, I tremble often, to think how my dear Harry may be "beaten with many Stripes."

I have burned your laſt, and former Letter, upon this Subject; leſt they ſhould ever happen to appear, to the Diſadvantage of your Cha⯑racter, or to the Prejudice of mine.

I would have preſerved the Wit of them, if I had been Chymiſt enough to ſeparate the Gold from the Droſs; but they periſhed toge⯑ther in the Flames, the natural Conſequence of keeping bad Company.

LETTER LVI.

I HOPE my dear Harry will excuſe my Self⯑iſhneſs, when I honeſtly confeſs, that I am better pleaſed his Negligence ſhould be owing to almoſt any Cauſe, than his Forgetfulneſs of me. Do not infer from this, that I am uncon⯑cerned at your Illneſs; for, indeed, I have felt it ſeverely, and Doubt has added a thouſand Fears, which I hope will never exiſt, but in my tor⯑tured Fancy; and, ſurely, your Neglect of Wri⯑ting could not be worſe timed; for, I really wanted ſomething to ſupport my Spirits, in the Scene of Sorrow, I have gone thro', ſince we parted. Were I to repeat the Circumſtances, which have happened, I dare ſay, your good Nature and Generoſity would be ſhocked, there⯑fore I ſhall be ſilent;—let it ſuffice to tell you, I have ſuffered dearly for my Indiſcretion, and, "as to mention is to ſuffer Pain," I ſhall continue this Subject no farther. If you are cu⯑rious, Tom can give you all the Particulars, who has behaved, with great good Nature, in the Affair; and I would not have mentioned it at all to you, if I did not ſuſpect that he would do it himſelf, tho' I had his Promiſe he would not.

My Aunt is ſtill ignorant of your having been in Town: But, I fear, will not long be ſo, [97] as there wants only this, to compleat the Affair. But this and all other Ills vaniſh, when I com⯑pare them to the Loſs of your Life, which I had Reaſon ſo lately to apprehend; or to the Loſs of your Love, which I live in conſtant Apprehenſion of. You deſire me to write often, to amuſe you; but my Letters are a ſlight Re⯑turn for the Pleaſure of yours; tho' Sappho ſays, ‘The leſs my Senſe, the more my Love ap⯑pears.’

Which, by the Way, is no great Compliment to that Paſſion; at leaſt, this is not ſuch a Paſ⯑ſion as you are capable of inſpiring. However, I have often doubted of your own Tenderneſs, from the Opinion I have of your Underſtanding, and have ſometimes aſked myſelf,

Adieu!

P. S. Upon Recollection, I beg that, if Tom has not mentioned the Affair to you, you will not write to him about it, and you ſhall hear it [98] all from me, when we meet. I have a Reaſon for this, which did not occur to me, when I gave you Leave to aſk him.

I ſent off the Things, you deſired me to buy, by —; I hope you got them ſafe, and ap⯑proved my Choice and Bargains.

LETTER LVII.

LAST Poſt I received yours, in Anſwer to mine, from —; and I aſſure you, the Hints you gave me of ſome Uneaſineſs you ſuf⯑fer at preſent, lay me under the ſame Circum⯑ſtances; and more ſo, becauſe I cannot gueſs, what it is which affects you; Tom not having mentioned a ſingle Word of it to me, as you apprehended; and has ſo far proved himſelf a better Confidant to you, than a Friend to me. Now, I muſt inſiſt upon it, that you will give me a full Account of this Matter in your next Letter, and not keep me any longer in Suſpence; on that Condition, and no other, I will not inquire about it from Tom; nor ſhall I ever mention a Circumſtance relating to it, to any Perſon living, if there be any Thing in the Story, which requires being kept ſecret. As to my State of Health, which you are ſo kind to [99] be anxious about, I am, I think, growing bet⯑ter every Day, tho' but ſlowly; I am however pronounced by the Phyſicians to be out of Dan⯑ger, and am reſolved never to fall again, except at your Feet. I have diſcharged my Doctors, and Time ſhall be the only Phyſician I will make Uſ [...] of, for the future, to perfect my Cure; for, as he comes generally unſent for, I may ſpare my Fees, of which I happen to have leſs, at preſent, than even of Health: Time has this in common with moſt Phyſicians, that, tho' he fails to cure his Patients, he can give them an Opiate, which quiets them, 'till the Day of Judgment; and how it may fare with us then, Time only can ſhew.

The Things you bought for me, are not come to Hand yet, which happens to be very inconvenient to me. Your Neglect of ſending them by Mr. — was the Occaſion of this Miſhap; and "the Moral of the Tale I ſing," that ill Luck muſt attend every Thing you do contrary to my Advice; which brings me back to my firſt Subject, and may give you a ſuffi⯑cient Hint, not to delay informing me fully of what you allude to in your former Letter; which that you may the ſooner apply yourſelf to the Diſcharge of, I ſhall treſpaſs no longer on your Leiſure, but conclude, what I ſhall never otherwiſe conclude, except with Life,

LETTER LVIII.

LAST Poſt brought me the pleaſing Account of your Recovery; ſurely ſome Sylph, whoſe Charge I am, contrived that it ſhould then arrive, even in the blackeſt Hour of all my Life, when my Spirits were ſunk to ſuch an Ebb, together with my own Uneaſineſs, and Fears for you, that nought within this ſublunary Sphere, but thou alone, could raiſe them.

Now, give me Leave to tell you, that no⯑thing, but the Joy I feel at your returning Health, could make me bear the Remainder of your Letter with Patience; if your Phyſicians had not pronounced you out of Danger, I ſhould have done it, from your Writing in ſo peeviſh a Manner; for you ſay of yourſelf, and I have once or twice remarked it, that, when you are ill, you feel more Tenderneſs, Huma⯑nity, and Good-nature about you, than at any other Time; which is contrary to the general Obſervation, that Perſons in Sickneſs, Pain, or Age, even at thoſe Seaſons when they moſt ſtand in Need of the Comforts of Society, and the Aſſiſtance of Friends, do then more particu⯑larly, and abſurdly too, contrive to deprive them⯑ſelves of both, by Ill-humour and Perverſeneſs [101] of Temper. Perhaps, Providence has wiſely implanted this Weakneſs in human Nature, to take off ſomewhat of the Concern, we ſhould otherwiſe be too ſenſible of, for the Sickneſs or Death of our Friends, or Parents; which is ſomething like the good-natured Expedient, I heard made Uſe of by a Gentleman, who fre⯑quently retired to the Country to ſee his Father, during his Vacation of Buſineſs at London, and had a little Brother there, who was ſo extremely fond of him, as to cry for a Week after his Departure; being informed thereof, he ever after contrived to pick ſome Quarrel with the Boy, the Morning he was to go away; this ſucceeded ſo well, that the little Fellow uſed to call for his Horſes, and cry, ‘Well, I am glad you are not to ſtay here another Day.’ But, indeed, I generally obſerve, you ſcold me when you find me melancholy; at leaſt, I perceive it more then; as if I was a croſs Child, to be chid into good Humour. If the Meſſenger neg⯑lected to deliver your Things, I can't help it; and, as I thought mine the quicker Method of Conveyance, I am no farther anſwerable for the Delay: I ſhall not anſwer your Inquiry about the Matter I hinted at, for, if I had thought proper to write it, I ſhould have done ſo at firſt, without waiting for your peremptory Commands; and I muſt be, for once, as abſo⯑lute as you, in deſiring that you will not men⯑tion [102] it to Tom. Let it ſuffice to tell you, that the Storm is now blown over, and that Prince Volſcius was the Perſon who raiſed it; you ſhall know more when we meet, if you reſt content with this for the preſent.

You did not tell me whether you would have the Callicoe, Yard, or Yard and half wide; ſo I ſhall not buy it, 'till you are more explicit, leſt you ſhould pleaſe to be angry at another in⯑nocent Blunder of mine.

Adeiu!

LETTER LIX.

YOU rejoice me extremely, by ſaying the Affair of Prince Volſcius is blown over: And I approve myſelf for my own Forecaſt, as, I own, I ſuſpected ſomething relative to him, in the Matter.—I perceive by Part of your Letter, and by Recollection of ſeveral others, that you are very fond of an Amuſement the French call faire Laguerre; and often imagine Unkindneſs in me, for the Pride of forgiving it: And in⯑deed, without ſome ſuch Contrivance as this, that noble Faculty in you could never have an Opportunity of exerting itſelf, from any Occa⯑ſion offered by me. I only meant to rally you about the Diſappointment of my Things, which [103] I have ſince received ſafe, and well approved of: And wanted to tempt you to let me know the Affair you hinted at, which you have not told me; but I am eaſy, becauſe you ſay, you are ſo. I ſhall not call on Tom for any farther Ex⯑planation, nor preſs you on that Head more, 'till I ſee you; and I am ſorry to ſay, that will not be ſo ſoon as I deſigned, for I ſhall not be able to leave the Country this Fortnight yet, on Account of ſome Buſineſs which has occurred ſince I wrote laſt. The Callicoe is to be but Yard wide.

My Health is almoſt eſtabliſhed, Thanks to your good Wiſhes: I hope I may preſerve it at our Aſſizes, to which I am juſt ſummoned. Health and Happineſs attend my dear Fanny, and take me in their Train!

LETTER LX.

I Received yours, and hope my laſt Letter will ſufficiently explain the Miſtake of the Poſt.

I do aſſure you that you have no Rival at Bel⯑videre, but one, which is at preſent ſitting on the Table, and endeavouring to ſnatch the Pen out of my Hand; but, according to the Faſhion of the World, you have nothing to apprehend [104] from her, for ſhe is not one I love, but only one who loves me. In ſhort, ſhe has taken a moſt unnatural Affection to me, for every other Cat in the Houſe flies for it, when I appear; but Sultana Puſs, from a Kitten, has ſollicited my Regards, followed me about the Houſe, and mewed at the Door, when I was ſhut up in my Room. She lay with me too for ſome Time, 'till her Snoring diſturbed me. She is an odd Animal alſo, in other Reſpects; for ſhe really is very low ſpirited ſometimes, and her Nerves are ſo weak (which I attribute to her Drinking Tea in a Morning, without Eating) that the leaſt loud Word ſets her trembling; ſo that I dare not chide an aukward Houſe-maid, for Fear of put⯑ting Madam into one of her Hyſterics. I deſign taking her to Town with me, for Advice of Phyſicians; and perhaps a Creature, which is reported to have nine Lives, may at length find Benefit from their kill or cure Preſcriptions.

I have often laughed at the Simplicity of Montaigne playing with his Cat, but ſhall hence-forward accept him among the Philoſophers.

LETTER LXI.

I Am extremely glad to find my dear Harry a Votary to Montaigne; he was always a Fa⯑vourite of mine, and I am greatly ſurprized that I never thought of introducing him in our epi⯑ſtolatory Converſations. I know not whether he is numbered among the Philoſophers, but I think the very Amuſement, which you have copied from him, ſpeaks him a more practical one than any I have heard of. For, as to ſubdue our Paſ⯑ſions is the End of all Philoſophy, he gave the higheſt Proof of having reduced his to a perfect Calm, when he was content with ſo trifling an Employment as Fiddling with his Cat. How⯑ever I have yet one Doubt, which poſſibly may derogate from his Merit, whether he had not paſſed his grand Climacteric, before he found out this charming Amuſement. I have often been delighted with him, even when I was a Child, for remarking, ‘That there is a certain general Claim of Kindneſs and Benevolence, which every Species of Creatures has a Right to from us.’ And think it much to be regretted, that this generous Maxim is not more attended to, in the Affair of Education; for this Reaſon, I admire you for endeavouring to obtain the beſt Advice you can, for the Recovery of your Fa⯑vourite's Health; ſince the moſt refined Philo⯑ſophy allows that we have Reaſon to believe the [106] Senſations of ſmall Animals and Inſects are, in ſome Caſes, as exquiſite as thoſe of Creatures of far more inlarged Dimenſions: My darling Shakeſpear ſeems to be of this Opinion, when he ſays, ‘The poor Beetle that we tread upon, in corp'ral Sufferance, feels a Pang as great, as when a Giant dies.’ But what amazes me is, that you, who love Retirement ſo much, have not found out a more rational Companion than your Cat; for I am of Balſac's Opinion, ‘Que la ſolitude eſt certainement une belle choſe. Mais il y a plaiſir d'avoir quelqu'un, qui en ſçache repondre, a qui on puiſſe dire, de tems en tems, que la ſolitude eſt une belle choſe.’ —But I muſt not forget, that, as I often wiſh for your Company, you may as often wiſh to be alone, and that I may perhaps be, at this Inſtant, breaking in upon one of thoſe Hours, which you deſire to enjoy without In⯑terruption. I ſhall no longer detain you, than while I add, that I am, and ever ſhall be,

LETTER LXII.

THE Rain overtook me at —, and there I wiſhed for you (as I fear I ſhould have done, though you had been preſent) in vain all Night, the life-long Night. Between that Stage and this, the Rain ſo moiſtened my Clay again this Morning, that here I am obliged to wiſh for you, both Day and Night; but, in which Term I deſire you moſt, I do aſſure you, I am ſometimes doubtful; for you alone of all your Sex, young and handſome, ever brought it any thing near a moot Point, whether I ſhould chuſe the Poſſeſſion of your Love, or Friendſhip; if, by naming one, I ſhould be precluded from the other. In ſuch a Dilemma, I ſhould conſider myſelf, like the Paradiſe of Eraſmus, ſuſpended between Heaven and Hell; for tho' Enjoyment, either of your Converſation or Perſon, would be Heaven to me, the Deprivation of either would be Hell. This Equality of Sentiment is not ow⯑ing to any Luckineſs in my Compoſition, ſetting the Balance between the Rationale and Irratio⯑nale of my Conſtitution; but to your extraordi⯑nary Merit, which makes me think the Enjoy⯑ment of your Perſon would be almoſt rational; and, in Return, the Sprightlineſs of your Con⯑verſe, [108] and Poignancy of your Wit, ‘darts thro' the Soul, and almoſt gives Enjoyment.’

I left Town with a Cold, and my frequent Wettings have ſo much increaſed it, that I am, at preſent, as "hoarſe as Bondage." I ſhall therefore ſtay here To-night, and quack myſelf; for To-morrow I will reach —, coute qui coute, becauſe I expect to receive a Letter from you there; and, beſides the Impatience I have for Hearing from you, I have ſo much good Breed⯑ing, with Regard to every Thing which relates to you, that it extends itſelf even to your Let⯑ters; which I feel myſelf aſhamed for, if, by any Chance, they lie on my Table, for a Mo⯑ment, before I kiſs the Seal, and raviſh the Contents.

I ſalute you now in Sack-Whey—Oh! that it were the Poſſet.

Adieu! Adieu!

LETTER LXIII. On Abſence.

LETTER LXIV.

I Received my dear Harry's Letter, and, ſpite of my Reſentment at your tedious Silence, I find, I muſt forgive. I was determined never to write to you again, but you have too often proved the Weakneſs of my Reſolution, and, as Prior ſays,

I thank you for your Poetry; I think it ex⯑tremely pretty, but am jealous of the Perſon it was firſt addreſſed to, tho' her Right was prior to mine.

In the ſecond Line, I find you have aptly al⯑luded to Addiſon's Diſtinction between ſpending our Time, and letting it paſs. The ſecond Couplet is truly poetical, ‘Clips the Wings of Time, and Clocks forgetting to chime.’ I [110] think you have, with great Beauty and Judg⯑ment, obſerved that Rule mentioned in the Eſſay on Criticiſm, that the Words ſhould ſeem an Echo to the Senſe: As, for Example, ‘With thee, L'Allegro, is my Song,’ goes off briſkly, and the Line is ſhort. ‘Il Penſeroſo tunes my Tongue, when thou art gone’ —Here the Words move heavily along; and, in order to lengthen out the Line, you have ſuſpended the Cadence 'till the Middle of the next. The ſame Criticiſm, I think, may be made thro' the Whole, and the laſt Line, but one, is a fine one in this Style, I ſtand-un-mov'd-and-wait-in-dull-Suſ⯑pence."—I fancy I ſee the Statue.

I ſhall be quite piqued, if you do not eſſay ſomething in the poetic Taſte, in Compliment to me. I am ſuch a Lilliputian Subject, that the Poeſy of a Ring would ſerve me: I mean to expreſs my Merits; but I ſhould chuſe you would rather expatiate on my Faults, as the more co⯑pious Subject would give you a better Opportu⯑nity of ſhewing your Wit: And take notice, that, if you ever again hint any thing of that Kind, in plain Proſe, I ſhall call it downright Scolding.

I ſhould not finiſh this Letter ſo ſoon, but that I find you expect half a Dozen for one; ſo I muſt huſband what little I have to ſay, in the beſt Manner I can, by dividing it into ſo many Poſts.

Adeiu!

LETTER LXV. HENRY to FRANCES.

I Am not at all ſurprized at your Story of Mrs. —'s ſecond Failure; for indeed I am not apt to be ſurprized, when I hear of ſuch Things at the firſt. This is not owing to any ſlight Opinion I have of Women, but to the Knowledge I have of human Nature, which, with my Obſervation upon the careleſs and im⯑proper Education given to moſt young Women, gives me rather frequent Surprize, that we do not more often hear Stories of this Kind.

Rochfaucault, who is a ſevere Moraliſt, as moſt of the French are, ſays, ‘There are many Wo⯑men, who never had an Affair, but there ne⯑ver was a Woman, who had but one:’ Which ſhews, that he thought the firſt Step the only Difficulty. Yet I have known ſome devout Sinners, who, tho' not able to defend themſelves, while yet in a State of Innocence, vainly imagine to recover Virtue from their Fall; like the Fa⯑ble of Antaeus, who is ſaid to have gained freſh Strength, when Hercules threw him on the Ground. Ovid is ſevere too on this Subject, "Laeſa pudicitia eſt, deperit illa ſemel:" Which Paſſage is too groſly tranſlated, to be quoted here. Rowe has a ſtrong Line in his Shore: ‘They ſet, like Stars which fall to riſe no more.’ [112] However I do not judge ſo hardly, in this Mat⯑ter, as the Generality of People do: I agree with them indeed that, when Women fail from Wantoneſs, or Vice, it is very probable they may ſin on to the End of Life; but a Woman may be overcome ſo many other Ways, Exceſs of Love, too great Confidence in the Lover's Ho⯑nour, circumvented by Fraud, or overpowered by Surprize, that an Adventure of this Kind does not always betoken a Failure in Virtue; and a Perſon, injured in any of theſe Ways, may poſſibly recover Strength from their Misfortunes, as a Bone is ſaid to knit firmer in the broken Part than in the ſound.

The Story you tell me of — ſurprizes me more than the other, tho' it is of a Piece with his known Character; for, of all human Vices, Avarice aſtoniſhes me moſt, as it appears to me the moſt unreaſonable, and unnatural too. I ſhould think, that Miſers may turn Prodigals, upon this Principle, that they may do ſo without Coſt; for he who ſpends his own Fortune, cer⯑tainly lives at the Expence of his Heir.

You are welcome to buy the Books you men⯑tion for me; for, tho' I have read them before, I think they will not diſgrace my Study; and this will give you an Opportunity of reading them yourſelf.

LETTER LXVI.

I AM extremely angry at Mrs. —, for miſrepreſenting the Story you allude to: I ſaid indeed the Words to her, and quoted them from a ſprightly Lady of my Acquaintance, but mentioned no Name; and, as there was certain⯑ly Wit in them, ſhe might probably attribute them to you, and meant to compliment you, with ſuppoſing you the Author. It was Mrs. — who made Uſe of thoſe Expreſſions, on the Oc⯑caſion I told her. I declare, that, in any Part, either of our Converſation or Correſpon⯑dence, I never remember you to have uſed any Expreſſion, ‘leſs modeſt than the Speech of Prudes,’ or to have hinted, or even ſeemed to reliſh the leaſt double Entendre; and I aſſure you, I have often wondered, that a Perſon, who has as much Wit, Spirit, and Wildneſs in her Imagination, as any one I know, ſhould have, in Reality, more Delicacy in her Senti⯑ments, and more Decency in her Expreſſions, than I ever met with in any other Woman.

It is upon this Account, that I give you the Credit of more Wit, than other Women; as that Beauty muſt have greater Charms, who [114] pleaſes a Man, when ſhe is cloathed, than are neceſſary to move him, when ſhe is naked.

But indeed, I think, in general, that, when Lewdneſs, or Prophaneneſs, are called in, as Helps to Wit, they but betray the Weakneſs of it; as narrow Waters mark their Limits, by expoſing the Shallows.

Cowley ſpeaks very prettily upon this Subject, but I need not quote, becauſe you have him by Heart.

Adeiu!

LETTER LXVII.

I AM, thank God, quite well To-day, but muſt be cautious: I ſhall ſtay at Home moſt Part of the Day, and only take a Chair for an Hour, to drink Tea with you, and re⯑turn the Manuſcripts. It was an Entertainment to read over moſt of the Letters I have wrote to you, ſince the Commencement of our Acquaint⯑ance, during the Courſe of a Correſpondence remarkable for its Regularity and Conſtancy. I read them in a confuſed Manner, becauſe there are but few of them dated; and I was ſorry I had not yours in Town, to bring them [115] Face to Face; which would have been a great Amuſement to me, during this Confinement, as my Head was not well enough to venture upon more abſtruſe Studies. I find you have deſtroyed a great many of my Letters, for I remember a Folio of Advice, which I ſuppoſe you miſtook for Scolding, and threw into the Fire. I had a Mind to ſerve the reſt after the ſame Man⯑ner, and only ſpared them, becauſe you had done ſo.

I ſend you Weſt on the Employment of Time, which is worth Reading; not, for ſaying any Thing new, but for collecting together, upon ſo important a Subject, the Senſe, not Opinions of Mankind, the thinking Part. Read the Pre⯑face laſt; which I think, might be better ſtiled an Appendix.

Farewel.

LETTER LXVIII. HENRY to FRANCES. Wrote on the Death of J. K. Eſq

HE was a Man of moſt excellent Compoſi⯑tion.—His Characteriſticks were many and extraordinary. He was generous, without Extravagance; Oeconomiſt, without Parſimony; [116] had Pride, without Vanity; and was friendly, without Profeſſing. A Libertine, without Vice; Religious, without Bigotry; and an Enthuſiaſt, without Fanaticiſm. ‘He was a Man, take him for all in all, you ſhall not find his Fel⯑low,’ or, to have examined him by Parts, you would have found each Character perfect; like the Diviſion of Matter, where every Atom con⯑tains, in itſelf, the Dimenſions of Solidity.

He is dead, — but thou art alive! The Lord's Will was done in the firſt Inſtance, and mine in the Second. Accept now an undi⯑vided Heart, and live long to help me to forget my Grief.

LETTER LXIX.

THE Pleaſure that I received from my dear Harry's Letter, could alone compenſate for the Pain I felt from your unuſual Silence; but you have made me large Amends, and I can readily forget all that is paſt, provided you do not repeat your Fault. I am ſo thoroughly per⯑ſuaded of your Tenderneſs for me, that I know, I need but tell how much your Silence affects me, never to feel the Effects of it more.

In ſhort, my Heart's dear Harry, I am quite charmed with that manly Fondneſs, that Ele⯑gance [117] of Love, which you expreſs in your laſt dear Letter; and, for the future, I ſhall ſay, with Emma,

In ſpite of Medicines, I grow worſe every Day; and am really reduced to a moſt melan⯑choly State; but you, my deareſt Harry, have brought back calm Content to viſit me, and all may yet be well. I have not known a Flight of Spi⯑rits, ſince you left Town, 'till I received your laſt; and then I could not help burſting into Othello's Exclamation, ‘If I were now to die, I were now to be moſt happy, &c.’

I cannot help thinking that Fate ſeems averſe to my Recovery; for the Sun, ‘as if the Sun could envy,’ denies his wonted Beams; nor with more Regret beholds me drooping, than the Bells of Lillies. I have, for this Month paſt, had a ſevere Cough, and conſtant Pain acroſs my Cheſt; I am worn to a Skeleton, and yet look as well as I ever did; but far more delicate. My Diſorder is extremely polite, for, tho' it deprives me of the Reality, it leaves me the Appearance of Health; and I am ſo much a Woman, to forgive the Subſtance, for the Shadow.

[118]I think you have done the ſtricteſt Juſtice to our fair Friend's Character; ſhe is indeed a charming Girl.— Pray tell me when you think of coming to Town — I fear you are grown ſo paſſionately fond of Belvidere, that you have no Wiſh for any Thing beſide; nor even ſend a Sigh, in Pity to your baniſhed Friends. However, let the Time of our Exile be limited, and, when we have a Goal in View, the Race will ſeem leſs tedious.

My Hand trembles ſo violently, that I can ſcarce hold my Pen: I dare ſay, you will find it difficult to decypher my Hebrew Characters; I will therefore leave Puzzling, and in the plain⯑eſt (which are generally the ſincereſt Terms) aſſure you, that

LETTER LXX.

I RECEIVED two Letters from you ſince my laſt, and am heartily ſorry to find you ſtill continue ill. You give me great Comfort [119] however, by ſaying you have Hopes from Regu⯑larity, and the Waters: Becauſe I am very certain, they jointly will cure you. I have often told you ſo, and it is ſome Satisfaction to find you, at length, profiting, like Hudibras, of Ral⯑pho's Gifts. If I could perfectly maſter the Tenderneſs I have for you, and only attend to the Friendſhip I bear you, I ſhould rejoice to hear you are ſo far ill, as to require ſevere and ſpeedy Aſſiſtance; as I was at the taking of Bergen, and other Towns belonging to the Dutch; becauſe I was then in Hopes, as I am now for you, that they would exert their utmoſt Vigour and Reſolution, when Deſtruction was coming ſo home to them, tho' they were ſhame⯑fully careleſs, and lukewarm about their Safety before.

I am ſorry to find you ſtill continue to give an unfair Turn to every Thing I ſay and do. In your firſt Letter, you twiſt and warp my Meaning in the Alluſion of Prior; and play Shuttle-Cock with my plain Senſe, meerly to amuſe your own Jeu d'Eſprit. In your ſecond Letter, you miſunderſtand me greatly, nay, ſeem to forget intirely the goſſipping Affair.— But you are ſick, and I am ſorry.

Adeiu!

LETTER LXXI.

I RECEIVED yours this Morning, and do aſſure you, without Compliment, that it wanted nothing, but your being in the Right, to be the beſt wrote Letter I ever read. I com⯑mend every Thing, but the Injuſtice of it; like a certain Exile from Athens, who could not for⯑bear applauding, and repeating to Strangers, an Oration of Demoſthenes, by which the Wretch was baniſhed. The Cauſe of many of our Quarrels has been owing, as at preſent, to your never conſidering any Thing, but the Matter before you. When you receive my Letters, you find ſome Things to diſpleaſe you; but never recollect your own, which gave the Provoca⯑tion. You wrote me lately two of the moſt mortifying Letters, which could be well ima⯑gined, and now ſeem ſurprized I ſhould reſent them. Conſider that the Height of our Picques is, always, in Proportion to our Love; and, if — had charged me with all the cruel Things you did, I ſhould not have offended her, by any Reply, inconſiſtent with the natural Com⯑plaiſance I have for even the moſt diſagreeable of your Sex. You ſay ſeveral Things, which when I require an Explanation of, you cut me [121] ſhort, by anſwering me, you was only in Jeſt. Theſe Things are certainly inconſiſtent, at leaſt; and ſurely, if you had reflected the leaſt on them, when you ſay, ‘you ſo ſtrictly examined your whole Conduct,’ I am perſuaded, you would have been generous, and ingenuous enough to acknowledge, I had good Reaſon to be provoked at being puzzled by contradictory Appearances, and jeſted with, in Matters, which both mortified and alarmed me. I confeſs in⯑deed, that I have many Faults; but do not, my Dear, ſo vainly acquit yourſelf of any.

I realy think you have many valuable Qua⯑lities, and a great Number of agreeable ones; and I have been always endeavouring to ſcreen them, from ſome irregular Flights, and roman⯑tick Whims, which are, by no Means, any Ornament to your Underſtanding. I was but acting the good Farmer's Part, and winnowing the Chaff, from among the Wheat; for, could I but rid you of a few light Errors, I think you need not the Addition of one Merit, to make you perfect. I have therefore, on many Occaſions, reſtrained and diſguiſed my Love and Tenderneſs for you, like a cautious Pa⯑rent, leſt it ſhould but increaſe thoſe irregular Whims, and romantick Dreams, which I have often wiſhed out of your charming Compoſition. My Actions, I think, kept on ſtill one conſtant Tenor, and always ſhall; becauſe my Prin⯑ciples [122] are in my own Power; my Expreſſions and Manners indeed often varied, as your Be⯑haviour affected them; becauſe my Paſſions are in your Power, you can increaſe, or abate my Fondneſs; but it is not in the Power of the reſt of the World, or, what is more, even of yourſelf, to alter the obſtinate and determined Purpoſe of my Actions towards you; for where, as I have Reaſon to apprehend, from the ſtrong Hints, you gave me in your laſt Letter, the Poverty of my Nature, and Ungenerouſneſs of my Principles, ſhall leave me weak for ſo good a Work, I will even borrow the Semblance of thoſe Virtues, which may beſt aſſiſt me, to ac⯑quit myſelf, as a Man of Honour, to you: ‘So ſhall Diſſemblage once be virtuous in me.’

I confeſs that the Manner of my Invitation to — had not all the Decorum, it ſhould have had, at another Time; but conſider the Mortifications and Picque, I laboured under juſt then, from your Letters and Behaviour, and it will convince you of the Truth of what I have juſt ſaid, that your Actions cannot leſſen my Kindneſs, tho' they may deſtroy my Com⯑plaiſance.

LETTER LXXII.

LAST Poſt I received a Letter from —, the Anſwer of which he deſires may be incloſed to you, becauſe, he ſays, you know where to direct to him. From which Hint I ga⯑ther two Things, both equally diſagreeable to me; that you correſpond with him, and that he ſtill knows you write to me; and you know, it was without my Conſent or Approbation, that he was, at firſt, let into the Secret. That ei⯑ther of theſe Things gives me Offence, my dear Fanny, proceeds plainly from an high Senſe of Honour, and a generous Regard for you. If I could baſely indulge a Vanity of this Kind, I do not know any Thing could anſwer the End ſo well, as the letting your Correſpondence with me be publicly known. That it was not, as I find now, a particular Favour to me, might in⯑deed humble the Vanity of it, but would not leſſen the Pleaſure; for I take this Opportunity to aſſure you, that, tho' your Letters ſhould come even, thro' the Preſs, to my Hands, I do not know any Thing could give me a more agreeable Entertainment; and I ſhould then only chide you, as Alexander did Ariſtotle, for publiſh⯑ing his Works; becauſe what was before his [124] particular Study, and the higheſt of his retired Pleaſures, more eſtimable than all his Conqueſts, was then become common to all the World.

It is the Nature of Man to render himſelf often miſerable, merely for the Vanity of being thought happy; but I declare, I would rather rejoice at being thought unhappy, than even ſuſpected to be otherwiſe, at your leaſt Expence. If my Love, my Friendſhip, did not incline me to this, Honour, nay common Manhood, would require it from me, in the nice Circumſtances of our Loves, at preſent. My Character is Libertine, your Fortunes are ſmall, your Experience of the World but little, your Age young, and your Guardian old. In ſuch a Situation, you ſhould take Care, not to truſt to the charitable Opi⯑nion of the World, who will hardly be brought to believe, that either our Converſation, or our Correſpondence, are upon ſuch innocent Sub⯑jects, as in Truth they are; and if any Surmiſes ſhould ariſe to the contrary, as I fear this Indiſ⯑cretion with Regard to — (whoſe Notions are not much out of the common Road of Things) may give Occaſion for, it would not be in my Power to juſtify you; nor indeed can any Thing a Man may ſay, or ſwear, upon ſuch Occaſions, either condemn, or acquit a Woman, in my Opinion; for, if he traduces her Character, I ſhould think he might do ſo as well out of Falſ⯑hood as Baſeneſs; and, if he vindicates it, I [125] might apprehend that he ſhould do ſo as well out of Honour as Truth. When I ſay, I am diſpleaſed with your writing to —, I am not jealous of your Love, but your Character, which I have very honeſt Reaſons to be careful of. If you underſtand me right, in any Reproof I ever gave you, it would but improve your Love and Eſteem for me; which will be a fair Return for that warm Paſſion and ſincere Friendſhip, I, at preſent, feel toward my Heart's deareſt Fanny.

Adeiu!

LETTER LXXIII.

THE Alliances you mention from the pub⯑lic Prints, either by Marriage, or politi⯑cal Treaty, cannot give us that Security for a ge⯑neral Peace, which you ſo piouſly wiſh for. No Tyes, but its own State Policy, govern even the beſt; and no Principle, but Ambition, ſways the worſt of Princes. It is certain, that poli⯑tical Morals, and private, may eaſily be evinced the ſame; and the Obligations between State and State, the ſame as between Man and Man. Nay, much ſtronger the Reaſon may ſeem upon [126] the former; yet, it is aſtoniſhing, that an Opi⯑nion ſo obvious ſhould ſtill be new; for there are few Authors who confine political Maxims, or what they term Reaſons of State, to the ſame Strictneſs they do private Morals. I hope it is more owing to a wrong Judgment upon this Sub⯑ject, than to the Depravity of human Nature, that ſo much Injuſtice, and cruel Havock, is made in the World, by the lawleſs Ambition of Princes; that Liberty, Property, or Life, are ſafe, no longer than our ſtronger Neighbour is pleaſed to be at reſt; and that the Sons of the Earth, like the Army of Cadmus, riſe up, only to deſtroy each other.

The laſt Article of the French Paragraphs is really ſo ridiculous, that I cannot determine whether the Publiſher is in jeſt or earneſt.

Adeiu!

LETTER LXXIV.

MRS. —'s Behaviour will certainly con⯑firm the World's Opinion of her for ſome Time paſt. True Virtue is modeſt in its Defence; but Frailty, like Cowardice, puts on the Air of a Bully, to diſguiſe its Weak⯑neſs.

[127]There is nothing which Women reſent ſo highly, as the free Manner, with which the World judge and ſpeak of their Actions. I own that I have often myſelf joined with them, in condemning ſuch haſty Cenſures; but, upon more general Reflection, I can't help agreeing with the World, that few Women ever loſe their Reputation, 'till they have, at leaſt, de⯑ſerved to do ſo; for, tho' ſome may eſcape the actual Guilt, who have ſuffered the Imputation of it, yet their Indiſcretions muſt have juſtly drawn upon them the Cenſure of the World; and, having gone ſo far, they have done their Part; and, to ſpeak like a Man of Gallantry, it is the Lover's Fault, if they go no farther.

As I have really a great Tenderneſs for the fair Sex, it often provokes me to hear ſome People, either ignorantly, or maliciouſly, pre⯑tend to juſtify their Characters, at the ſame Time, they acknowledge all Appearances to be ſtrong againſt them; for this is even to allow they had the Vice and Folly of a Harlot, but wanted her only Virtue, Courage. How cruel and ſevere muſt it be, to ſay, a Woman had no one Quality, or Principle, to preſerve her from Perdi⯑tion, but Cowardice! and how unhappy muſt it be for her too, when ſhe finds this ‘Hypocriſy againſt the Devil’ will not avail her, either in this World, or the next! for as the "Superviſion" is ſeldom indulged to the Speculation of the [128] Curious, People can only judge, as Iago ex⯑preſſes it, ‘by Circumſtances leading to the Door of Truth;’ and, as for the next World, I fear Heaven needs no overt Act, to prove looſe Morals Treaſon.

You ſee, my Dear, what a different Side of this Queſtion you have reclaimed me to; you have not only won my Heart, but my Morals too; not that the cowardly Deſpair of Conqueſt would ever have brought my indomitable Spirit to yield, 'till, by weighing well your Worth, againſt your Perſon, I thought I ſhould gain, like Porus, by my Defeat.

LETTER LXXV.

I RECEIVED your Letter from Liverpool, which, like moſt of your Letters of late, was very pretty, and very provoking. If you had as much Ingenuouſneſs, as Ingenuity, we ſhould have been always upon better Terms, than we are. However, you are honeſt enough to confeſs yourſelf a Woman; which, at the ſame Time, accounts naturally for your Incon⯑ſiſtency, and gives me comfortable Hopes, that we nay again be very good Friends; for I have great Sympathy in me with meer mortal [129] Women, but have the moſt clumſy Addreſs you can imagine towards your infallible Divi⯑nities.

I do not know any Perſon who can tell a Story better, and to whom it is more Advan⯑tage to be put upon the Defenſive; your Letter is a remarkable Inſtance of this; for it is equally filled with literal, as well as metaphorical Turns. However, I ſhall not dwell any longer on this Head, ſince you are become a Woman; but conclude this Letter with referring you to the— Ode of the — Book of Horace, which you may meet with tranſlated by ſeveral Hands; to which, deſiring your Anſwer ſincerely, I ſub⯑ſcribe myſelf

LETTER LXXVI.

I AM juſt returned from my Circuit, and found your Letter here, which I was doubly pleaſed at; to hear you were well, and to hear you were coming to Town. I laughed a good deal at myſelf, juſt after I had wrote my laſt Letter to you, to think of my Careleſneſs about [130] the Number of the Book, and Ode of Horace, I alluded to. I did not exactly remember Chap⯑ter and Verſe, when I was writing; but left Blanks to be filled up, when I returned from my Study, but forgot it, 'till the Day after my Letter went. However, I am extremely ſatiſ⯑fied at my Miſtake now, as you ſo quickly found out the Alluſion. Le Sage entend a demi môt; and that I hope from thence, it was from a ſtrong Sympathy between us on the ſame Subject.

I am ſorry, tho', to hear you call this but an Armſtice, for I aſſure you, I ſincerely meant a laſting Peace; but I ſuppoſe you know your own Temper to be ſo like the French, warm, lively, and reſtleſs, that you look on all Terms made with you, as with them, to be only Truces; gaining Breath to renew the Fight. You ſay modeſtly you have no Hopes of regaining my Friendſhip, and you are in the Right of it, in Strictneſs of Speech, for you have indeed never loſt it, nor are you likely ſo to do; for, as I have ſometimes ſaid, or meant to ſay to you, I find you have my Friendſhip, in ſpite of your⯑ſelf, and my Love, in ſpite of myſelf. And on theſe Terms we ſhall always be, from a happy Diſcovery I have made lately, that you have been, and ſhall always be, in the Right, in every Article of your Life. Not that this Truth [131] appears to me with all the Strength of Demon⯑ſtration I could wiſh, but I read you, as I do Euclid; impatient to come to ſome pleaſant, practical Problem, I take all the Theorems for granted, which lead to ſo charming an End.

I delivered your Letter and Pantin to my Siſter; ſhe leaves me ſoon, and will anſwer you, I believe, in Perſon.

Adieu!

Here followed an Interval of ſix Months, in which Time there paſſed no Sort of In⯑tercourſe, either of Viſit, or Correſpon⯑dence; for Frances had taken Offence at ſome Particulars in Henry's Behaviour; but they happened to meet, at a third Place, juſt be⯑fore the following Letter was written, and Frances made a Requeſt that he would re⯑turn all her Letters, being reſolved to take Leave of the Correſpondence for Life: But the following Epiſtles ſoon reconciled them to each other again.

LETTER LXXVII. Elton. HENRY to FRANCES.

I HAVE brought your Letters thus far, that I might flatter myſelf with the Poſſeſſion of them, Half a Day longer; and that they may be the leſs Time, between your Hands and mine, as I can intercept the Stage this Day, at Dinner.

I was ſeveral Times tempted to break my Word with you, for the firſt Time, I declare, leſt the Recollection, which theſe dear Memo⯑randums may give you, of your having once loved me ſo well, may provoke you now to hate me, even more than you do. I return them then to you as the only Equivalent I could ever make you, for their Value; and from a Principle, I have ſome where before mentioned, that I ſhall never deſire any Tye over the Per⯑ſon I love, but their own Inclinations; and this is the Reaſon perhaps, that I never married yet, tho' never tempted to it, but once in my Life; and for their Sake, more than my own, rejoice now that it never happened.

In Return for your Letters, you offered me mine, but I deſired you to burn them; which [133] I now revoke, leaving them intirely at your Diſpoſal; for the only Reaſon I had for deſtroy⯑ing them was, that they might never be aſhamed, in Company with yours; but, as I beg you will keep them ſafe, mine may ſerve to explain, or illuſtrate ſome Paſſages; for Foils they want not.

I often refuſed you your Letters, and ſhould ever have continued obſtinate in that Point, while I had any Hopes of pleaſing you other⯑ways; but, in that Deſpair, part madly with the only Things, which can pleaſe myſelf now.

In order to make this Sacrifice the ſtronger, I read over all your Letters, before I parted with them; tho' this was a fond Folly, as I am very ſure, I had every one of them by Heart before. And now, my ever beſt loved Girl, accept theſe returned, dear Pledges, as a Sacri⯑fice fit for the Gods; religiouſly ſo, as, I flatter myſelf, from former Recollection, the Heart joined in the Addreſs. Let them boaſt of Inſpi⯑ration, if heavenly Spirits can taſte of Vanity; of this Loan you have acquitted yourſelf back with Intereſt; for the Rays of Inſpiration, like Sun-beams, give Light in the direct Line, but owe their Heat to Reflection.

I kept all your Letters, as they were wrote by you; and reſtore them now, becauſe, I be⯑lieve, you repent your ever having wrote them.

[134]I ſhall always remember, with Love and Gratitude, any Kindneſs you ever ſhewed me; I unfeignedly forgive the ſevere Treatment, I have lately met with, from you, and ſhall here⯑after reſt ſatisfied, in whatever Light you are pleaſed to regard me,

LETTER LXXVIII.

THO' your Politeneſs forbid your deſiring an Acknowledgment of the moſt trifling Favour with Regard to yourſelf, and the moſt material one with Regard to me, that you have perhaps ever conferred; yet, as I never meant (tho' I may have failed in the Execution of my Deſign) to be out-done in Generoſity, I now think it incumbent on me to offer my Thanks; not according to the Value of the Preſent, but to the Deſign of the Giver. —Were I not afraid of appearing inſolent, or ungrateful, I need not have had Reſource to this Method of ſhewing my Gratitude, ſince I could, with more [135] Eaſe to myſelf, and (I am ſure) Pleaſure to you, have returned the Obligation an hundred Fold^*; but the Author, whom I have ofteneſt quoted to you, and is, of Courſe, my greateſt Fa⯑vourite, ſays, ‘It is the higheſt Act of Ingra⯑titude to overpay an Obligation, which we re⯑ceive from an Equal, or Superior.’ — In which of theſe Denominations you are pleaſed to ſtile yourſelf, I ſhall, on this Occaſion, ſub⯑ſcribe myſelf,

LETTER LXXIX. HENRY to FRANCES.

I SHOULD have anſwered your Letter ſooner, but waited 'till I came here; both becauſe I have ſome Pleaſure in writing to you, from the Scene, whence moſt of my Letters were dated to you; and that I hope the Incloſed ^† will be ſome Apology for the Freedom of writing to you now; not from the Value of the Preſent, but from the Obedience, I ſhall always be proud [] [...] [] [...] [134] [...] [135] [...] [136] to ſhew to any Requeſt of yours. After the Sacrifice I have lately made, you could have no Reaſon to doubt of my Compliance in this Par⯑ticular; or that I ſhould refuſe you the Shadow of that Subſtance, which, while it ſhall be en⯑livened with a Spirit of Senſe, Reflection, or Gratitude, muſt be ever your's. Conſtant Lo⯑vers need only the Exchange of Hearts; but fickle ones have need of Tokens. Accept then of this, as it is the only Way, I fear, is left me, of reſtoring my Image to you. And hav⯑ing already, Fortune de l'Amour, loſt what I loved as well, and liked infinitely better than myſelf, I ſhall find no Difficulty in parting thus from that ſame ſelf, ſince you are pleaſed to act a Part in Aeſop's Fables, to quit the Sub⯑ſtance, and embrace the Shadow.

You ſee, I am reſolved the Correſpondence ſhall not drop on my Side; and indeed I ſhall, with real Tranſport, take Advantage of every Occaſion, which will not appear Preſumption on my former Happineſs, of aſſuring you, that

LETTER LXXX. HENRY to FRANCES.

I RECEIVED your Letter, and ſhall conti⯑nue the Coreſpondence, while you will give me Leave. Indeed I find ſomething which pleaſes, and flatters me too much in any En⯑gagement with you, to be eaſily diſcouraged; for I ſincerely think that, vain as you are, you do not know your own Merit, or Value. Your Writing, particularly, I really do not know any Thing in Engliſh equal to, for Delicacy of Sen⯑timent, or Turn of Expreſſion. There are ſome faint Traces of your Point, and Stile, in a few of the polite French Authors, almoſt to perſuade one they were Imitations, if there were not ſuch ſtrong Lines, in yours, of an Original.

You ſay, "here ends my Palinode;" but pray, Where did it begin? What Recantation have you made of your Miſtake, or unkind and unjuſt Abuſe of me? What Anſwer have you given yet to a late Letter of mine, where, giving you the full Force of your Argument againſt me, I will hazard my Defence, in this World, or the next, upon my Juſtification there made; where I was no more culpable, than if I had lent you a Horſe, which, by ſtarting ac⯑cidentally, had broke your Leg. But, tho' it [138] gave you no juſt Cauſe for your unkind Treat⯑ment of me, I own it afforded you a plauſible Occaſion, being already determined. Now, as your Author Rochfaucault ſays, a Woman never quits her firſt Love, 'till ſhe has engaged in a Second. I ſhall be therefore much obliged, if you will truſt my Confidence ſo far, as to let me know, who my Rival is? Nor have you any Thing to fear for him, in this, from a Wretch as impotent in Means, as I have ever been in Will, to be malicious. And indeed it would be Madneſs in me to make my Rivals in your Love my Enemies; for I am vain enough to think myſelf able to ſtand againſt a Multi⯑tude.

You have often unjuſtly charged me with ſeeking an Opportunity of breaking with you; on whom, I pray, does that Charge, unge⯑nerous as it is, fall with the greateſt Juſtice, at preſent? You have yourſelf preſented that fair Occaſion; and yet ſee the Obſtinacy of my At⯑tachments to you; and indeed the only Ma⯑lice of the reſt of my Life towards you ſhall be to convince you, and you only, how unkind and unjuſt ſo baſe a Sentiment was of me.

P. S. I found the Incloſed ^* after I wrote to you laſt, and ſend it kindly to you, as it will help to hide even my Shadow from you.

LETTER LXXXI.

I CANNOT recollect any Period of my Life, wherein I found myſelf more embarraſſed, than at this Moment. As there is nothing I wiſh more earneſtly to avoid, than a Repetition of what now appears the moſt ‘aſſured Weak⯑neſs,’ I ever did, or can commit,—addreſſing you by Letter.—

At the ſame Time, the Complaiſance, you have ſhewn to my Requeſts, obliges me to think, (tho', my Thanks can hardly be deemed an Acknowledgment for your late Favours) it muſt appear like Ingratitude, not to offer them.

Accept then of the poor, but only return, that is in my Power to make; and let me add my ſincere Wiſhes, that I may be able to pre⯑ſerve the Picture you have ſent, much longer, than you ſuffered me to do that, which I, un⯑ſkilful, had drawn of you.

You ſay, ‘I have quitted the Subſtance, for the Shadow.’ I think you are deceived; for I am ſure there is more Stability and Truth in this miniature Mimickry, than in moſt Origi⯑nals, I have ever known. And yet I ſhould even fear a Diſappointment in this, had I not, long ſince, proved the Fallacy of ſympathetick [140] Influence. Ixion's Fate, thro' the greateſt Part of my Life, has ſtill been mine; but from your laſt Preſent, and many other Circumſtances of my inſtant Fortunes, I have Reaſon to think the Scene is, at length, inverted, and that Sha⯑dows alone elude my Graſp. If I am in an Error, I beg you will not undeceive me; for I have taken great Pains to arrive at that Pitch of Philoſophy, common to all prudent Mortals, of thinking, that whatever is out of my Reach, is not worth having.

Farewel!

LETTER LXXXII.

BECAUSE I cannot bear to have you re⯑main in a Miſtake, even in ſo trifling a Matter, as any Thing muſt be, which relates to me, I ſhall trouble you with a few Remarks upon a late Converſation.

You ſurprized me extremely by ſaying, that ‘a Heart, when broken, can with more Eaſe be divided,’ and ‘a broken Looking-Glaſs reflects more Images, than a whole one,’ are the ſame Thoughts. Now, I really think, a broken Pitcher is as like either of them, as they are the one to the other; for, having had the [141] Misfortune to be broken, it agrees in the only Circumſtance common to them both.

Obſerve that mine is a Thought, Suckling's only a Simile. If there was any Wit in mine, it is owing to itſelf alone; if there was any in his, it muſt be owing to the Alluſion; for there was certainly none in ſaying, the Parts of a Thing are more in Number, than the Whole.

There was nothing alike even in the Occa⯑ſions of his Sentiment and mine: He, vile Libertine! meant, I ſuppoſe, to apologize for his general Inconſtancy; I, like a ſimple Swain, to aſſert a double Conſtancy. Now, the Scope of Suckling's Poem I know not, having never read any of his Works, but what I have met quoted; and, in general, few Perſons have read leſs of polite Authors, than myſelf; there⯑fore I can only reaſon upon this Paſſage, as I received it from you. Let us ſee then, ſince the Wit of it is denied, whether we can allow him even common Senſe, in this Illuſtration of his. He tells his Miſtreſs, I ſuppoſe, in Excuſe for his Inconſtancy, that her Cruelty, or his Exceſs of Love, has torn his tempeſt-beating Heart into ſo many Pieces, that, like a broken Looking-Glaſs, it reflects more Objects, than when whole. Now I have ſeen Fragments of Mirrours ſometimes, which have indeed reflected my Image, (as whatever ſhews me truly, muſt, in your Opinion, be a Reflection;) but then they [142] only multiplied the Object, not exhibited any new. Therefore, if the Simile had been juſt, his broken Heart ſhould rather have increaſed his Conſtancy, by affording him more Frag⯑ments ſuſceptible of her Idea, as one may be ſaid to multiply Life, by diſſecting a Worm, becauſe each Part lives, tho', like a broken Heart, it lives in Pain. If indeed ſhe had ex⯑preſſed Surprize, that a wounded Heart ſhould ſtill preſerve its Conſtancy towards the Author of its Deſtruction, his Simile, tho' even here it would not come up to Wit, might make a pretty Glare among the Faux brilliant.

He might ſay, perhaps, that the Fragments of a Looking-Glaſs may comprehend more Objects than one; but ſure a whole one is ca⯑pable of receiving more; therefore a Man, free from Love, may, and is more ſuſceptible of many Impreſſions, than one, who has had the Misfortune of a broken Heart.

Now the Reaſon, I apprehend, of your charg⯑ing me with Plagiary, is this: Suckling you have admired, and, not finding either Senſe or Wit in this Paſſage, you had Reaſon to con⯑clude they were both ſtolen; and, as I am a Perſon, who, in Wit, as well as Fortune, ap⯑pears to live above my Means, you had Reaſon to ſuſpect me for the Theft.

[To be continued, as the Author meets with En⯑couragement.]

LETTER LXXXIII. HENRY to FRANCES.

YOU ſee my Impatience of writing to you, which does not wait for the Poſt, and has got the better of a hot, wet Day, bad Paper, Pens, and Ink; and a ſtrong Inclination to ſleep, to pay me for laſt Night's Exceſs.

I hope you all got ſafe to Town, and found yourſelves all ſafe in Town. I beg to know with what Grace ye were differently accoſted by wiſe Men and Parents; for it is a vaſt Amuſe⯑ment to me, to hear how innocent Frolicks are treated by ſenſible, well-diſpoſed Chriſtians, who know any Thing better than human Na⯑ture, or the World.

I recant my Error, my deareſt Fanny, and here throw my Palinode at your Feet. That I was loved, let my Vanity now confeſs, which my Humility made me doubt before. It was a Madneſs to doubt at firſt, according to a cer⯑tain Definition of it, a Reaſoning right upon wrong Principles. I thought it groſs to Senſe, that I ſhould be capable of inſpiring that ſoft tender Paſſion; I thought it poſſible indeed, I might gain a Friend, but never hoped to be able to win a Miſtreſs; ſo uſed to flatter myſelf, as Addiſon does Pope, upon his Eclogues; that, [144] if they are not Paſtorals, they are ſomething better. Another Reaſon I had to ſuſpect I was not loved, was, that I feared, I was no longer ſo; and true Love, like true Hanging, or Drowning, according to my Notion, is not to be remedied on this Side the Grave. I have obſerved to you before, that true Love, like the Small-Pox, never attacks us but once; and Reaſon good, becauſe it laſts for Life. It is a Kind of free Paradiſe-Stock, which can admit of no Inoculation; ſo luxuriant, that it is impatient of Pruning, nor ſuffers itſelf to be twined into Eſpaliers. A Scion of it was ſtolen by Adam, when he was baniſhed the Garden of Eden; who, to repair his Crime, as much as in him lay, bequeathed this divine Plant to ſuch of his Poſterity, who ſhould prefer Na⯑kedneſs to Knowledge, and piouſly attend to the Voice of Nature, in open Defiance of every Preacher, from the Serpent, down to —. Conſider of what has been ſaid, &c.

LETTER LXXXIV. FRANCES to HENRY.

I AM much obliged for the Impatience you expreſs of writing to me; and ſincerely [145] wiſh I could return the Compliment with Since⯑rity. But at laſt that quick Spirit, you have ſo often complained of, is quite extinct. There are ſo few Things in Life, that can give me Pleaſure, that I cannot help regretting the Change in my Sentiments with Regard to Writing, as, by loſing my Reliſh for it, I have loſt one of my principal Amuſements.

If a little Recollection recalled the Evidences of Truth to your Mind, I am pleaſed the Con⯑verſation aroſe; which, at the Time it happen⯑ed, ſo much diſpleaſed me. I know not how to ſuppoſe (without having the meaneſt Opinion of you) that you could ever entertain a Doubt. If I thought it were poſſible you could, I ſhould only ſay, may your Crime be your Puniſhment! for "he, who ſuſpects, deſerves to find it true." As all Matters of this Kind are now, and ever ſhall be, as tho' they had never been, you may be well aſſured, I ſhall never give you, or my⯑ſelf, the Trouble of endeavouring to convince you of the Reality of a Paſſion, which no longer exiſts; but, as there is no Imputation, I could not more eaſily pardon, than that you have charged me with, (as Hypocriſy is, of all Vices, moſt foreign to my open Heart) give me Leave to aſk you, What End could be propoſed from feigning? What were the Advantages which could, or did ariſe from the Reality? What [146] other Cauſe in Nature can be aſſigned for a Perſon, not quite an Ideot, naturally prone to ſtrong Reſentments, enduring the moſt provok⯑ing Inſolence, and (I hope) unparalelled Ill-na⯑ture, without even ſhewing ſhe was ſenſible of being ſacrificed to every Guſt of Vanity, or Ill-humour in your Temper; or that of any other Perſon, who thought proper to make their Court to you, by ſlighting her? —Too plainly ſhe, for Years, evinced the Truth of Rochfaucault's Opinion.— ‘We forgive, as long as we love.’ —Deal plainly with me: Anſwer to theſe Truths; if you can refute them, or de⯑rive them from any other Cauſe, I will confeſs, that Fanny indeed ‘has much impoſed upon herſelf,’ and allow what you have ſometimes ſaid, that the natural Coquetry of her Diſpoſi⯑tion, with a little Flight of Romance, by being indulged too far, had wrought upon her Mind the Semblance of a Paſſion, which exiſted not in the Heart. ‘How cruel is Reflection after Paſſion? How different are the Points of Sight on the ſame Objects? Why is not Rea⯑ſon ſtrong enough to keep her Throne, or ſo intirely vaniſhed, as never to re-aſſume it?’ I am weary of this continued Warfare.—

As your Sentiments of Love and mine were always different, I am pleaſed to find, we, at laſt, agree in one Point, — that, ‘like the [147] Small-Pox, it never attacks us twice;’ like that too, where it is violent, the Marks laſt for Life; but the beſt, and trueſt Affinity between them, is, that, like that, it may be cured. I own it requires violent Corroſives; but I am a living Inſtance, that, tho' the Cure is painful, it is poſſible. According to your idle Definition of Love, it is plain, I never was poſſeſſed of your's; there is not any Thing nouvelle in this Diſcovery; that Point has long been clear to me, nor has it been in my Power, for a vaſt While paſt (tho' I took great Pains) ‘to impoſe upon myſelf’ with Regard to your Senti⯑ments for me. For this Reaſon, I have ever been an earneſt Advocate for your Friendſhip; and ſtill continue to deſire it; which I think the higheſt Compliment I can pay you, as it is the ſtrongeſt Proof of mine.

Capt. — is to be married this Night to Miſs —. I hear they ſet out for — To⯑morrow; if ſo, I ſuppoſe you'll be ſo much en⯑gaged, that I ſhall not ſee you. If it is incon⯑venient, I beg you will not ſtir one Step to⯑wards me, nor idly fancy, I ſhall take your Abſence ill; as you may be perfectly aſſured that no Action, or Omiſſion of your future Life, can either add to, or take from the calm ſet⯑tled Regard I have now, and ever ſhall retain, for your Happineſs and Welfare. I am (while [148] you continue to deſire I ſhould be ſo, and much longer than you deſerve,)

LETTER LXXXV.

YOU may ſee by the Badneſs of my Paper, that I have not waited to get home, be⯑fore I indulged myſelf in the Privilege, you have given me, of writing to you. I am now at —, where Parſon — lately lived; and where your Friend's Brother is now beneficed. This Paper is good enough to write Sermons on, that, when they are applied to their moſt general Uſe, there may be but little Coſt; and perhaps it is the fitter for me too, leſt, ſhould I ſend you better, the Meſſenger might be more worth than the Meſſage; tho', by it, I, with all Sincerity, commend my Love to you, cor⯑rected, and amended from the Errors of the former Edition, the Impreſſion ſtill remaining the ſame; which, tho' the Type is ſmall, I ſtill retain, for the Fairneſs and Beauty of the Character.

[149]The Gentleman, I am now with, is a Per⯑ſon, I contracted a Friendſhip with, ſeveral Years ago, upon a certain Sympathy I obſerved between us, in three remarkable Particulars: An Averſion to Matrimony, a ſplenetick Caſt of Mind, and an unſociable Impatience at Fools. But, tho' the Effects are equally viſible in us both, they are owing to very different Cauſes in each of us. The Firſt proceeds, in him, from an habitual Diſregard to Women; (for I can never allow that to be natural to any Man:) In me, it proceeds from an Apprehenſion of not meeting Succeſs with a Woman of Merit and Fortune; and, to take off the Merit of ſuch Humility, I make myſelf Amends by the Pride of not hazarding a Refuſal. The Second he has from a ſtrong ſaturnine Complexion, which was born with him; but I have contracted that "gloomy Habit of Soul" from the many Mor⯑tifications and Diſappointments I have met with, almoſt ever ſince I was born. The Third proceeds, in him, as a Man of Senſe, from a ſtrong Antipathy he has naturally to ſuch Ani⯑mals, joined to a generous Concern, and honeſt Pride, that Providence, who could make ſuch a M [...]n as him, ſhould ſuffer ſuch imperfect Eſſays of human Nature to ſlip unfiniſhed thro' his Hands; but I am ſhocked at Fools, perhaps as a Perſon, deformed by Nature, or rendered [...]o [150] by Diſeaſe, may be, at the Sight of his own Picture on Canvaſs, or in the Glaſs.

You ſee how occaſionally I am led into a Deſcription of my own Character; which, as it was Part of your Injunction to me, you may perceive how ſtrong an Impreſſion your Com⯑mands make on my Mind; that I am naturally led to obey them, even when I don't particular⯑ly intend it; but, when I finiſh the Remainder of your Requeſt, I muſt ſit down on deliberate Purpoſe for it; as I deſpair of meeting any where, ſave in my own Heart, a Semblance, good enough, to draw your Likeneſs from.

I now claim your Promiſe, my dear Fanny, of ſpeaking with Freedom ſome Things, which you heſitated once or twice about, the few, and very ſhort Times, I was in your Company, the laſt Time I was in Town. I ſhall be at home by the Return of the Poſt.

LETTER LXXXVI.

I AM glad to hear you are out of Danger, and wiſh you were as much out of Appre⯑henſion [151] too. You wrong me — I never was ſo ill-bred, as to charge you with Strength of Body, or Robuſtneſs of Conſtitution; but I had always a Whim in my Head, that the moſt delicate Frames might live in Health; which being independent of ſtrong Features, or large Limbs, there might be Health, as well as Life, in a Muſſel. My Words and Actions never did contradict each other, with Regard to you; when they appeared to do ſo, it was, becauſe you miſtook either one, or the other; and I ſuſpect your Error to be about the laſt; and for this Reaſon too, that my Words proceed from my Heart; which, by that Heart I ſwear, is ſincerely and affectionately attached to you; but my Actions are croſſed, or reſtrained by your's, which are governed by Caprice, and a Temper bizarre. Your Manner with me is extremely whimſical on your Part, and diſpirit⯑ing on mine; and if you knew my natural Diſ⯑poſition, and the vaſt and continued Calls I have for every Thought and Application, I am Maſter of, you'd be convinced of the Truth of my Attachment to you, when I ſtrive ſtill to hold you, even upon theſe Terms. I beg to hear from you ſoon, and that you will be neither ſick, or croſs. What an extravagant Paſſion for Change muſt that Woman have, who can be the moſt agreeable Perſon in the World, and yet, for the Sake of Variety, chuſes to be other⯑wiſe? [152] As Mrs. Diana ſays, ‘You fine Ladies affect an Undreſs.’

Pray tell me how I put it out of your Power to accept my Invitation; which I again repeat, and never gave one in my Life more ſincerely.

LETTER LXXXVII.

I AM very ill able to write at all, from the Effects of my Fatigue; and leſs able to write to you, than any one. My Spirits are ſo much diſſipated, that it is impoſſible to call them home. I would ſay much, yet can't ſay any Thing. A continued Variation of Objects has deprived me of the Power of forming Ideas, and all the Account, I can give of myſelf, at preſent, is, that the Regret, I felt at parting with you, obtrudes itſelf on the Pleaſure, I re⯑ceive from meeting the few, that I love, or the ſtill fewer, that love me. To ſum up all, I am a perfect Antitheſis.—

We met with no Accident, but a Compa⯑nion tolerably agreeably in the Coach; ſo with [153] a Kind of, as it were, we jogged on quietly to London. For my own Part, I ſhould have been better pleaſed to have had the Coach to my⯑ſelf; as I might then have given Vent to the Croud of Ideas, which filled my Mind; and, by being confined there, have rendered it the Seat of Anarchy and Confuſion.

My Aunt is in the Country at Lord —'s. So far, all is well. I lay laſt Night, and am now in Bond-Street; all here are much yours'.— You muſt not expect any Kind of Entertain⯑ment from my Letters; you beat me, all to nothing, in Compliments, but, I think, I make it up in Realities. You were polite enough to ſay, that I had reſtored the rational Enjoyment of your little Eden to you. I can, with Truth, affirm, that you have deprived me of the rati⯑onal Enjoyment of my little Kingdom: I mean, my Mind—at leaſt, you have deſtroyed, per⯑haps, the only Mark of Rationality I had about me — Riſibility. — I have hardly ſmiled, ſince we parted. In ſhort, my Intellects are much too weak, to bear the Feelings of my Heart— ‘Or ne'er to meet, or ne'er to part, is Peace.’ —But I will have done with this Subject, leſt I ſhould launch again into thoſe Follies, which, while I am guilty of, I deſpiſe.

Adieu, (my once again) dear Harry; re⯑member you are now in the Situation of Porus; [154] if you think your preſent Empire worth pre⯑ſerving, beware of Tyranny; for there cannot be a ſecond Reſtoration.

LETTER LXXXVIII.

I AM heartily fatigued with our Aſſizes, where we had a great deal of Hanging, Wrangling, and Duelling, with other Amuſe⯑ments of that Kind; which, however, was ſome Relief to me, after our Parting, as the Company of Fools, or Knaves, muſt, for the Time, quite exclude any Thought of you from my Mind, and give me leſs Leiſure to lament your Abſence. But I am now returned to my⯑ſelf, and, by giving up myſelf intirely to you, may ſay with Gloceſter, ‘Richard's himſelf again.’

When I walk about my Improvements, where you, ſo ſhort a Time, and ſo long ago, was with me, I recollect, at each different Scene, every Thing, you ſaid to me then and there. [155] In the Midſt of theſe Reflections, I often re⯑peat theſe Lines, in my favourite Ode of Boileau,

What I told you, was indeed true, that your Preſence here, had reſtored me to the rational Enjoyment of my rural Retreat; I may now ſay, that your Correſpondence has given me, (for I would expreſs it ſtrongly) the rational Enjoyment of your Abſence. While you were with me, your ſprightly Senſe, as it were, a⯑wakened me from my ſupine, lethargick Life; and I felt my Intellects growing ſtrong, like one recovering from a Delirium; and your Abſence may be conſidered but as a certain Diſtance, at which, all beautiful Objects are placed, that their Proportions may be more diſtinctly obſerved, and their Symmetry viewed with leſs Confuſion.

My ſincere Compliments to Kitty, and thank her for the Poſtſcript, on the Back of your Let⯑ter; and, to ſpeak in my Stile, as a Man of Buſineſs, if any Thing could be an Addition to the Credit of your Bill, it muſt be her Indorſe⯑ment on it.

LETTER LXXXIX.

I HEARTILY thank you, dear Harry, for your kind and obliging Letter. I rejoice at the Concluſion of the tireſome Scene, I left you engaged in; and that you are once more re⯑turned to you dear, little Eden. It is but fair that you ſhould make a Kind of local Memory for me, as mine is ſo much devoted to thoſe Moments we ſpent together, that they alone are preſent to me, and theſe, which I now paſs, ſeem but the faint Recollection of inſipid Ideas. My Imagination, lively as your own, accom⯑panies you thro' every Step, we ever trod toge⯑ther; I walk with you, ſit with you, talk to you — but, oh! there ends the charming Reverie! I cannot, dare not venture to make Replies for you, accuſtomed as I have been to that elegant Senſe, that flows, for ever, from your Lips; my Underſtanding will not bear to be "impoſed upon, even by myſelf."

My Aunt is ſtill in the Country. I have been in the moſt uncomfortable Way that ever was, ſince I came to Town. I have been much out of Order with a conſtant Pain in my Side, and living, as it were, on the Publick, without a Home. I have, at laſt, got Lodgings at —, but, for particular Reaſons, would have you di⯑rect to Bond-Street.

[157]It would be impoſſible to give you an Idea of Mrs. —'s Behaviour to me. She has how⯑ever done me a real Service by it; for, tho' it is not even in her Power to prevent my having the ſincereſt Regard for her Welfare, ſhe has, in a few Days, weaned me from that painful Ten⯑derneſs, which was contracted by Years of In⯑timacy, and by which I muſt have ſuffered ſe⯑verely, at our Parting. She ſet out, this Morn⯑ing, for Wales; may ſhe there, and every where, meet that Happineſs, ſhe ſo much de⯑ſerves, however hardly ſhe may deal with me. —Don't reply to this Paragraph, leſt I ſhould be tempted to accuſe you, as the Cauſe of hav⯑ing loſt this ſtill dear and ever valuable Friend.

I was a good deal ſurprized to find by your Letter to Kitty, that you did not intend Writing to me; Was this well done?—But I will not pretend to "ſet you Taſks;" pleaſe yourſelf in that Particular, and you'll pleaſe me—for this be aſſured of, that Writing to me cannot be a more diſagreeable Employment to you, than Writing is, at all Times, and to all Perſons, to me. I have made a ſtrange Jumble of this Writing between you and me; but I will give you Demonſtration, that I don't like it, by con⯑cluding (like the Story of the Bear and Fiddle.)

Adeiu!

LETTER XC.

I AM ſorry for what you hint at, about Mrs. —; and can't help giving you a Speculation or two upon this Head, tho' you have forbidden me; juſt to give you a little bet⯑ter Notion of the World, than you have at preſent; and in order alſo to make your Mind ſomewhat eaſier, with Regard to her Behaviour to you.

Perſons, who ſet up for Adviſers, arrogate to themſelves Perfection; at leaſt, a high Prefe⯑rence to their Pupils; which, with Regard to her and you, would be Perfection. Now, as moſt People's Pride is ſuperior to their Friend⯑ſhip, it is a great Humbling of one, to find the fancied Superiority not acknowledged, by the Counſel not being regarded; and we would rather our Friends gained one Advantage by our Advice, than twenty by taking their own Way. Another Reflection to be conſidered is, that thoſe Perſons, whom Will. Honeycomb calls the outrageouſly virtuous, notwithſtanding their boaſted Goodneſs, have at Heart a jealous Envy againſt thoſe, whom they ſuſpect to have Senſe, or Spirit enough to enjoy any Pleaſure, or make Advantage of any Occurrence of Life; which, [159] perhaps, for Want of Sollicitation, proper Cir⯑cumſtance of Time, and Place, or more gene⯑rally, for Want of Courage, they may have miſſed themſelves. Obſerve that I ſpeak all along in general Terms, of human Nature in general; for Mrs. — thinks ſhe has a great deal of Friendſhip for you, and I believe ſhe has. She may alſo imagine ſhe would rather lie in Mr. —'s Arms, than in the Em⯑braces of Apollo, and perhaps ſhe would; there are Enthuſiaſms of all Kinds; and yet her Be⯑haviour to you may be fairly deduced from one or both of the general Reflections, juſt mentioned, unconſcious to herſelf; for it is not every Perſon, even of the beſt Senſe, who acts, that knows from what Principle he acts. I could purſue this Subject a great deal farther, but ſhall conclude it here, by aſſuring you ſin⯑cerely, that you ſhall for ever find, from my Be⯑haviour toward you, that I ſhall endeavour to make you what Amends may be in my Power, for the Loſs of a Friend, which, perhaps, I was the Occaſion of. And here pray let me be vain enough to wiſh you Joy, as well as myſelf, up⯑on the Exchange; for both, it ſeems, you could not have, thro' her Niggardlineſs. Meer down⯑right Friendſhip is like a very moral Diſcourſe, which, if continued for any Time, is apt to grow lethargick; but Love, with Friendſhip mixed, is like a ſenſible Converſation enlivened [160] by Sallies of Wit, which keeps us awake, dur⯑ing a very long Feaſt. In ſhort, Friendſhip is the Enjoyment of Men, but Love, of Gods. In the whole Heathen Mythology, I dont re⯑member an Inſtance of Friendſhip, but every God had his Amour; except Vulcan, who being in every Thing unlike a God, ſave Immorta⯑lity, was married; and it is ſaid Venus ‘has made that God, ſubſcribe himſelf, a Devil,’ as he is generally painted with Horns. My Love to Kitty—.

LETTER XCI. FRANCES to HENRY.

I RECEIVED your Reflections moral, and entertaining, and muſt acknowledge that Truth dwells in them—they have made me wiſer, but not happier; and I much fear, that is all the moſt refined Philoſophy can do—

[161]For my own Part, I look upon it, as an Im⯑poſſibility that I ſhould ever be happy in Love, or Friendſhip; my Sentiments are vaſtly too quick, as well as delicate, to hope for a Return.

I thank you for the Exchange, you offer me; but as I flatter'd myſelf, I was long ſince poſſeſſed of your Regard, I am not much pleaſed to find, it is ſtill to diſpoſe of.—I honeſtly confeſs, I never had an Equivalent to offer for it, but always looked on it, as a valuable Preſent, made in the genteeleſt Manner, by accepting ſuch a Trifle, as my Eſteem, in Return, and calling it an Exchange.—I am, however, to thank you for the Promiſe you make, and aſſure you, on my Honour, that it is in your Power, and your's only, to make me ample Amends for the Loſs I have ſuſtained.

My Aunt is not come to Town: I am ſtill a Wanderer. I was Fool enough to tell you, in my laſt Letter, that I was alarmed at your miſ⯑ſing a Poſt,—but you will make me wiſe, in Time.

I fear the Inconſtancy of the Weather has re⯑moved Paraclete even from the tottering Situation I left it in. I did ſuſpect, a ſudden Guſt would carry it away. It was built too high, to be at all permanent,—all its Strength was in the Attic Story, the Foundation was indeed a ſlight one.—However, ſince the Remembrance, or rather Imagination of it, is all, that now re⯑mains; [162] I beg it as a Favour, that you will col⯑lect the beſt Plan you can, from the Ruins, and ſend it to me.

I was pleaſed with a Sentiment, I, this Morn⯑ing, met with in the Spectator; and, tho' I am ſure there is nothing new in it to you, I will tranſcribe it, becauſe it leads me to aſk a Queſtion, I am, perhaps, too ſollicitous about:— ‘We travel thro' Time, as thro' a Country, filled with wild and empty Waſtes, which we would fain hurry over, that we may arrive at thoſe ſeveral little Settlements, or imaginary Points of Reſt, that are diſperſed up and down in it.’ You ſee Addiſon has agreed with me, that ‘Time, like Space, is marked only by its Limits’ —if you wiſh (in the metaphorical Senſe of the Expreſſion) to add Length to my Days, tell me, when ſhall we meet?—Like Leonora, you ‘can make Time long;’ but you can do much more, for you can ſhorten it.

I would apologize for a fooliſh inconſiſtent Letter, extremely ill written, but that, I am ſure, you have received ſeveral from me, every Whit as bad, and may, in all Probability, do ſo again.—If you can remember Boileau's Ode, which you lately quoted, I ſhall thank you, for tranſcribing it in your next.

LETTER XCII.

TELL me, my dear inconſiſtent Harry, what can be the Meaning of your Si⯑lence? I account for it, a thouſand different Ways, in an Hour; but, if I may give Credit to your repeated Vows, and my own preſaging gloomy Soul, I have infinitely more Cauſe to condole with, than complain of you. I wrote to you, laſt Tueſday Night, but was aſhamed to ſend my Letter, as the Occaſion of it was a Dream.—You cannot conceive how miſera⯑bly ſuperſtitious it has made me.—I have been here theſe two Days, but, tho' in the Court of Comus, Joy has been an intire Stranger to my Heart; which is continually filled with melan⯑choly Ideas of my dear Harry's Want of Health; for ſure nothing elſe could have prevented him from telling me, that he received my laſt.— Tho' I determined on leaving this To-night, I would not defer enquiring into this Myſtery, 'till I got (I was going to ſay) home; but, alas! I have none; leſt it ſhould be too late to tell you, that I feel the ſevereſt Pain, from thinking you are ill, I dare not aſk myſelf, whether I would not rather it was Want of Health, than Tenderneſs, that occaſioned your Neglecting to write.—I know not what I write, from the double Fear, and Diſtraction of [164] my Thoughts. Mr. — ſits cloſe by my Side, and thinks I am writing to my Aunt. How ſhall I direct my Letter?—The Servant waits.— Adieu! my dear Harry; may Reſtoration hang its Medicine on my Pen, either to your Health, or my Indifference!

LETTER XCIII. HENRY to FRANCES.

THE Reaſon you did not, or perhaps may not for the Future, hear from me ſo punctually, as in our former Correſpondence, is, that I do not receive my Letters ſo regularly now, as formerly; for, in ſtrict Obedience to your Commands, I have given Directions to the Poſt-maſter, not to give my Letters to any Perſon, but myſelf, or my Order; which occa⯑ſions ſome Delay, when I am at—, which is a great Way from the Poſt-Town. So it was the Indiſpoſition of Circumſtance, not of my Health, which occaſioned what I am pleaſed to hear you call a Diſappointment. I wiſh my Calphurnia would have better Dreams, for I have been, Thanks to you, my dear Hygea, in per⯑fect Health, ſince I ſaw you; as the Recovery of your Love and Favour have fully reſtored [165] my Spirits, which, and Health, reciprocally depend upon each other. Nay, I am grown quite gay, and,

I have declared for Aſſemblies here, and am "your only Jig-maker," to the Aſtoniſh⯑ment of all my Acquaintance. I be-beau'd my⯑ſelf t'other Night, and went to a Ball; but ſoon found out, that it was not the Amuſement, I was in Queſt of. The Women, for whoſe Sake alone I powdered, talked like Children, more in Simplicity, than Innocence; and were dreſſed like Puppets, more ſhowy, than fine. However, this Tawdrineſs, tho' we may call it Poverty confeſſed, does not offend me ſo much as, what I have often ſtiled, a Pedantry of Dreſs; which Perſons of better Fortune, than Taſte, are apt to run into. When I ſee any one dreſſed very fine, without being genteel, I compare them to a Man of Learning, with⯑out Senſe; which makes his Want of Un⯑derſtanding more conſpicuous, as the Want of Taſte is more manifeſt in the other. With ſuch Reflections as theſe, I ſoon rendered myſelf un⯑fit for the gay Place I was in: So very quickly retired home, with this Obſervation, that the Joy, Happineſs, or Pleaſure, which elevates our Spirits, upon ſome Occaſions, does not ſupport us thro' every Scene, where Mirth is neceſſary. [166] The Gaiety of giddy Youth alone can be able to effect this; but, in all rational People, the Mirth or Chearfulneſs of moſt Things muſt flow from the particular Pleaſure, we find in the Things themſelves. Therefore I ſhall never again miſtake that joyous Spirit, which the Thoughts of you raiſes in my Heart, for ſuch a Lightneſs of Mind, as can make me revel in Balls and Maſquerades; but rather, what makes me more eminently unfit for ſuch Amuſe⯑ments.

I ſend you the Ode, you deſired, as well as I can recollect it:

LETTER XCIV. FRANCES to HENRY.

YOU will, I dare ſay, be heartily frighted at the enormous Size of my Packet: But, as it is the Privilege of great Wits to ſay much in a little, ſo it is the Cuſtom of ſmall ones to ſay nothing in a great deal. I have ſo often illuſtrated the latter Part of this Trueiſm, that it is needleſs to ſay more on this little Occa⯑ſion. I muſt intreat you will be ſo kind as to forward the Incloſed, as ſoon as you receive it. —I fear, it has already been too long delayed.

I am ſincerely glad that you are well, and happy; and ſhall hereafter ſay with Caeſar, "We defy Augury."

I have often thought, with you, that the Sa⯑tisfaction, ariſing from a particular Object, or [168] Circumſtance, is more apt to diſqualify us for what the Generality of the World call Pleaſure, than even Grief, or Pain; as, in the firſt Caſe, the Mind is totally abſorbed in one Contempla⯑tion, without endeavouring to exert its Faculties on Objects, leſs pleaſing than thoſe, which al⯑ready employ it.—In the Latter, we are at⯑tempting to rouſe the Mind, and trying to find Eaſe, or Pleaſure, from every new Object, or untried Folly, that ſurrounds us. Alas! how vain the Effort!—

I can, at laſt, with great Pleaſure inform you, that I am writing by my own Fire-ſide. I am certain, we ſhould never enjoy the Pleaſures, or Conveniencies of Life, did we not ſometimes feel the Want of them. The unſettled, diſ⯑agreeable Way, I have been in, ever ſince I came to Town, has endeared Home ſo much, that, I think, I would rather live in a Cottage, where I was Miſtreſs of myſelf, than be a Vi⯑ſiter at Verſailles.

Need I tell my Heart's dear Harry, with what Earneſtneſs, and Sincerity, I wiſh to ſee him here? You, and you alone, can double every Charm I find in the rational Enjoyment of my⯑ſelf, and every Thing about me.—My Aunt is ſtill in the Country—Kitty remains in Bond-Street: The Gaiety of that Place is better ſuited to her chearful Diſpoſition, than my re⯑tired Pleaſures; for in thoſe Views, and thoſe [169] only, Pleaſure can be called my Aſſociate—I here releaſe the Poſt-maſter of—, for I would rather my Letters ſhould be read by the whole County, than not be punctually anſwered by you.—

May your Heart beat Time to the gay Life you are engaged in; may the Women talk ſen⯑ſibly, and dreſs elegantly; and may every one you meet with, be as perfectly agreeable, as you are to your,

LETTER XCV. HENRY to FRANCES.

I RECEIVED your Packet, and ſent it off to my Siſter.

Your Manner of accounting for the Pleaſure, we receive from one Object, rather diſqualify⯑ing us for other Pleaſures, more than even Grief, or Pain, is very juſt, and very pretty. I found out the Truth, from Experience: But you did more, by inveſtigating the Cauſe, from Reaſon. This churliſh Pleaſure, tho', muſt be ſuch a one as I receive from you; one, which makes every other appear below my Regard. But why do I call it one Pleaſure, when it com⯑prehends the beſt Part of the higheſt Pleaſures of Senſe, Reaſon, or Reflection? The greateſt Happineſs in this Life proceeds from Love [170] and Friendſhip; how much more exquiſite the Joy, when both theſe are centered in the ſame Object! as one Jewel, tho' but equal in Size to two others, riſes infinitely, in Value, above them. Let this be a Leſſon to thoſe coy Fair ones, who ſuffer a Man to break his Heart, be⯑fore they accept on't. One Heart-whole Lover is worth fifty whining Inamorato's.

I am juſt come from —, to catch the Poſt going out.

LETTER XCVI.

I SHOULD have wrote to my dear Harry laſt Poſt, but was prevented by Illneſs: I am now, thank God, a great deal better, ſo will not trouble you with an Account of my Ma⯑lady.

I am much obliged to you for the romantick Gallantry, you hint at in your laſt; but, in order to make a proper Return to ſo much Politeneſs, I muſt aſſure you, tho' I long with the utmoſt Earneſtneſs to ſee you here, it would rather give me Pain, than Pleaſure, to think I was the ſole Motive of your Coming. I do not know, but Pride may have a large Share in this Declara⯑tion; for I confeſs, I have not Humility enough in my Diſpoſition, to be pleaſed with receiving Favours.—However, my Vanity is much de⯑lighted [171] with the Compliment; and inſiſts on its remaining, as it is a very genteel one.

I hope I did not wrong you, with Regard to Paraclete; I ſhould indeed be ſorry, it had a more ſolid Foundation, than Fancy; as we could, in that, build as pretty a Caſtle, as any two People I know.

I live toute Seul; yet am as happy in mine own dear Home, as my Health will permit. I am grown quite a domeſtick Animal, and have found out, that the Reaſon we (who purſue) rarely find Happineſs, is, becauſe ſhe is too near us, and "hides behind her Ardour to be ſeen;" for ſhe very ſeldom lives from Home.—I ex⯑pect Kitty will exchange the Pleaſure I have found in converſing with myſelf, for a much higher, that of converſing with her. She is to come to me next Week; and tho', from being too long immerſed in Crowds and Hurry, I have acquired a Kind of Paſſion for Lonelineſs, I ſhall be ſincerely glad of her Company; but I much fear my Diſpoſition, which (from the long Series of Diſappointments and Mortifications I have met with) is grown quietly gloomy, will be but ill ſuited to her lively Gaiety. How⯑ever, ſome ſay, that Contraſts in Friendſhip, like Sympathies in Love, cement the Union. I hope it will do ſo with us.—My Aunt came to Town, laſt Night.—I have no Kind of News to ſend you, and my Spirits are ſo ex⯑tremely [172] low, that I fear my Epiſtle will be con⯑tagious, and give you the Hum-drums; which have, at preſent, taken entire Poſſeſſion of

LETTER XCVII.

I HAVE received both your Letters: I did not get that of the 19th 'till Sunday Morn⯑ing; let me beg you not to write by the Stage again, for I hate Delays. I wrote to you laſt Saturday on the ſame Subject, I am now to treat of; but, as you deſire I ſhould be explicit, I obey.

And, firſt, let me again thank you, for your deſigned Viſit; and again aſſure you, that, with never-ceaſing Earneſtneſs, I wiſh, nay long to ſee you here. But as I ever did, and ever ſhall prefer your Eaſe and Happineſs to my own, I muſt inſiſt on your not contributing to mine, at the Expence of your's.

In the moſt romantick Hours of my Life, when every Inſtance of Tenderneſs tranſported me, I well remember to have received more Pain, than Pleaſure, from a parallel Proof of your Regard; and, to deal frankly with you, (which indeed I think you merit) it is neither in my Power nor Inclination to make the Re⯑turns, which, I fear, you would expect for ſuch a Favour. Let me intreat you then, my dear [173] Harry, not to give yourſelf and me fruitleſs Trouble; but wait, 'till Time, or Buſineſs, pro⯑duces ſome lucky Event, which may render your Coming neceſſary to yourſelf, and of Courſe pleaſing to me.—Whenever that happens, I will, with the utmoſt Pleaſure, meet you, at whatever Diſtance, you ſhall appoint, from Town, with a Female Companion; provided we can ſettle it ſo, as not to interfere with my domeſtick Affairs; and be aſſured, that every Moment of my Life, which can be ſpared from thoſe, ſhall be beſtowed on you. This is in⯑deed no Compliment, as I know no other Me⯑thod of ſpending it, with Satisfaction to myſelf.

I now ſolemnly declare that, by declining your intended Kindneſs, I debar myſelf of the only Pleaſure I am capable of receiving; for all other Enjoyments ‘have loſt the Power to charm my Soul.’ —Do not then unkindly conſtrue my Regard for your Welfare into Ca⯑price, or cruelly ſay, that I don't deſire to ſee you;—too well you know, I do.

You do me but ſtrict Juſtice in believing, that the moſt minute Matter, relative to you, muſt ever be of Conſequence to me; and, ſince you have touched on Family Affairs, you muſt give me Leave to tell you, that I am extremely concerned for poor Nancy. When I was at Belvidere, I pitied her as much as I ever did any Creature; for, tho' I cannot ſuppoſe her [174] capable of that exquiſite Anguiſh, which more cultivated Minds muſt feel, ſhe could not avoid Suffering greatly, from a Certainty of Sally's be⯑ing the reigning Favourite. If the Want of an elevated Mind prevented her feeling the "Hydra of Calamities" in the moſt poignant Manner, it likewiſe deprived her of the only Reſource, which can be found for the Forſaken that of ſcorning the perjured Lover; but ſhe, poor Soul! pointed her miſplaced Rage at her triumphant Rival; forgetting the nine Hundred and ninety-nine Damſels, who muſt have been dethroned, before ſhe took Poſſeſſion of the ca⯑pacious Empire of your Heart.

I am really ſorry her Behaviour obliged you to part with her; ſhe was a good Servant, and, I believe, ſincerely attached to your Intereſt, notwithſtanding Mr. —'s Report to the Contrary.

I cannot ſay how much I am obliged by your Writing ſo conſtantly; let me intreat you will continue to deſerve my ſincereſt Thanks, for they are all that I can offer in Return. It is not Want of Gratitude, but Power, that pre⯑vents my repaying the Obligation; you muſt then, like a compounding Creditor, accept all I have to give, tho' it falls ever ſo ſhort of the Debt.

[175]I again intreat you to believe, that I paſſi⯑onately long to ſee you, and that I am, with the ſincereſt Affection,

LETTER XCVIII.

YOUR Manner of Writing, about my go⯑ing to London, charms me extremely, as it is very ſenſible and rational. It flatters me too, as it is ſomewhat in the Stile I have al⯑ways treated you; for I would never ſacrifice one Sentiment of Friendſhip to all the Extra⯑vagance of Love; for which Reaſon, to ordi⯑nary Seeming, I might, perhaps, appear not to have loved you, half as well, as I really did. However that may be, I do ſolemnly aſſure you, upon my Word of Honour (which, when ſeriouſly given, I never forfeited to you yet) that, from the Inſtant I firſt ſaw you here, I have loved and approved you better, than I ever did before; and ſuch a Turn, at this Stage of our Acquaintance, is very likely to laſt for Life.— Amen, ſo be it!

There is ſomething, however, in your Man⯑ner, which ſometimes perplexes me. As for Example, in the two recent Inſtances of Para⯑clete, and my going to London; you ſpeak of [176] Things, which you ſeem to deſire, and, when I think you in Earneſt, as I generally do, my own Inclinations according with your's, you then tell me, you did not ſeriouſly intend what you hinted at. But I am not to be trifled with, after this Manner: For, whatever I undertake in Complaiſance to you, I ſhall certainly go thro' with, in Compliance with my own Incli⯑nations. So I ſhall certainly pay my Viſit to you in London ſoon, in Hope you will return the Compliment to Paraclete next Summer.

I hope you rejoice in the ſame Weather we have in the Country; we have not had even the Whiſper of a Michaelmas Rig yet; and October, which is generally a fine Month, is ſetting in with all good Omens. There is ſome⯑thing more charming in a fine Seaſon, at this Time of the Year, than in all the Sunſhine of a Summer's Meridian. Methinks it affects us ſomewhat like the pleaſing Reverence we feel, when we meet with Chearfulneſs in the Decline of Life. I hope this Weather will continue 'till I ſee you.— ‘Bear me but to her, then fail me, if you can.’ Not that I am ſuch a fair Weather Spark, that the Difference of Seaſon ſhall make any Difference in my ſtedfaſt Pur⯑poſe to ſee you, as ſoon as I can;

I am, my Deareſt, your's 'till I ſee you, and 'till I can ſee you no more.

LETTER XCIX.

NEED I tell my dear Harry that his Letter gave me the higheſs Pleaſure, as the ut⯑moſt Wiſh my Heart e'er formed, was to be approved by him? Let us now mutually con⯑gratulate each other, on our Coming to a right Underſtanding; for I am perſuaded that great Part of thoſe Uneaſineſſes, we have both given, and received, have been owing to our not being thoroughly acquainted with the Motives, on which we ſeparately acted. I may have miſcon⯑ſtrued Friendſhip into Want of Tenderneſs; and you deemed that Caprice, which was Ex⯑ceſs of Love. However, this I am ſure of, that we either love one another extremely well, or we muſt be a Couple of the proudeſt and moſt obſtinate Mortals, that ever yet exiſted. I ſincerely hope that our mutual Perſeverance is owing to the firſt Cauſe, as it is moſt for the Honour of human Nature in general, and of us two in particular.

I am ſincerely grateful for the kind Aſſurance you give me of ſtill increaſing Love. If every Thought, Word, or Action of my Life, being devoted to you, and you only, can merit a Con⯑tinuance of your Regard, I may venture to pro⯑miſe, that it will laſt for Life; and ‘that our Loves and Comforts will increaſe, even as our Days do grow.’

[178]As to that Part of my Conduct, which you ſay perplexes you, it is mighty eaſily accounted for. I have, perhaps, more Romance in my Diſpoſition, than any Woman, you may have met with; for this Reaſon, my Mind is ever filled with Ideas out of the common Road; Whims, which have any Degree of Tender⯑neſs, or Delicacy, pleaſe me extremely, and I am apt to indulge them, perhaps, too much; but, when any Circumſtance recalls the Remem⯑brance of my Situation in Life, I am immedi⯑ately ſorry for having given Way to my Folly, and would retrieve it, if I could. But, not to appear more variable than I really am, I ſubmit the Being, or Annihilation of Paraclete, intirely to you. If you ſeriouſly think, that my Aunt's Living there will add to your Happineſs, and not hurt my Fame, I will again, with Tranſport, indulge my Heart with

I inſiſt on your anſwering me like the Man of Honour, and the Friend. The Lover muſt not have the ſmalleſt Part in your Reply.

I do indeed rejoice with you, and for you, on Account of the Weather. I never ſee a [179] Gleam of Sunſhine, or a clear Sky, that does not afford me a double Pleaſure, by reflecting, how much you enjoy it. I would recommend it to you, to ſtay in the Country, while the Weather holds good; aſſured of this, that, when Sol withdraws his Influence, and refuſes longer to chear us miſerable Mortals, you can more than ſupply his Abſence, by clearing thoſe Glooms, which even his chearful Rays cannot diſpel without you.

I have ſuch a violent Pain in my right Shoul⯑der, that it is with the utmoſt Difficulty I move my Hand to write. I am ſtill une pau⯑vre Solitaire; Kitty has not yet left Bond-Street, nor do I know when ſhe will.

If I were able, I would write another Letter, and not ſend this; for it is indeed a miſerable Scrawl; tho', as my Letters have been always Originals, not Copies, I think it would be ill-timed to begin with Forms, when I ſhould leave them off.

As to the Affair of Nancy and Sally, it is of no farther Conſequence to me, than if James and the Coachman had been the Diſputants. Nor did I mention my Opinion of Sally with any Deſign; for you may eaſily conceive, that it is a Matter of Indifference to me, whether your preſent Favourite was chriſtened Sarah, or Anne; —for, while I am in Poſſeſſion of the Jewel that is lodged within, I care not who holds the Caſket.

I have quotted theſe Lines to you before, upon ſome ſuch Occaſion.

Adieu! my dear Harry, and believe me, as I am, faithfully and affectionately,

LETTER C. HENRY to FRANCES.

YOU have diſtinguiſhed very juſtly about the Diſadvantages, under which my Friend⯑ſhip and your Love have hitherto appeared to each other; but they have both approved them⯑ſelves of the beſt and moſt laſting Kind, upon the Teſts I have often mentioned to you, that I ſhould always preſerve the ſame conſtant. Te⯑nor in my Behaviour toward you, behaved you to me, well, or ill;

and that, if you once truly loved me, whatever might happen in the Courſe of our Lives, might, perhaps, interrupt, but could never break the Chain. Yet, to ſay the Truth, theſe converti⯑ble or reciprocal Terms of Love and Friend⯑ſhip have been ſo often commuted, converted, and compounded between us, that they are now [181] become, according to a Latin Sentence, I have, unde neſcio, met with, ‘Utrum horum mavis accipe, ſive utrumque;’ and between us two have come to ſo near a Re⯑ſemblance to each other, that my Friendſhip, from a conſtant unallayed Heat, begins now to blaze into a Flame; and the Extravagance of your Paſſion ſeems to have ſpent itſelf to ‘The calm Lights of mild Philoſophy;’ and, like the pure aetherial Spirit, can ſubſiſt without Matter. And here I muſt impoſe an⯑other Latin Sentence upon you, from Ovid: ‘Quod nunc ratio eſt, impetus ante fuit.’

Your ſaying that you rejoice now in fine Weather (tho' all Seaſons are equal to thoſe who live in Town) becauſe you know the Plea⯑ſure I receive from it, in the Country, puts me in Mind of a Pair of romantic Lovers, who agreed, at Parting, that, at ſuch an Hour of the Night, they would each take a ſolitary Walk by Moonlight, enjoying a whimſical Kind of Happineſs, in that they were both employed in contemplating the ſame Object, at the ſame Time. Such Inſtances as theſe, to Perſons who never were in Love, may, perhaps, appear very ridiculous; but the charming Caprices of this delightful Paſſion, like the Taſte, which Men of a refined Genius have for the politer Arts and Sciences, are as incomprehenſible to Perſons of [182] an ordinary Capacity, as the Objects of a ſixth Senſe.

LETTER CI.

I Have entered upon the Study you preſcribed to me, and have read Tully's Offices almoſt thro'; and I profeſs myſelf both pleaſed and ſur⯑prized, at finding to what a noble Height of virtuous Sentiment an uninlightened Pagan has carried the Point of Morals, Truth, and Juſtice. There are ſome extreme nice Caſes put, in dealing between Man and Man; in which Ci⯑cero has determined ſo differently from the ge⯑neral Practice, and allowed Opinions of the mer⯑cantile World, that a Perſon muſt have a very refined and abſtracted Speculation, who will readily join Iſſue with his Reaſonings.

I ſee now, more than ever, the Diſadvantage in Morals, which People muſt labour under, who have not had the Happineſs of a liberal and academic Education; who have not ſecured a thorough Knowledge of Books, before they venture upon any Acquaintance, or Commerce with the World. For it is in early Youth, be⯑fore Ideas are crowded, or complexed, while the Fancy is lively, quick to receive, and amo⯑rous [183] to retain, the delicate Senſations, that the moral Beauty of abſtract Virtue can be able to impreſs its Image on the Mind; and you might as well attempt to give a Man of Thirty a Taſte for the nice and inexpreſſible Graces of Poetry, Painting, or Muſic, as to teach a Merchant a Reliſh for the Refinements of Cicero.

However, I muſt confeſs, that the more I am pleaſed with this Author, and others of the ſame heathen Claſs, the more alarmed I find myſelf on Account of the Chriſtian Religion; which, tho' allowed to be the fineſt and nobleſt Syſtem of Ethics that ever was framed, I really can't perceive any thing more in, than was ſaid, wrote, and practiſed, before the Auguſtan Period. I have often heard Hints of the ſame Kind upon this Subject in Converſation, but they never made the leaſt Impreſſion on me before, becauſe they never came from any Perſon, whom I did not obſerve to be deficient either in Senſe or Virtue. Now, do not imagine, from any thing I ſay, that I am, in the leaſt, ſtaggered with Regard to my Faith in our holy Religion; but, as we ſhould, upon all Occaſions, be ready to give an Account of the Faith that is in us, I ſhall be obliged, if you will take the Trouble, to render me the Reaſon, or Neceſſity, for that Revelation; which, without having ever in⯑quired about, I moſt ſtedfaſtly and implicitly believe in. Your Hours of Retirement and [184] Leiſure have not been unemploy'd upon theſe Subjects; and you are my Abelard, my only Orthodoxy in ſpeculative Points.

LETTER CII.

I Received your clever Letter upon thoſe Sub⯑jects, which I left you converſant about: And, tho' I have already given you every Book from my Study, which I preſumed might adorn a Lady's Library, I believe, I ſhall ſoon be obliged to thin my Shelves farther, and call in Aid from the Cotton Muſaeum, to ſupply you.

Your Criticiſm upon Taſte is fine, and puts me in Mind of a very judicious Remark, I have ſomewhere met with, upon Julius Scaliger; who was allowed to be a Man of great Learn⯑ing, and deep Erudition, but is obſerved to be but an heavy Commentator upon the inimitable Elegancies of the Claſſics; ‘for that he ap⯑plied himſelf to his Studies, ſomewhat too late in Life.’ There are in moral Virtue certain Graces, which it is not in the Power of Ethic Rules to preſcribe, analogous to the Je-ne-ſçay-quoi of natural Beauty; which the moſt deſcriptive Poetry cannot expreſs; and which a Perſon can be only capable of perceiv⯑ing, from a ſort of Sympathy of Soul; as re⯑fined [185] Spirits are ſuppoſed to communicate their Ideas, rather by Intuition than Converſe.

Your Expreſſion of amorous to retain is fine; and one Inſtance, among many in your Writ⯑ings, of that poetical Elegance, which you al⯑lude to.

I am not prepared to enter into a Treatiſe upon the Subject you have ſtarted; but ſhall throw together a few unconnected Hints, after the Manner of a Common-Place-Book, which is the only Way I can have Patience to write in.

Religion may be conſidered but as moral Virtue, reduced to Method; as human Laws are but a Compendium of Equity. Moral Vir⯑tue, its Truth, and Beauty, like the Rays of the Sun, are too weak and diffuſe for many, the beſt Purpoſes of Life; but Religion, like a Burning-Glaſs, collects thoſe ſcattered Rays, giving them united Force, and more particular Direction.

From the Light of Nature a few ingenious Philoſophers might have deduced, perhaps, the Whole of revealed Ethics; but their Writings could have but a flight and confined Influence over the Generality of Mankind. Reaſoning may convince our Minds, but human Nature requires Authority to govern and controul its Actions. Rewards and Puniſhments are not clear from the Light of Nature, tho' they may [186] be preſumed from the Analogy running thro' all the Works of Providence. The Time, at leaſt, could not be aſcertained, 'till Revelation denounced it to be immediately conſequent of our Death; ſo that, before that Revelation, Men might, perhaps, preſume upon the Poſſibility of ſome farther State of Probation. Nay, what Certainty of an Hereafter, upon any Terms, could we have, without Revelation?

One great Comfort, in this frail mortal Life, was wanting from the Reaſonings of Natural Religion, which the Chriſtian Syſtem has aſ⯑ſured us of, namely, Remiſſion upon Repen⯑tance; and this has, not only, informed us of one darling Attribute more in the Godhead, but has ſaved Sinners from the Miſery and Dan⯑ger of Deſpair.

Why the great God has thought proper to make his Revelations ſo partially, both with Re⯑gard to Time and Place, in ſuch and ſuch a Manner; the Myſtery of the Incarnation, the Paſſion, with other Articles of Faith, are too abſtruſe to enter into here: Beſides, they more properly belong to, what they call, ſyſtematical Divinity; and I ſhall let them reſt, 'till I am at Leiſure to recommend proper Books for your Reading, to inſtruct you in ſuch ſpeculative Subjects. So having ſufficiently anſwered as much of this Matter, as your Letter required, I ſhall only add this ſhort Prayer, ‘That we [187] may both live in Hope, that we may die in Certainty!’

Adeiu!

LETTER CIII.

I Received your's, but it has not anſwered my Expectations, tho' you ſay it has anſwered my Letter. Now I forget how fully I expreſſed myſelf there, but I know I had more in Con⯑templation, when I wrote, than you have taken Notice of; and pray obſerve, there is a great Difference between anſwering a Queſtion, and ſolving a Difficulty.

I remember La Bruyere gives the Character of a famous French Wit, who made it a Rule with himſelf, never to ſeem poſed, upon any Occaſion whatſoever; and being aſked, a little abruptly, once, What was the Difference be⯑tween Dryads and Hamadryads, anſwered very readily, ‘You have heard of your Biſhops and Archbiſhops.’

I had this Story from yourſelf ſome Time ago, upon ſomewhat a ſimilar Occaſion, and I muſt therefore confeſs the Pertneſs of my Re-appli⯑cation; and, by Way of Apology for it, I ſhall add the old Proverb, That a Fool may aſk more Queſtions, than a wiſe Man can anſwer. However, I acknowledge, that you have ſaid [188] enough to looſen the Difficulty, tho' not intirely to reſolve it; and, for the reſt, I am ſatisfied to throw myſelf upon Faith.

LETTER CIV.

I Have read Tom Jones at your Requeſt, and return it to you with my Opinion upon it; which you likewiſe require.

The Novel is a true Copy of human Life; the Characters thoroughly kept up to; the Story well told; the Incidents humourous; the Senti⯑ments noble; and the Reflections juſt and moral.

The only Fault I find with the Author is, the ill-judged Attempts he often makes to be witty; which being by no Means his Talent, and, in a Work of this Kind, wholly unneceſ⯑ſary; he is therefore inexcuſable, if it ſhould turn out, as it frequently does here, in poor Al⯑luſions, bald Conceits, or wretched Puns.

LETTER CV. HENRY to FRANCES.

MY not hearing from you theſe two Poſts ſhall be no Reaſon for my not writing to [189] you; for I do it for the Pleaſure I have in ad⯑dreſſing you, after any Manner, not becauſe I think myſelf under a Neceſſity of anſwering you.

You may remember, the Spectators were in my Courſe of Reading, when you was here; and, t'other Day, I met a Paper of Addiſon's, the 2d Paper of the 4th Volume, which ſupports my Juſtification of Pope, againſt your Cenſure: ‘That there were but few Lines, in his Works, his own.’ Part of his Preface to his own Works too may be taken in. ‘Every one, who reads, expects their Authors ſhould be Scholars, and yet are angry, when they find them ſo.’ Is not your Action your own, be⯑cauſe it is as juſt and graceful as Lady —'s?

I have ſometimes obſerved to you, the great Inconvenience of a good Memory, which Per⯑ſons of the beſt Underſtandings, or greateſt Reading, are ſeldom incumbered with; by which Means, whatever they read becomes their own; by improving their Minds, without bur⯑thening their Memories; and like Perſons, who have ſtudied Mathematics, being once convinced of a Demonſtration, ever after retain the Truth, tho' the A's and B's, which explained it to them, are forgot. There is ſomething analogous to Digeſtion in Learning. — One Perſon ſhall turn all he eats, and drinks, to ſound Fleſh, and florid Complexion, while another Perſon, of a [190] diſordered or weakly Conſtitution, ſhall quote you a Piece of Partridge, or Pheaſant, after every Meal.

I beg to hear from you as ſoon as poſſi⯑ble, for I am afraid, the Delay is owing to the Pain in your Arm, you mentioned in one of your Letters.

LETTER CVI.

I Think myſelf vaſtly obliged to dear Harry, for his obliging Voluntier. I wiſh it was in my Power to make him a better Return, than meer Thanks; but indeed that is all I have to offer, for I am abſolutely grown ſo intolerably ſtupid, and have ſuch a confirmed Averſion to Writing, that I hate the Thoughts of touching a Pen; conſcious, that it muſt be as tireſome to you to read, as it is to me to write. Let my Want of Power plead my Excuſe, and kindly ac⯑cept of the Will for the Deed.

I have not had Leiſure enough, ſince I re⯑ceived your's, to look for the Paper you men⯑tion. You miſtake my Opinion with Regard to Pope. I did not ſay, his Verſe was not his own, but that he was only a Verſifier; and, as his Thoughts and Expreſſions are, I think, more elegant, than any of our Engliſh Poets, I can⯑not help being ſorry, that he did not ſtrike out [191] ſomething of his own, and not intirely confine his Genius to Tranſlating, or Verſifying the Plans, marked out by other Men; for this Reaſon, I think he had leſs Merit, tho' more Charms, than many of our Engliſh Writers; as the Ma⯑ſons, who built Belvidere, had, in my Mind, no more Pretence to Taſte, or Elegance, than if they had built a Barn.

Had I ever ſeen Lady —, it is certain I ſhould have endeavoured to copy her. I am glad I did not, for I don't know that I ever yet ſaw a good Imitation; for what may be elegantly graceful in one Perſon, may appear ridiculouſly aukward in another.

Your Remark with Regard to Memory is ve⯑rified in me, for I know no one that has a bet⯑ter than myſelf; and it is indeed very often a great Incumbrance to me, in more Caſes than one.

Mrs. — has been very well received by her Father-in-Law, in Wales, and is all ſo happy. I ſincerely rejoice at it, tho' indeed ſhe does not deſerve I ſhould give myſelf a Mo⯑ment's Thought about her. She had wrote ſe⯑veral Letters to Kitty, and others; not a Line to me. I am ſorry to ſay, ſhe has deſcended to [192] little Meanneſſes, I thought her incapable of; particularly, that of divulging every Paſſage re⯑lative to you, herſelf, and me, with Notes Va⯑riorum—on the Folly of my being again re⯑conciled to you, and many dreadful Prophecies on the Conſequence.—I hope, ſhe will not prove a Caſſandra.

I told you, in my laſt Letter, how my Time was employed. I have not been any where from Home, but at the Park, this Fortnight. The Pain in my Arm, which you are ſo kind as to think of, turned out to be the Rheumatiſm. I was much worſe after I wrote to you; but, by the Help of Patience and Warmth (without Flannel, which I hate) I am now pretty well.

I am ſurprized at your mentioning any Delay on my Side: I have anſwered every one of your Letters, by the next Poſt; if you have not got them, there muſt be ſome Blunder at your Poſt-Office. You are extremely kind, not to ſtand on Form: You can never write out of Time; I may: Your Letters always give me Pleaſure; mine cannot afford you any, yet are, at this Time, a higher Compliment, than when they were, perhaps, more entertaining. I hate Writ⯑ing, becauſe I know I cannot write: However, I would not have you imagine, that I think this Self-mortification too high a Price for your Cor⯑reſpondence; I am only concerned, that I have not an equivalent Return to make. But this be [193] aſſured of, that what I want in Expreſſion, is made up in Friendſhip and Affection for you. Let my Actions ſupply the Place of Words, and prove me

LETTER CVII.

I Received a Letter from you, pleading your Incapacity of writing, in the ſame Stile that Jeremy is ſaid to exclaim againſt Wit in Love for Love; which is our Comedy alſo: But you muſt get ſomebody elſe, indeed almoſt any body elſe, to make your Apology on that Head, for you can't avoid betraying yourſelf in your De⯑fence. In ſhort, my charming Girl, you can never hope to be excuſed on this Subject, for nothing but your Writing ill ſhall make me for⯑give your Neglect.

I am ſorry for Mrs. —'s Behaviour to you, but am pleaſed to find you mention it as be⯑comes you, more in Concern, than Picque; which truly ſhews in you more Generoſity and Virtue, than ſhe was ever capable of. There is, in her Cenſures of you, a vaſt Air of the old Maid; and tho' poor Mr. —, for his Sins, has rid her of that Reproach, yet the terrible Apprehenſions ſhe ſome Time laboured under of that forlorn State, have ſo ſoured her Morals, that ſhe wants nothing—but Wit—to be an ex⯑cellent [194] Satiriſt. The little Meanneſſes, ſhe has been guilty of, in mentioning your Name, con⯑vince me of the Truth of my Remarks about her, in a late Letter; for her Behaviour really ſhews more Picque for herſelf, than friendly Concern for you. But—fare-her-well—for a Pſeudo-Maga!

Notwithſtanding what you ſay againſt poor Pope, I am very well ſatisfied, he has ſaid many Things of his own; nay many Things are his own, tho' they, perhaps, were ſaid before. Now I am upon this Subject of Criticiſm, I can't help obſerving to you, that my Thought of a divided Heart, and Suckling's of a broken Looking-Glaſs, being compared to each other, was owing to a ſmall Error only of miſtaking Multiplication for Diviſion ^*.

I ſhall, by the End of this Week, have fi⯑niſhed the earlieſt and the largeſt Sowing of any Man in this County. Sixty-three Acres of Corn, exactly one Third of my Demeſne, unploughed when you was here, and all limed, at eighty Barrels to an Acre. After ſo much Labour and Fatigue, I think I owe myſelf ſome Relaxation, and ſhall then poſt up to London, to ſee what Harveſt you are making there; which I ſhall ſhare with you, in order to provoke you to make Repriſals on mine here next Summer. I am, my deareſt,

LETTER CVIII. HENRY to FRANCES.

I Am in Haſte to diſpatch my little Voluntier, before the Poſt comes in, leſt your Letter ſhould not leave me Room to ſay any Thing of my own; for your Writings are generally ſo re⯑plete with Matter and Sentiment, that it takes me up the full Extent of a Letter, merely to an⯑ſwer your's; ſo that there is hardly a Thought, or Expreſſion, I can truly call my own, except when I ſubſcribe myſelf ‘Your Lover, and your Friend;’ for that is a Sentiment, which pro⯑ceeds ſo naturally from my Heart, that it would frequently occur, whether you had wrote to me or no.

I am well aware, how far ſhort theſe detached Eſſays will appear of the Papers of our regular Correſpondence; for this remarkable Reaſon, that, as natural Philoſophers affirm the Statue to be originally in the Stone, the Hammer and Chiſſel only clearing of the Rubbiſh; ſo ſpecu⯑lative Wits ſay, that all Arts and Sciences are innate in the Mind; and that an ingenious Queriſt may deduce the moſt abſtruſe Theorems of Mathematics, Philoſophy, or Ethics, from the Anſwers of a rational Reſpondent, tho' ever ſo illiterate. Our epiſtolary Converſe I look upon, in this Socratical Light; inſomuch that, if I ſay any Thing, which deſerves to be taken [196] Notice of, I may rather be ſaid to have the Hap⯑pineſs to be inſpired, than to boaſt the Merit of Wit. I have, ſeveral Times, ſince we founded the Amourette, or Paraclete, lamented that, at your poetical Baptiſm, you had not taken upon you Le Nom d' Amour of Heloiſe; but, upon Reflection, I think it better became that Per⯑ſon, who was lately ſtiled ſo, as ſhe indeed needed many Things to learn, but

and are fitter to be yourſelf the Preceptor, than the Pupil. For my Part, I acknowledge to have been taught ſeveral Things by you; but the moſt material, and what pleaſes me moſt, is, that you have brought me to ſuſpect, that I ne⯑ver loved before. I have Reaſon to think now, that I formerly miſtook a high Fever, for that noble Paſſion; and, not being ſenſible of thoſe Heart-burnings, and quick Pulſes toward you, which I had formerly felt for another, I inge⯑nuouſly confeſſed, that the Love, which makes ſuch a Buſtle in Romances, was quite extinct in me. However, tho' I might have felt the Paſſion, I think, I never did the Sentiment, be⯑fore; for your Charms ‘Inſpire, not Luſt, but elegant Deſire;’ and are the exact Reverſe of Sidley's Art, as they [197] are capable of imparting the chaſteſt Wiſhes to the looſeſt Heart; and, as Milton expreſſes it, in refining upon ſenſual Pleaſure, can raiſe ‘the very Spirit of Love, and amorous Delight.’ All my Family have been this Fortnight at —, attending my Siſter's happy Minute, which is not yet arrived; and I have paſſed my Time here, after a Manner I like beſt, when I can't ſpend it with you. I riſe at Day-break, per⯑form the Ambarvalia, and divide the whole Day-light between my Ploughs and the Planting of my Trees; never dine 'till Night; then come in hungry, cold, and tired, to a good Fire, a Mutton Chop, a Pint of Wine, a Pinch of Snuff, and a Book. How often, and how ſincerely, have I wiſhed for you, in this Retirement? And what an Age it appears to me, ſince I ſaw you laſt! Which makes me ſuſpect that Mr. Locke's Aſſertion is not juſt; for, if Time is meaſured but by the Succeſſion of Ideas, how can your Abſence appear tedious to me, who have thought of nothing elſe but you? There is ſomething, however, in this diſparted State, which is not altogether unpleaſant; and ſhews the infinite Goodneſs of Providence, and the Happineſs of a Mind properly turned, that there are Satisfactions and Emoluments, even in the Misfortunes and Diſtreſſes of human Life; and that we may, as Young expreſſes it, ‘Elaborate an artificial Happineſs from Pains.’ [198] And it is really my Opinion, upon a good deal of Reflection, that no Perſon was ever poſſeſſed of ſublime Senſe or Virtue, who was incapable of melancholy Pleaſures. The Preſence of thoſe we love is like the Noon; their Abſence, like the Even of Life; which latter has, I believe, a good deal of that ſort of Pleaſure I have juſt mentioned.

I am, as I told you once before in this Let⯑ter, both

LETTER CIX. FRANCES to HENRY.

NOthing leſs than the extreme Pleaſure I re⯑ceived from your laſt dear, elegant Epiſtle, could poſſibly have rouſed me from the lethargic Stupidity I have been lately immerſed in: ‘As after Winds of ruffling Wing, the Sea, ſub⯑ſiding ſlow, ſettles into a Calm.’ But, as I have already ſaid, it was ſuch a one, as I by no Means can boaſt of; for it was from Paſſion being exhauſted, not the Power of Reaſon, this Apathy aroſe. But thy much-loved, thy dear, kind, forming Hand, ‘to healthful Meaſure has reduced and tempered the Rage of Pride, the Felneſs of Revenge, and all the weak Ex⯑ceſſes of my Heart.’

[199]Oh! what a Charm has Flattery, when it proceeds from thoſe we truly love! How far be⯑yond Expreſſion is the Pleaſure I receive from your ſaying, I am what I moſt wiſh to be? For, tho' I am not vain enough to fancy I have the leaſt Pretence to thoſe Praiſes you laviſh on me, yet, as every Eye creates its own Charmer, your kind Partiality may, perhaps, ſet my little Me⯑rits in ſuch an advantageous Light, as may ren⯑der me pleaſing to the ſingle Perſon, whoſe Ap⯑probation is of more Conſequence to me, than that of the united World.

With Regard to myſelf, I muſt differ from the Opinion you advance, that ‘the Statue is originally in the Stone;’ for I am thoroughly conſcious, that I am more indebted to you for any amiable Quality, which I may poſſeſs, than to Nature. Perhaps the firſt Sparks were formed by Nature, but they lay as dead as Fire in Flint, which can only be extracted by Steel. — What you have made, accept of: I am indeed a Crea⯑ture of your own forming, and therefore all your own.— But, oh! my deareſt Harry, remember that, as you have raiſed the Senſations of my Mind to know the higheſt Happineſs the hu⯑man Heart can feel, you have alſo rendered me capable of ſuch Pains, as would ‘make Hell ſuperfluous.’

That you do love me, I verily believe; and the fond Hope, that you will ever do ſo, is all [200] the Hold I have of Happineſs. The charming Change, you ſpeak of in your Sentiments, has tranſported me almoſt beyond my Senſes. To have you love me with Tenderneſs and Deli⯑cacy, all groſs Deſires for ever baniſhed from your Heart, is Joy unſpeakable.—Now, and now only, I begin to live, and you to love.

How earneſtly, how paſſionately, do I languiſh to be a Partner in the rational Delight you men⯑tion! to have the Eſſence of Wiſdom, Learn⯑ing, Eloquence, and Truth, from thy harmo⯑nious Tongue, 'till, raiſed by Gratitude and Rap⯑ture, I catch my kind Inſtructor in my Arms, and teach even him what it is to love! — Oh! Harry, why has not Fortune placed me in a Sphere to indulge my firſt, my laſt, my only Wiſh, of being always and for ever your's? From the Extremity of Joy my Heart is plunged in the ſevereſt Grief, when I reflect that a few, a very few Months will divide us, perhaps, for ever! Oh! I can't bear the Thought.—You will forget me then, — no more remember that you once did love me, or that I ever did, and ever ſhall love you.—My Heart is torn in Pieces with this Thought,—I'll not indulge it.

As I am always pleaſed at your being engaged in any Purſuit, that can be either uſeful or de⯑lightful to you, I am charmed with your Paſ⯑ſion for Planting. I think it is Addiſon, who ſays, ‘There is ſomething truly magnificent in [201] this kind of Amuſement; it gives a noble Air to ſeveral Parts of Nature; it fills the Earth with a, Variety of beautiful Scenes, and has ſomething in it like Creation; for this Rea⯑ſon, the Pleaſure of one who plants is like that of a Poet, who is more delighted with his own Productions than any other Writer or Artiſt whatſoever.’

I hope you'll pardon my Quotation, as it is only meant to prove, that the whole Study of my Life ("true as the Needle to the Pole") tends to you only; for I am well aſſured this Paſſage would have paſſed ‘unmarked by my unheeding Eye,’ had you not been ingaged in this noble Avocation. — In ſhort, I never take up a Book but with a Deſign of rendering myſelf more worthy of your perſonal or epiſtolary Con⯑verſe. I am well convinced, that not all the Authors I can ever read, will prevent my falling ſhort of that ne plus ultra. It is from you, and you alone, my dear Preceptor, I muſt receive both Inſpiration and Expreſſion.—

I will with great Pleaſure adopt the Name of Heloiſe, provided you reaſſume that of Abelard; ſhe who lately had it might have a more intel⯑ligent Mind, but not one ſo well calculated to [202] be your Pupil, as I have; for ſhe wanted both Love and Reſpect for her Tutor.

I have thought every Day increaſed in Length, ſince you talked of coming to Town; had I nothing to hope, or fear, it is highly proba⯑ble, I ſhould have diſcovered every Day is ſhorter, than the Day before; but, the nearer we approach to the Summit of our Wiſhes, the intervening Space grows more tedious, by Re⯑collection of the paſt Fatigue.

LETTER CX.

IF I had no other of the many Reaſons I have to write to you, this one would be ſufficient, that I obſerve, my Letters have a good Effect upon your Spirits; which gives me greater Pleaſure, and Pride, than would the Applauſe of the World, were I ſure of gaining it, by printing them.

The Quotation, you ſent me on Planting, is indeed from Addiſon, in one of his Spectators; for who can be in Doubt, upon any Paſſage wrote by him? What an infinite Difference there is between his Papers, and any of the reſt, bound up with them! What a Nobleneſs of Sentiment, Juſtneſs of Thought, Perſpicuity of Stile, Elegance of Expreſſion, and Propriety of [203] Language there is in all his Writings! They ſay, prudent Oeconomiſts ſhould lay by ſome⯑thing always out of their annual Income, to avail themſelves of, upon any natural, or acci⯑dental Emergency. So I have marked ſeveral of Addiſon's Papers, to be referred to, on any extraordinary Diſtreſs, or Misfortune of Life; againſt Pain, Sickneſs, old Age, Poverty, the Hour of Death, and the Day of Judgment. In ſhort, meer Man is not able to ſupport his Spirit, under any of theſe Preſſures; and the Writings of ſeveral eminent Men are admirable Reſour⯑ces to ſtrengthen Philoſophy, for the preſent, and enliven Hope, for the Future; and a Col⯑lection of Pieces, from ſeveral Authors, in this Stile, which may not improperly be intitled, "The Cordial of Adverſity," would be a very uſeful Work on many Occaſions in Life.

I am carrying on my Plantations with as much Diligence, but not with the ſame Spirit, as before: I was then in Hopes of ſeeing you here, and now I almoſt deſpair of that Pleaſure; the Genius of the Place is fled,—for what Inſpiration can I expect from hidebound Hama⯑dryads, when the Diana of the Woods is gone?

Fear not, my deareſt Girl, that either Di⯑ſtance of Place, or Time, ſhall ever make me forget to love you; for it was ever my greateſt Pleaſure, and ſhall be always my greateſt Pride, [204] to acknowledge myſelf your Lover, and your Friend.

LETTER CXI.

I RECEIVED a low-ſpirited Letter from you laſt Poſt, which I am ſorry for, and ſurpriz⯑ed at: For I think it is a Condeſcenſion beneath your Pride, and giving a Triumph to a baſe Enemy, whoſe Malice would be impotent, if you would exert the Spirit, you have, with any other Perſon's Temper. But of theſe Matters more at Meeting,—I ſhall only infer an Ob⯑ſervation I have often made, which this Subject makes occur to me now, that a Man muſt be qualified by Nature for every Thing, the greateſt, and even the moſt inſignificant. Without this natural Endowment, Power will turn to Ty⯑ranny, Learning to Pedantry; nay, ſhould a Man even pretend to dreſs, without a Genius, he can but accompliſh himſelf a Fop.

There is ſomething inſolent in that Fellow's Manners, which plainly proves he was never deſigned for Government. When a Perſon of ſuch mean Original, and worthleſs Qualities riſes to any Rule, or Power, he may be com⯑pared, in a witty Phraſe of Doctor South's, to a Scum; at once the baſeſt and the uppermoſt Part.

Every Happineſs on this Earth attend my deareſt Girl!

LETTER CXII.

I HOPE my having been extremely harraſſed with Buſineſs, for this Week paſt, will ap⯑pear a ſufficient Excuſe to dear Harry, for my not writing laſt Poſt. I own the Reproof in your's of the 23d both juſt and gentle; but I think Nature is in Fault, not I: For I would not let the preſent Vexation, or any other, chagrine me, if I could help it;—but I will have done with the Subject, leſt I ſhould again demonſtrate, that it is in the Power of Trifles to make me uneaſy.

Your Letters can indeed lower, or raiſe my Spirits, as you pleaſe: For I conſider myſelf but as an Inſtrument, in the Hands of a ſkilful Muſician, who can ‘ſound me from my loweſt Note, to the Top of my Compaſs.’

I think your Syſtem of Preparation againſt the numberleſs, diſagreeable Occurrences of Life, a very good one; but then, believe me, it will only avail you in the ordinary Accidents, which are common to all Men. For, where a Mind, like your's, meets with any uncommon Misfortune, it is not turning to Authors, that we know wrote well, will afford us Conſolation. Such an Underſtanding as your's muſt ſuggeſt to itſelf, whatever has been ſaid on a parallel Oc⯑caſion. But alas! how incapable is Wiſdom of alleviating thoſe Diſtreſſes, which affect the Heart! Mr. Addiſon has ſaid, ‘there is no [206] Conſolation for unhappy Love: A fine Un⯑derſtanding, and an elegant Taſte, add Strength to the Paſſion, while that, of all others, moſt enervates them.’ —For my own Part, I know not where to apply myſelf for Courage, or Conſtancy, to ſupport what I think infinitely more terrible than Death. If your Study, or Philoſophy, has found out a Me⯑thod of parting with all we love, without a Pang, it will be but Charity to let me know it; and tho' it may not, perhaps, work ſo perfect a Cure on me, as you: If it does but alleviate any Part of the Pain, it will be of infinite Ser⯑vice to me. The Parting of the Soul and Body, tho' a Circumſtance that we are from our In⯑fancy inured to think of, has ſhook the Courage of the greateſt Men.—How much more dreadful is it to be for ever ſeparated from what we value much above ourſelves?—But, ſince it muſt be, I will endeavour to ſummon all my Fortitude, and learn from you, to bear it, as I ought; for, ‘in Sight of ſuch a Pattern, to perſiſt ill ſuits a Perſon honoured with thy Love.’ —The only Return I can make to the kind Aſſurance you give me, is to make you the ſame Promiſe, which, I believe, you will not doubt; for,

[207]Adieu, my dear Abelard, may you remember me, while the Remembrance is grateful; and, when it ceaſes to be ſo, forget

LETTER CXIII.

OUR Journey is fixed, and I am diſtracted: I know the Prudence of the Scheme in every Point, and yet nothing but Neceſſity ſhould make me ſtir. I long to ſee you, and yet wiſh it not: For, tho' I were to ſee you every Day and Hour, I ſhall never be able to forget, but for a Minute, that I muſt leave Eng⯑land in May, with a moral Certainty of never ſeeing it again. Had not Fortune, as it were, rooted you to a peculiar Spot, what I now look upon as the ſevereſt Kind of Baniſhment, could give me but very little Pain; for we are all Ci⯑tizens of the World.—As to my Loſs, you will not, cannot feel it: For, in Reality, it is none; and it is as much impoſſible that you can ever want a more charming, agreeable Friend, as that you can ever find a ſincerer.—Soon, very ſoon, you will forget me; while I, alas! a helpleſs Stranger in a foreign Land, ſhall nei⯑ther wiſh, nor hope for Conſolation; for where, or how, or from whom ſhould I receive it?

[208]All that remains, after our laſt Adieu, is to conſider you as an Inhabitant of another World, and myſelf in a local Purgatory; where having proved my Faith and Conſtancy, we ſhall be re-united, again ſhall meet, to part no more;— tho' there can be no Certainty that we ſhall know one another in a future State, I think it is extremely conſiſtent with human Reaſon, to ſuppoſe we ſhall; for I think it is arraigning the Wiſdom of the Almighty, to imagine that he ſhould form us with Paſſions, and Attracti⯑ons for each other, (which more frequently pro⯑duce Miſery, than Happineſs, in this Life) and let thoſe ſtrongeſt, nobleſt Faculties of the Soul periſh with the Body in the Grave. No—it cannot be; they were ordained to anſwer higher Ends, to make the everlaſting Happineſs of his Creatures, and will exiſt to all Eternity. Be⯑ſides, we are taught to believe, that we muſt render an Account of our paſt Lives. Sure, ‘Love is the informing, active Fire, that kin⯑dles up the Maſs;’ and is it not the higheſt Ab⯑ſurdity to ſuppoſe, that, when in a State of Per⯑fection, we ſhall remember the Effects, but forget the Cauſe? — I would not loſe this Hope, for any Certainty the World could give me. — Oh! my beſt-loved, my ever dear, and charming Friend, part, when we will, we have an Eternity to ſpend together! and, tho' I do not flatter myſelf with holding the firſt, or [209] higheſt Place in your Regard, I dare boaſt of as ſincere, as tender, and as conſtant an Affection for you, as ever ‘faithful Woman felt, or falſe one feigned;’ and there, where all the Miſts of Error ſhall be cleared away, ‘our Forms tranſparent, naked every Thought,’ a Paſſi⯑on, ſuch as mine, muſt have ſome Claim.

As to what you mention with Regard to For⯑tune, give me Leave to aſſure you in the moſt ſolemn Manner, that, were your's equal to your utmoſt Wiſh, it ſhould not make any Al⯑teration in mine. I love you much too well, (were it in my Power) to buy my Happineſs, at the Price of your's; and, whatever Idea you may have formed of my Sentiments for you, I ſwear by that all-ſeeing Power, who knows my inmoſt Thoughts, that Fortune never had the ſmalleſt Share in my unchangeable Affection for you, and, could you ſeat me on a Throne this Moment, it might add to my Gratitude, but could not, to my Love. The ſole Concern, I have ever had about your Fortune, with Regard to myſelf, was, that it's not being as eaſy, as you could wiſh, might perhaps engage you to enter into a Situation, which muſt render my Affection for you criminal. This, I own, has often filled my Heart with Sorrow, and my Eyes with Tears; as the conſtant Reſult of this Thought was a fixed Reſolution never to ſee you more. But, when I have conſidered it would [210] be for your Happineſs, I quickly found, I could give up my own.—All Reflections of this Kind are now over, and, ſince the long-feared, fatal Separation muſt arrive, I think, I could, without betraying any Weakneſs, hear you were married to a deſerving Woman, with a good Fortune. For, ſince it is not in my Power to make you happy, all that remains, is, with Sincerity and Truth, to wiſh you ſo.

I long impatiently to ſee you, yet would, by no Means, have you come, 'till it ſuits your own Convenience. I have ten thouſand Things to ſay to you; ‘for I could find out Things to talk to thee for ever; we ought to ſummon all the Spirit of ſoft Paſſion up, to chear our Hearts, thus labouring with the Pangs of parting.’

Pray let me know, in your next, when you really think of coming to Town? I look on every Minute, that we might, and do not ſpend together, as an irreparable Loſs; for oh! they are but few, compared to the numberleſs Hours we muſt paſs aſunder.

Adieu, my deareſt Harry! forgive my Weak⯑neſs, as it is you who cauſe it; and reſt aſſured that no Time, or Chance, ſhall ever change the unalterable Affection of

LETTER CXIV.

I THINK you have hit upon one Misfortune in Life, which, perhaps, Philoſophy may not be equal to; either a Diſappointment in our Loves, or the intire Separation from the Perſon beloved. But either of theſe did not occur to me at the Time I wrote that philoſophick Let⯑ter: Becauſe I have not the leaſt Apprehenſion of the firſt, as I am well convinced of your Conſtancy and Truth; and ſhall I think we are for ever parted, becauſe ‘rough Seas divide us, and whole Oceans roll?’ No, my beſt-loved, I ſhould think the whole Southern Ocean but an Helleſpont between you and me. Be⯑lieve me, that neither my Attachment here, or your Engagement there, ſhall ſeparate us, for any conſiderable Time; perhaps, not much longer than our ſeparate Vocations do already— of which we will talk more at Leiſure ſoon.

Another Letter of your's is juſt come in, where you pay me a high Compliment, that you would be pleaſed to have my Letters made pub⯑lick. You acknowledge ſome Vanity in this, and you'll find, upon Recollection, that it was owing to the ſame, not a different Turn of Mind, Alexander's Quarrel with Ariſtotle. In the Deſire you expreſs of making my Writings publick, there is indeed a great deal of publick [212] Spirit, and a very juſtifiable Vanity; but nei⯑ther in the Senſe you mean them; for, if ever I appear in Print, it ſhall be humbly Attending on you, where I ſhall only appear like a Dutch Comment upon a Claſſick; ſerve to explain, the Senſe, incapable to expreſs the Spirit. I own, I have often thought of ſome ſuch joint Work of our's, which ſhould bear the Name of the Monument: See the laſt Spectator of the 7th Volume; but our Monument ſhould be diſtinguiſhed by the Title of, The Paraclete.

You have no Reaſon to be jealous of my Attachment to rural Pleaſures; it is the Coun⯑try Buſineſs, which has detained me from you; and, perhaps, the greateſt Satisfaction I have in it, is, that it may ſoon the better enable me to ſee you often, and for a longer Time. The Pleaſures alone, tho' they were as high, as the moſt Paſtoral Poet ever feigned them, could not with-hold me a Moment from you, whom I ſhall always conſider as my charming Rus in Urbe; in whom is joined all the Sweetneſs, Innocence, and Truth of a Country Life, with all the higheſt Refinements of a Court.

Your Argument, about our Knowledge of each other in a future State, has ſomething in it not only very pretty, but of rational Philo⯑ſophy, and ſound Divinity; and I will reſt my Faith upon it, as that charming Hope gives me [213] an higher Reliſh of the World to come, than any Thing elſe, which I have now a Notion of.

LETTER CXV.

I AM come hither in Queſt of Vote and In⯑tereſt, but return To-morrow. Wedneſday next I ſet out from Belvidere, and Friday from —, for London. I ſhall paſs round thro' the County of —, ſo what Day I ſhall be in Town, I can better let you know from ſome Stage on the Road.

I can hardly expreſs what an Impatience I have to return to the Country, tho' I have been but two Days from it, upon Buſineſs too which I like, the Serving of a Friend, and in a very agreeable Town too. In ſhort, I find that all the Spirit of Ambition and active Life is quite extinguiſhed in me; and ſupplanted by the tran⯑quil Pleaſures and ſpeculative Leiſure of rural Retirement; heedleſs how little my Sentiments, or Actions, ſhine forth before the buſy World, ſo you and I approve. In this philoſophick Heroiſm, I think I exceed Cincinnatus, and ſome other of the gallant Perſonages of Antiquity; they indeed returned to the Plough, but I would not leave it. This Turn of Mind, which I have [214] had for ſome Time, has ſtaggered my Faith, with Regard to the Change occaſioned in the Nature of Things, on Account of original Sin: Particularly, that Tillage and Agriculture be⯑came then neceſſary, to obtain the Fruits of the Earth, which uſed to grow ſpontaneouſly before. Now I am ſufficiently orthodox in ſound Doc⯑trine, tho' I have not a Leproſy of Faith about me; and, if this moral Exerciſe, both of Body and Mind, was meant as a Curſe, how comes it to be attended with ſo much rational and philoſophick Pleaſure? If the Mind of Man was changed, at the ſame Time, ſo as to ac⯑commodate itſelf to this Employment, what is become of the Curſe? There is ſuch a natural Senſe of theſe Pleaſures implanted in our Souls, that we are ſtruck with it, at firſt Sight, we know not how; we feel a vague Kind of Ad⯑miration, we know not why; and are ſenſible of a certain Earneſtneſs of Affection, we know not for what; not unlike the firſt Longings of a Maid. How high then muſt this natural Plea⯑ſure be, when it becomes a rational one! when we are able to contemplate the Beauties of the Creation in a philoſophick Light, to explore the admirable Contrivance of Providence, and in⯑veſtigate the hidden Cauſes of all natural Ef⯑fects!—But I am going too far, and detain⯑ing myſelf from the Enjoyment of a Pleaſure, in the Contemplation of it; ſo ſhall take my [215] Leave of it, and you, in order to prepare my⯑ſelf more ſpeedily for the charming Poſſeſſion of both; which, if I could enjoy together, would form the higheſt Satisfaction, I am, at preſent, capable of.

Adieu! my Eloiſe!

LETTER CXVI.

IF you obſerve, I generally accoſt you by the Stile above-mentioned, becauſe it is the firſt that occurs to me. The Noms d'Amour of Eloiſe, or Sappho, may be more according to the Rules of Gallantry: But as in the latter Titles you are conſidered as a perſonated Character, and in the Former a real One, I chuſe to addreſs you in the familiar Phraſe, as I well know, you have more Charms in Reality, than it is in the Power of Fiction to give you. In ſhort, my dear Girl, according to an elegant Deſcription in ſome of the Claſſicks, in the Novel you are formoſa, but in yourſelf, ipſa Forma. The mak⯑ing Uſe of Latin Sentences to you may, perhaps, appear a little pedantick, but there is indeed, in your Underſtanding, ſo little of Effeminacy, that I frequently conſider you, not only as a Man, but a Man of Letters too; and I re⯑member, I once threatened, — that, if at any Time you ſhould ſay or do any Thing [216] rude to me, I believed, I ſhould be brave enough to draw my Sword on you.

Some elegant Author ſays, that, in Waiting for his Miſtreſs, all the reſt of Life is but At⯑tending 'till the comes; ſo I confeſs ſincerely to you, that, in your Abſence, I have no En⯑joyment of myſelf, but in this diſtant Intercourſe between us; for, when I am at Leiſure to retire within myſelf, you are the only Object placed there, which I find any Pleaſure to converſe with.

I have obſerved, ſince the Inter-regnum of our Loves, a certain good Breeding in my Manners, and Complacency of Addreſs towards you, which I am extremely pleaſed with; which ſhews the Difference between a Triumph over our Perſons, and a Conqueſt over our Minds. In a Word, the Redintegration of our Affecti⯑ons, like a mutual Triumph, is to be conſider⯑ed more as an Alliance, than a Conqueſt; and, for my own Part, I confeſs that the Regaining of your Regard and Eſteem, like a Conqueſt over one's own Paſſions, has ſuch a Reſignation to Senſe and Virtue, that it inſpires me with a calm, humble Pride, very different from the Exultation we feel, upon ordinary Triumphs.

I received your Letter, but could not anſwer it, laſt Poſt, as my Head, Heart, and Hand were taken up, to ſerve a Relation and Friend.

LETTER CXVII.

I CONFESS that, like you, I am fonder of this ſimple Appellation, than all the florid Names, that ever graced Romance; but, like your Complaiſance, this Fondneſs bears but a late Date: For I well remember a Time, when I would have exchanged the moſt advantageous Propoſal of Marriage, for a Letter ſigned Oron⯑dates, Cyrus, or any other heroick Name. I can now, with great Pleaſure, boaſt a Change in my Diſpoſition, almoſt to a direct Contradiction of my former Sentiments; and can aſſure you, that I think it a very high Triumph for a Wo⯑man, under five and Twenty, to have ſurmount⯑ed all the Romance, which could poſſibly be crammed into a little female Soul.

Hurried as I am, and plagued with Buſineſs more than ever I was in my Life, I paſs many Hours in ſilent Converſations with you; and, when I ſtart from my Reveries, am ſurprized, and ſorry at not finding you "cloſe by my Side." —My being immerſed in Buſineſs, as it con⯑fines me much at Home, where I have no Com⯑panion, makes all my Thoughts turn upon you; and I have frequently, in reading aloud, applied to you, for your Opinion of a Sentiment▪— Why are you not here to anſwer me?

I begin to grow jealous of your contempla⯑tive Pleaſures, when I think my deareſt Harry [218] may indulge them, when I am far removed from a Poſſibility of any other; yet he now prefers them to a perſonal Converſe with me.— ‘Per⯑haps I am too fond!’ but let the ſhort Time limited for my earthly Happineſs plead my Excuſe.

I am vaſtly indebted to you for your elegant Compliment, tho' I am thoroughly conſcious, I by no Means, deſerve it; I am pleaſed with that, or any Thing elſe, which gives my dear Harry an Opportunity of ſhewing his Wit and Politeneſs. Not that I want freſh Proofs, to convince me, that, had he a proper Object to inſpire him, his Writings might well vie with any, the greateſt Maſters in the Art of Pleaſing. For my own Part, I ſolemnly declare that the Addreſſes of the greateſt Monarch on Earth could not, to my Vanity, afford ſo high a Tri⯑umph, as thoſe elegant Praiſes, which your dear charming Letters abound with. There is in my Temper ſomething, that ariſes, either from Be⯑nevolence to the World, or ſelfiſh Vanity; (I can't tell which:) that, in Contradiction to Alexander's Opinion, and your's, makes me wiſh to communicate the Pleaſure I receive from your Writings to the World; for I look upon it as a high Degree of Avarice, to monopolize ſuch an invaluable Treaſure.

Tho' I am tranſported at the Thought of your conſidering me as a Male Friend, yet I [...]in [...] ſomething vaſtly tremendous in it. The [219] great Diſparity in our Underſtandings may now be accounted for, with ſome Shew of Reaſon. It is the Charter of our Sex, to be Fools; and the numberleſs Weakneſſes, which intitle us to your Regard and Protection, create a peculiar Kind of Affection, which it is natural to feel for Creatures in our Power. But ſhould we once diſclaim that powerful Weakneſs, which renders us alike Objects of Love and Pity, we are no longer intitled to that Indulgence and Partiality, which the Wiſeſt of us want, and the Simpleſt have a Claim to. Let me therefore intreat my deareſt Harry, to look on my Friendſhip for him as truely Maſculine: But let my Under⯑ſtanding ſtill claim all the Privileges of the Feminine Gender.

I think we have both great Reaſon to tri⯑umph in our late Reconciliation; as you, in at⯑tempting to regain my Eſteem, paid the higheſt Compliment to my Affection for you; while I proved to Demonſtration, that you had Merits ſufficient to ſurmount my Pride, and your own Failings.—May we long continue to re⯑ceive Pleaſure from the Recollection of our paſt Uneaſineſſes, and to look on that, as the hap⯑pieſt Aera of our Lives, that reſtored us to each other.

I heartily wiſh your Friend Succeſs, as you are intereſted for him; but I ſhall be very apt to hate him bravely, if he ſhould be again the [220] Occaſion of your miſſing a Poſt.—I am, my dear Harry, conſtantly and ſincerely

LETTER CXVIII.

I WAS as bad laſt Night, as ever; the Rea⯑ſon, I did not appear ſo the Night before, was, that I did not ſleep long enough to give my Rheum Strength ſufficient to oppreſs me. It is now near Two, before I could ſet out; and ſhall have but juſt Time to reach Barnet, perhaps not before Night; ſo can't call on you To-day, as I promiſed.

I thank you for your Letter this Morning, and am almoſt ſorry I did not want your Fa⯑vour, for I have a Pleaſure in being obliged to you. But perhaps I ſhall ſoon, and will then call on you. I beg you will write me Word, by Tueſday's Poſt, whether you will ſpeed the Frolick of coming down to the Country; who the Party is to be, and what the Stage?—I mean the Place of Meeting. Don't, my dear Fanny, have any Doubts or Qualms about my Deſire to ſee you, becauſe I did not receive the Propoſal with Tranſport, at a Time when all my Faculties were over-powered by Diſorder, and Want of Reſt; beſides you ſurely ought to diſtinguiſh between the Effects of Pleaſure, and thoſe of Joy; the Tranſports of the one your [221] Coyneſs has refuſed me, but the Tranquility of the other your Converſation, upon any Terms, will always afford me.

Conſider too, if I did not preſs you to a Fa⯑tigue, and an Expence, for this, and the other Reaſons, above hinted, I ſhould not have been treated with ſuch unkind Suſpicion.

Whenever your Words, or Actions, can bear two Meanings, I always arreſt the beſt; and where they can admit but of one, and that not favourable, I ſet them by, as not to be account⯑ed for.

I beg to hear from you,—and tell me of your Health.

LETTER CXIX. FRANCES to HENRY.

I RECEIVED your laſt Adieu, and am in Reality more obliged to you, than I ſhould have been, for a much kinder; for by convinc⯑ing me, you felt no Concern from our Separa⯑ration, you leſſened mine extremely.

I ſincerely hope that the Freſhneſs and Purity of the Country Air will, in a few Days, reſtore you to perfect Health; and I make not the leaſt Doubt, but its contemplative Plea⯑ſures will quickly recover your Spirits to that calm, uniform, philoſophick Chearfulneſs, which the interpoſing Impertinence of diſagreeable, or [222] (at beſt) inſipid Objects may, for ſome Time paſt, have ruffled.

You compliment me extremely, when you ſuppoſe me capable of diſtinguiſhing the Effects of Joy from thoſe of Pleaſure: I have been but little converſant with either of them, there⯑fore my Ignorance is excuſable, ſhould I tell you, I always looked on them as twin Siſters, and ſo very like, that it was difficult to know, one from t'other. I think too, they are the joint Offspring of Love and Reaſon, who, diſ⯑puting to whom they ſhould pay moſt Obedience, quarrelled, and have never ſince been reconciled.

But, to ſpeak in a more natural Way, I look upon Joy and Pleaſure to be ſynonymous Terms; they ariſe from one Faculty, or Affec⯑tion of the Mind; and Joy is nothing more or leſs than the firſt and ſtrongeſt Emotion, which breaks out, on our being really pleaſed. I will not pretend to ſay, that my Definition is right; I have only given my Opinion.—But this I know, that, if I am not capable of abſtracting Joy from Pleaſure, I can, at leaſt, diſtinguiſh Pleaſure from Indifference:—For this Reaſon you may juſtly ſuppoſe the Party at an End, from the Moment it was mentioned; and I here give you my Word, it is the laſt of the Kind, I ſhall ever propoſe with you. I hope you will pardon what is paſt, on this very ſincere Pro⯑miſe of Amendment.

I am far from being diſpleaſed, at finding [223] your Prudence ſuperior to mine: It has indeed been ſo, thro' the whole Courſe of our Ac⯑quaintance; but as, I believe, there are few People, who have more Quickneſs and Viva⯑city in their Diſpoſitions, ſo there is no Perſon breathing, whoſe Spirits are more eaſily damp⯑ed, than mine; for Want of Reſolution has hitherto been my greateſt Fault, as well as Misfortune.—As I have been often led by Perſuaſion to many Things, contrary to my Inclinations; while, from Want of Reſolution, I have left undone thoſe Things, which Reaſon, Virtue, Prudence, and Pride dictated.—In both theſe Caſes, I conſider myſelf, as very blameable; by acting in direct Oppoſition to the little Underſtanding, that Providence has bleſſed me with. In this Light, I think my ſupport⯑ing any Kind of Correſpondence with you an Offence againſt myſelf more unpardonable, than any I ever yet had Will, or Power to commit, to the Prejudice of any other Creature. But, tho' this, like all other Acts of Folly, carries its Puniſhment in the Commiſſion, I am deter⯑mined not to leave it in your Power, to make that an Act of Neceſſity, which I deſign a Sa⯑crifice.—And as I am not capable of afford⯑ing you any Kind of Happineſs, without in⯑juring myſelf, I think it is high Time to put an End to our mutual Uneaſineſs, and remain ſatisfied with the pleaſing Belief, that we would each do much, to make the other happy.

[224]You know this Reſolution has taken up my Thoughts for ſome Time; and I ſolemnly de⯑clare, I mention it now from no other Motive, but a Deſign of reducing it to Practice. I have not one Doubt with Regard to your Affection for me: I do indeed believe you love me; but I am certain, that Love can only be productive of Miſery to me; and as you are, and ever have been, a thouſand Times dearer to me, than myſelf, I can better bear a voluntary Puniſh⯑ment, than any inflicted by you; for, there, the Means would double the Misfortune.

I thank you for your kind Conſtruction of my Words and Actions; may they ever ap⯑pear to you, in their native, genuine Light! you will then think of me, ‘as one, that loved not wiſely, but too well.’ I have not been out of Doors, ſince I ſaw you, nor well one Moment. I had a violent Return of the Cho⯑lick, about three Hours after you left me; I could not reſt in Bed, but walked about the Room all Night; by this Means I increaſed my Cold, and have now got a very comfortable Cough. I flatter myſelf, your's has left you; if ſo, I ſhall bear mine with greater Patience; for, tho' I wiſh we ſhould ‘both utter the ſame Harmony,’ I would not have the ſympathe⯑tick Power extend to Pain, or Diſcord.

I heartily wiſh you the Compliments of the Seaſon, and a long and uninterrupted Succeſſi⯑on [225] of healthful and happy Years. I am now, and ever ſhall be, your truly affectionate Friend and Servant,

LETTER CXX.

I AM juſt got Home, for I was ſo ill on the Road, that I was not able to perform the Journey in the uſual Time. What alarms me is, that I neither find myſelf better, or worſe; which makes me apprehend, that the Diſorder is become Part of my Conſtitution; for, to borrow an Alluſion from moral Things, it has been obſerved that Perſons of equal Tempers have been always found in Love, or Friendſhip, more remarkable for Conſtancy, than thoſe who are ſubject to Heats and Colds.

Memorandum,—This Cold I got in the Court of Chancery; and I fear it will laſt, like a Chancery Suit, for Life; tho', to ſhew you I am not ſplenetick about the Matter, let us talk of Death and Burial a little; for thoſe, who are moſt afraid, care leaſt to ſpeak of them. As to my Death, I would chuſe a ſudden one, contrary to a Prayer in the Litany; for I hope nothing from a Death-bed Repentance, as, by the Tenor of a Man's Life, he ought, in Juſtice, to be judg⯑ed. If I was to linger, I ſhould chuſe to be in Pain; as the getting Eaſe might better reconcile me to the Thoughts of Death.

[226]As to my Burial, I do not like any of the Methods uſed by the Antients, or Moderns. The Egyptian Mummy, which was in the high⯑eſt Eſteem, I diſlike more than all; for I can't bear the Thought of lying a Moment idle, either alive, or dead; for which Reaſon, I pre⯑fer Burning the Body to any other Way, (not in the Aſbeſto Shrowd) becauſe the Parts diſſi⯑pated in Smoke fall immediately to Earth again, and become the firſt Food of Plants, which im⯑mediately become the firſt Food of Animals; ſo that a Man may have a Reſurrection of every Part of his Body, in a ſhort Time after his Death; which, tho' he will not be conſcious of, will ſurely flatter his Vanity, as well as the Thoughts of Fame, which he is ſuppoſed to know as little of. But tho' I prefer Burning, for theſe Reaſons, to any other Method uſually practiſed, yet, if I were to chuſe for myſelf, I would rather be devoured by Beaſts; as, by that Means, I ſhould more immediately become Part of a living Animal; and the Beaſts I would name, ſhould be Dogs, becauſe their Inſtinct comes the neareſt to human Reaſon, of any Brute; and the Dogs I would pitch upon, ſhould be three, of three different Kinds; a Maſtiff, for its Courage; a Hound, for its Sa⯑gacity, and a Spaniel, for its Fidelity.

I have juſt received a Letter from you, which may not improperly be taken Notice of here, as the Thoughts of Death, and Parting from you, [227] are equally diſtant from me. How could you write ſo peeviſhly, my little croſs Pet?—I am extremely concerned to hear you are ill, and beg to know how you are, by the Return of the Poſt.

LETTER CXXI. FRANCES to HENRY.

A KIND of Superſtition, which I have nei⯑ther Power nor Inclination to account for, impels me, in Contradiction to my Reaſon, to write to you. When I wrote laſt, I reſolved to write no more; there is nothing in your Let⯑ter, that requires an Anſwer, yet in a Room full of Company, where I have dined and ſup⯑ped, (for it is now near 12 o'Clock) I cannot reſiſt a ſomething like Inſatuation, that prompts me to tell you, I am really concerned, and a⯑larmed at the Account, you give me of yourſelf, with Regard to your Mind, as well as Body. ‘Doſt thou delight to make a conſtant Martyr of me?’ There is ſomething ſo extremely ill-natured in your endeavouring to ſhock me with the Mention of your Death, as I ſhould not eaſily forgive, did not my ſuperior Concern for your ill Health, and gloomy Habit of Mind, abſorb all other Conſiderations.—That the Thought of Death is, and ſhould be frequent with all rational Mortals, I allow; but, had you even common Tenderneſs for me, it is the laſt Subject you would treat on. it is indeed [228] the only melancholy Thought, you have not rendered familiar to me; and it is a Kind of Diſgrace to me, that I am not more converſant with what I have ſo often experienced—for Death is Parting.—

This Day twelvemonth we were reconciled; and now, with a Heart and Eyes overflowing with the ſincereſt Tenderneſs, I bid Adieu to my dear Harry; and all thoſe vain imaginary Schemes of Happineſs, which my fond Heart had formed for future Days!—

May every Happineſs in Life attend you! and, if you wiſh to give me Eaſe, tell me, as ſoon as it is in your Power, that you are well— I neither wiſh nor deſire, that you ſhould take more Notice of this than my former Letter; ex⯑cuſe its Folly and Inconſiſtence, and believe me your faithful and affectionate

LETTER CXXII.

YOU firſt baniſh me your Love, and then ſeem concerned at the Apprehenſions of my Death. Leonora, in the Revenge, juſt af⯑ter ſhe has ſtabbed herſelf, takes Notice of ſuch an Inconſiſtency as this in Alonzo. I ſhall ſay no more on this Head, for the ſame Reaſon that, as you ſay, I took no Notice of your for⯑mer Letter; which is, that I am reſolved never to make Replication to any Paragraph of your's, [229] which makes me uneaſy; leſt the Altercation ſhould grow to ſuch a Warmth, as is incon⯑ſiſtent with that, which I ſincerely hope may always ſubſiſt between us. However, I took Notice of the whole Subject of your Letter, I think, in the latter Part of mine; and I am re⯑joiced to find you think in the ſame Way, by ſaying, in your laſt, that "Death is Parting."

I thank you extremely for your Concern about my Health; and be aſſured, my deareſt Fanny, that this is equal to any one Reaſon I have to be concerned about it myſelf. Upon my Honour, if I had apprehended that Letter would have gi⯑ven you any Uneaſineſs, I would not have wrote it; for, tho' the Unkindneſs of your's might have juſtified ſuch a Reply, yet it rendered me too low-ſpirited to be malicious; and, in gene⯑ral, that Subject has, and will, whenever urged, give me a great deal of unfeigned Uneaſineſs and Concern; but muſt not, ought not, ever to raiſe my Reſentment. I ſpoke of Death, as, I hope, you did of Parting, without a certain or a ſerious Thought about it; for, ſince Nero's Days, a Man may make his Will without the Danger of dying. I am, however, a great deal better than I was at that Time, tho' without uſing any Sort of Means, not even as much as I did in Town; and I believe, if I could ſtay within for two Days, I ſhould be perfectly well; but, tho' I have no Perſon at Work theſe Ho⯑lydays, I can't help frequently to haunt and re⯑viſit [230] theſe dear Scenes, late rendered more dear; where we have ſat, walked, and converſed to⯑gether.

I find my Love of Solitude increaſing every Day; which Inclination, beſide the Enjoyment of Solitude itſelf, gives me a very flattering Plea⯑ſure; for, according to a rational and refined Opinion or Sentiment of your's, mentioned in a late Converſation, we are not only to perfect ourſelves in Virtue here, but alſo in a true Taſte and Reliſh for the Pleaſures of the Bleſſed, if we would reach the Sublimity of thoſe Joys which we are taught to hope for. Now, me⯑thinks my Averſion from Society, and frequent Retiring, as it were, within myſelf, in a great Meaſure, prepares me for the Enjoyment of that intuitive Converſe, which Spirits or Angels hold with each other, by intellectual Viſion; with⯑out the paltry, ſlow, and imperfect Aid of Sounds; of which ſpiritual Act, I think, the Communing with our own Hearts, Reflection, or mental Soliloquy, have a very great Reſem⯑blance.

Other Lovers ſay, they would retire from all Society for you; but I would quit even Soli⯑tude for your Converſe, as it is a nearer Ap⯑proach to thoſe Pleaſures I hinted at above, and in ſome Sort the Enjoyment of that Heaven up⯑on Earth: But

Adieu, my Heart's dear Fanny! I am your's in this World, and the next.

LETTER CXXIII.

WHEN we read a Spectator of Addiſon's together lately in London, you may re⯑member, I cavi [...]led at his ſaying, the Will was one of the Faculties of the Soul. When I came home, I looked into Locke's Eſſay upon the human Underſtanding, and finding him in the ſame Story, I began to reflect a little upon this Head, and found, I had apprehended that the Will was ſaid to be one of the ſpecial Qualities of the Soul; but the Word, Faculty, being a compre⯑henſive Term, and ſignifying a Power, then whatever a Soul has the Power of doing is called one of its Faculties, tho' not one of its eſſential Qualities; ſo that, in the general Senſe of the Phraſe, neither Addiſon or Locke may be repre⯑hended; but as they both join Willing, which is but a Power, to Thinking, which is a Pro⯑perty, I apprehend they are miſtaken in their Metaphyſics, by ranking them under the ſame Claſs. And it was this Error, which, occurring [232] ſtrongly to me at the Time I mention, made me haſtily conclude, that, if there was any Miſtake in Addiſon, it muſt be rather in his Words than his Senſe.

I was well pleaſed I had this Occaſion of looking into Mr. Locke's Eſſay, (which is a Book I had never read but once, when I was very young) becauſe, upon this ſame Subject, he has affirmed a Thing which has provoked me extremely; and, if he has not been called to account for it before now, it would ſurprize me; but, as I ne⯑ver met any Thing written on this Head, I ſhall take the Liberty of anſwering him.

In the firſt Chapter of his ſecond Book he affirms, that the Soul does not always think; that Thinking is not Part of its Eſſence, but one of its Operations; i. e. Faculty or Power, in the diffuſive Senſe. This I deny, for, if we can ſuppoſe a Soul not to think for an Inſtant, we can ſuppoſe it not to think for a Day, a Month, a Year, and ſo for Eternity: Which is contrary to the Nature of a Soul, therefore im⯑poſſible: For wherein does a Soul conſiſt, if not in Thought and Reflection? He compares Thought to Motion; and ſays, A Body, tho' it ſometimes moves, does not neceſſarily move. How imperfect is this Reaſoning! and how weak all Illuſtrations of ſpiritual Operations, by referring them to ſenſible Acts! A Body does not move of itſelf, but either mediately or imme⯑diately by ſome Spirit; and is therefore depen⯑dent [233] on Spirit, for its Operations: But ſurely Spirit is independant on Matter, and ſelf-ſuffi⯑cient in its own Powers; and, as the ſeveral Qualities, Properties, or Faculties of the Soul, are not really diſtinct, but only philoſophically divided, to give us a better or more formal Me⯑thod of reaſoning about them; as it is the whole Soul which thinks, reflects, reaſons, &c. then, ſhould any of theſe Qualities or Faculties ceaſe to operate but for an Inſtant, what ſhould ever call them to Action again?—except that Al⯑mighty Power, which firſt ſet them to work: And this would be equal to a new Creation of that, or any other Spirit; and to be repeated as often as it began to think, reflect, or reaſon. Which, as the Author of Nature acts always by the moſt ſimple Laws, we are not to ſuppoſe, without ſtronger Reaſons than weak Men's mere Hypotheſis. In ſhort, if Thinking is not eſſen⯑tial to a Soul, what are its eſſential Qualities? If it has no eſſential Qualities, then it exiſts not at all. Extenſion is eſſential to Matter; when Matter ceaſes to have Extenſion, it ceaſes to exiſt.

Mr. Locke ſpeaks againſt the Soul's eſſential Thought, to introduce his Reaſoning againſt innate Ideas; but, as innate Ideas are one of the Proofs brought for the Being of a God, I will never give them up, upon any Reaſoning leſs than Conviction. He ſhews us indeed how we may come by moſt of the Ideas we have, with⯑out [234] any previous Impreſſion; but this does not prove, we have no ſuch previous Impreſſion; for the ſame Truth may be conveyed to us by dif⯑ferent Ways. I grant him, that the Ideas of Colours, and of all ſenſible Objects, may be acquired by Experience; but, if Truth, Beauty, Harmony, or Order, were not originally im⯑preſſed on our Souls, nothing in this World, not even the Objects themſelves, could excite our Ideas of them. All the Ideas, we have in com⯑mon with Brutes, I will allow we may acquire, as they do—but no farther.

I am neither better or worſe of my Cold; nor more or leſs affectionately and ſincerely your's, my dear Fanny—which I ſhall continue as long as my innate Ideas of Truth, Beauty, Harmony, and Order ſhall exiſt.

LETTER CXXIV.

THE Pleaſure I received from my dear Harry's laſt Letter, like the intuitive Converſe he mentions, can only be imagined, not expreſſed. I care not how inconſiſtent you think me, provided you believe, that

Yet, notwithſtanding that my every Word and Action prove, even againſt my Will, the Strength of my Affection for you, I cannot help earneſtly deſiring to put an End to the conti⯑nual Anxiety, which my Attachment does, and [235] ever will produce. I ſtill think, that Parting from what we love much dearer than ourſelves, is far more dreadful, than the laſt ſad Adieu 'twixt Soul and Body; for, in general, the Soul is weary of its Confinement, and tired out with Pain; it longs to mingle with its kindred Spi⯑rits, to ſatisfy its boundleſs Thirſt of Know⯑ledge; to range thro' all the liquid Fields of Air, to contemplate the Glories of its own Eſ⯑ſence, in the immediate Preſence of that Al⯑mighty Being, from whom it ſprung. Perhaps it longs to be again reſtored to the dear Con⯑verſe of ſome much-loved and long lamented Friend. On the Contrary, a Perſon in this World, who is ſeparated from thoſe, he has loved long, and well, bears the worſt Kind of Death, a living one; and may be conſidered in the ſame State, as I ſhould ſuppoſe an angelick Being, if baniſhed from his Creator's Preſence, compelled to take a human Form, and live on Earth, among the Sons of Men. It is retain⯑ing a ſtrong Idea of the Happineſs, he had once enjoyed, muſt double every Diſtreſs; and his Deſire to be reſtored to the Converſe, he was deprived of, muſt render all other painful to him.

Let me now aſk you, if you ſuppoſe, that any rational Being would voluntarily ruſh into ſuch a Scene of Miſery, as I have deſcribed? Yet this muſt be the End of all that Love, that Con⯑ſtancy and Truth, I have preſerved inviolable [236] to you—painful Reflection! this laſt Paragraph has ſunk my Spirits ſo very low, that I muſt quit the Subject.—Oh! that my Heart could ſhut it out for ever!

I think it is Cowley ſays, ‘a Man muſt in⯑tirely be diveſted of all Affections, as well as Paſſion, before he can enjoy the Pleaſures of Solitude: For, if his Mind be poſſeſſed with either, he had better been in a Fair, than a Wood; for our Paſſions may, like petty Thieves, pick our Pockets in the Midſt of Company; but, like Robbers, they uſe to ſtrip, bind, or murder us, when they catch us alone: This is but to retreat from Men, and fall into the Hands of the Devil.’ I therefore congratulate you, and ſhould endea⯑vour to condole myſelf, did not your Happineſs always appear of more Moment to me, than my own; but as I have not ſo entirely ſubdued my Paſſions, as you ſeem to have done, I can only pretend to aſſure you, from the Sincerity of my Heart, that I would prefer your Com⯑pany to that of any Perſon, who does, or ever did exiſt; I do not except any one of the firſt, or laſt Auguſtan Age.—And I may go farther, by aſſuring you, that, if I know my own Heart, I would prefer you to all of them, and live in Shades, with thee, and Love alone; or, to uſe the Words of the Author I have already quoted,— ‘[237]With thee, for ever, I in Woods could reſt, &c.—’

Your remembering any Sentiment of mine, affords the higheſt Triumph both to my Love, and Vanity: For you, and you only, can raiſe either. I don't wonder at all, that you ſhould prefer Communing with your own Heart, to any other Converſation, this World can afford; it ſurely muſt be a Kind of Anticipation of thoſe celeſtial Joys, we are to ſuppoſe the Portion of the Bleſſed; as it muſt continually fill your Mind with the higheſt Sentiments of Gratitude and Rapture to the Divine Being, who has been graciouſly pleaſed to bring you ſo much nearer his infinite Perfection, than your Fellow-crea⯑tures. He has, indeed, my deareſt Harry, bleſſed you with ſuch uncommon Talents, as render it impoſſible for you to be negatively good; and muſt either make you an Ornament, or Diſgrace to that Rank of Beings, you are placed in.

I thank you heartily for your very elegant Compliment, but I am well convinced, both from Reaſon and Experience, that you muſt have leſs Underſtanding, or I more, before you can poſſibly prefer my Company to your own.

I received your Eſſay, and am exceſſively angry that you have left me nothing to ſay on the Occaſion; it is ſo like Conviction, which I hate, becauſe it deſtroys Argument. How was it poſſible for you to find Words to demonſtrate the undoubted Truths, which you have proved? [238] For I look upon this to be the moſt difficult Species of Writing.

Now for myſelf, which, by juſt Gradation, I mention laſt. I have been very ill with conſtant Cholicks, ever ſince you left Town; I grow worſe every Day, and am at laſt, prevailed on to take an Emetick; which diſagreeable Ope⯑ration I ſhall ſet about, the Moment I have finiſhed this abominable Scrawl. I abſolutely don't know what I write: My Aunt has been talking to me ever ſince I took up the Pen. I am really aſhamed to let ſuch a Collection of Blots, Blunders, and Tautologies go out of my Hands; but, if I ever had any Talent for Writ⯑ing, it is intirely worn out; and I ſet about it with as much Reluctance, as I do Eating, when I have no Appetite; merely becauſe I know it is neceſſary to my ſupporting Life.

You are not "ſent a baniſhed Man, to roam;" it is I, alas! who am the Exile.—I hope to hear, by To-morrow's Poſt, that you have quite got the better of your Cold. I ſhall always re⯑ceive the utmoſt Pleaſure from your Letters; but as you may eaſily perceive I cannot write, therefore hope you will excuſe me. You would pity me, if you knew how I am plagued with Converſation.—Adieu, my dear Harry! I am, as uſual, your ſincerely affectionate

LETTER CXXV.

I AM heartily concerned at the bad Account you give me of your Health, and muſt in⯑treat you will act by me in that Affair as I did by you; for when I found you were fondly alarmed at my Diſorder, I uſed all the Methods I could think of, to get myſelf well againſt the next Poſt, that I might ingenuouſly give you an Account of my Recovery; which I partly feigned in my laſt Letter, to make you eaſy—but I ſhall make no Oblations to Hygea for the Cure, if ſhe has neglected your Health to take Care of mine.

There is really ſomething unaccountable in the Turn of Mind, you ſeem to have been in, for ſome Time paſt: You ſay, you fear we ſhall ſome Time or other part, therefore deſire to do it now; ‘ſo run into the Danger, to avoid the Apprehenſion.’ Such Caprice as this would make us baniſh Friends, Children, and every Bleſſing of Life, from our Enjoyment, becauſe, perhaps, one Day or other we may be deprived of them. What Reaſon in the World have you to apprehend any Separation in our Loves? I declare, upon my Honour, that I am not the leaſt ſenſible of any Decay in my Regard, Af⯑fection, Aſſiduity, Love, or Friendſhip for you; nor am I conſcious of any Engagement, Scheme, Policy, or Ambition, which ſhould make it ho⯑nourable, or honeſt, even to wiſh my Attach⯑ment [240] leſs to you. Surely the fond Expoſtula⯑tion I make with you, at preſent, ought to con⯑vince you of the Sincerity and Ingenuouſneſs of this Declaration; for, if my Fickleneſs or Cap⯑rice had given me other Sentiments toward you, what a vaſt and lucky Relief would your preſent and late Behaviour be to me! How readily ſhould I then take you at your Word, happy to have my Inconſtancy accounted for to the World, and juſtified even by the Perſon I was willing to forſake! Indeed, my deareſt Fanny, if ever you mention this Subject to me again, there will be no Way left of accounting for it, but ſuppoſing that you find ſomething in your own Heart, which may make you apprehend that my Con⯑ſtancy, Love, and Attachment to you, may ſome Time or other be a Reproach to you.

There is another Paſſage in your laſt Letter, which I abſolutely interdict you for the future. How can you be ſo diſingenuous, as to ſay, you cannot write? For no-body, who writes well, can be ignorant of it; nor can any-body ever write well, who does not think they do. I de⯑clare, I never met with Writings in any Lan⯑guage more ſenſible, more delicate, or more cor⯑rect, than moſt of your Letters; and, if I do not, upon every Occaſion, expreſs my juſt Senſe of them, it is becauſe I really think their Merit is above my Praiſe; and whenever I do mention them, in the Manner I do now, it is more from the Vanity of ſhewing you my own Taſte, than to pay any Compliment to your's.

[241]We have had the moſt diſingenous Weather I ever remember, ſince I came down to the Country: It promiſes and threatens by Turns, but fulfils neither; and keeps one in a State of Uncertainty, both with Regard to Buſineſs or Pleaſure, which is very perplexing. I cannot undertake any Buſineſs at home, nor can I a⯑muſe myſelf with going abroad. My Corn is growing too rank, and my Sheep are dying of the red Water. Write me a Lapland Ode, my dear Muſe, to invite over ſome Froſt and Snow immediately, or we poor Farmers will be undone. I forget whether I told you before, that I have ſet the laſt Acre of —, ſince I came down, which has made my Mind very eaſy, and therefore I am pleaſed at mentioning it to you.

I wiſh my deareſt Fanny Joy of every Advan⯑tage of mine in Life!—Farewel, my charming Girl, and believe, nay be certain, that I am ever your's,

LETTER CXXVI.

THE kind Concern my dear Harry expreſſed in his laſt Letter for my Health, would, I think render me unpardonable, if I did not feel as much Pleaſure in acquainting him with my Recovery, as, I flatter myſelf, he will receive from the Account. I am indeed much better, Thanks to my Regard for you; for, were I not [242] perſuaded that my Life is of Moment to your Happineſs, how earneſtly ſhould I wiſh to aban⯑don it! That Love of Life, which is, I believe, implanted in the Heart of every Creature, ren⯑ders Death formidable to us while we are in perfect Health; but when the animal Spirits are weakened by Pain, when we only live to Mi⯑ſery, our Sentiments are wholly changed, and we wiſh for Death, as a Relief from Torment. Think then, if my every Thought, Hope, and Wiſh were not centered in you, how earneſtly ſhould I have deſired a Deliverance from Pain! But, perhaps I deceive myſelf; perhaps, in Con⯑tradiction to what I have ſaid, the Voice of Nature, more powerful than even that of Love, made me wiſh to live,—perhaps, my Life is of no Conſequence to you,— ‘I will, however, en⯑deavour to baniſh the cruel Reaſon, that would inform me; and preſerve my Illuſion, that I may preſerve my Life.’

As my firſt Wiſh is to be beloved by you, my ſecond is to be approved; let me then, my dear Harry, giving full Force to your Proteſta⯑tions, account for what you unjuſtly call Ca⯑price. I own, I love you enough to be guilty of the very Folly you charge me with; imbit⯑tering the preſent Happineſs, by the Fear of loſing it. But it is not from this Motive, that I have mentioned our Parting. I know and feel that my Affection and Friendſhip for you increaſe daily; therefore cannot ſuſpect that [243] your's for me are leſſened; but whenever I dare venture to aſk myſelf, what will be the End of our mutual Attachment, I tremble at the Reply my Reaſon makes, and almoſt wiſh we hated one another. For the preſent, my Regard for you renders every Pleaſure in Life inſipid to me; and every Accident indifferent, that has not ſome Relation to you; —my whole Time and Thoughts are devoted to you; and Buſi⯑neſs, or Pleaſure, are alike hateful to me. For this Indifference to the Objects that ſurround me, I think myſelf amply rewarded, by the Pleaſure I receive from your Letters; and wiſh for no other Recompence for all my Love and Tenderneſs, but a Continuation of your's. But tell me, my deareſt Harry, what will all this end in? The little Circle of my Acquaintance ſpeak of my Attachment to you, with ſeeming Pity, from a Belief, that you have none to me. The World, in general, treat me in the ſevereſt Manner, on your Account. Anſwer me now, my Heart's dear Harry, with Truth and Juſtice, for Reaſon prompts the Queſtion, and Honour will not dally longer, can you indeed lay your Hand on that dear Breaſt, where Fanny's Heart inhabits, and tell me you have Love, Honour, and Conſtancy enough, to repay all her paſt, preſent, and future Sufferings, by ſeriouſly in⯑tending, whenever it is in your Power, to make her your Wife?—Conſider well this Point, for it is of the higheſt Moment to us both; and [244] on your Anſwer intirely depends my continuing thoſe pleaſing Ideas, which have hitherto ſup⯑ported me, thro' the various Scenes of Diſtreſs, I have ſuffered for you; or, by a proper Reſolu⯑tion, eraſing them, and you for ever, from my Heart. Let not a falſe Delicacy to yourſelf, or an affected Tenderneſs for me, prevent your ſpeaking your Sentiments with that Frankneſs, which, I think, I ever merited from you; and be aſſured, your ſpeaking candidly, ſhould it even acquaint me with the moſt unwelcome Truths, will raiſe you higher in my Eſteem, than your attempting to amuſe me with un⯑meaning Expreſſions of Regard. I do not in⯑deed ſuſpect, that you have hitherto ſaid any Thing to me, which you did not think; but, as the Matter in Queſtion is of the niceſt Nature, I would guard againſt every Thing, which could poſſibly aggravate the Misfortune I am taught to apprehend.

Your Reproaching me with Want of Tender⯑neſs I can readily forgive: Firſt, as my Heart is armed ſo ſtrong with Truth, that it repels the Dart, nor ſuffers it to wound your Image, which is lodged in its inmoſt Receſſes;—next, as my ſo often mentioning our Parting, without having Courage to aſſign the Cauſe, might well warrant your ſeeming Suſpicion of my Affection; tho' I dare venture to affirm, you never yet in⯑jured me ſo far, as in Reality to doubt it.

[245]Let me now, my dear and beſt-loved Harry, conjure you by all the Love and Tenderneſs, you ever vowed to me, to reſt aſſured, that the Words, which I have wrote, on the melan⯑choly Subject of our Parting, have been ſo many Daggers to my Heart; and that no light Suſpi⯑cion of your Love, or idle Caprice of my own, has occaſioned my reducing you to an Explana⯑tion, which I would part with a Limb to avoid; for tho' I cannot, will not doubt your Love, I tremble at the Trial.—No, my own Heart bears Witneſs to your Truth, it is filled with you, and you alone; why then ſhould I not, in Contradiction to the World, believe this faithful Evidence?—Alas! I fear it is too much your Friend!—

Deliver me, I intreat you, my Heart's dear Harry, from the painful Situation I am in: Raiſe me, at once, to a higher Senſe of Happi⯑neſs, than I have yet known, or plunge me into ſuch a State of Miſery, as can only be relieved by the ſad Cure of all our Ills.

I thank you for your Account of —. You may indeed congratulate me on every Circum⯑ſtance, which gives you Pleaſure; aſſured of this, that I receive a double Joy by Reflection; and, were we this Moment forever ſeparated, your Happineſs and Intereſts would ſtill continue far dearer to me, than my own.

You have commanded me not to apologize for my Writing. — I obey, — tho' conſcious [246] that, as all my Letters are wrote from the Heart, they have nothing to attone for their Folly, but their Sincerity; which will ever impel me, thro' every Seaſon, Change, and Chance of Life, to ſubſcribe myſelf

LETTER CXXVII. FRANCES to HENRY.

I AM but juſt able to tell my dear Harry, that I have great Hopes of my Recovery, becauſe it is hardly poſſible, I ſhould be worſe. My Diſorder is of an intermittent Nature, and generally makes its Attacks, like a Thief, in the Night. I was ſo violently ill, as to be obliged to have my Apothecary called out of Bed, at 4 o'Clock this Morning. Poor Kitty has a miſerable Time of it, for her Reſt is as much broken, as mine. During my Intervals of Pain, which are very ſhort, I find myſelf op⯑preſſed with a ſtupid Kind of Langour, not un⯑like a Lethargy. Can you believe that even bodily Pain could reduce me to ſuch a State? I am more alarmed at this, than any other Part of my Diſorder, as it is intirely contrary to my natural Conſtitution; but perhaps it is only the Effect of Pain, that wearies out my Spirits, and leaves this hateful Laſſitude upon them. I am this Moment obliged to leave off; it is impoſſi⯑ble to tell you what I ſuffer; I am amazed at [247] my own Strength, as I have ſometimes been at that Conſtancy, which makes me, ſick or well, living or dying, your's.

I am again relieved from extreme Pain: This laſt Fit has been much ſhorter than the former ones, which is, I hope, a good Symptom; but ſtill ſo weak and trembling, that I can ſcarce hold the Pen. Why are not you here, to pet me? They have ordered ſomething to make me ſleep; I will take that, or any Thing elſe, that they tell me will do me Good, becauſe you de⯑ſire it.

As ſoon as I am able, I will anſwer your laſt Letter; in the mean Time, let me know you wiſh my Health, as earneſtly as I do your's, and that ſhall avail me more than ten Phyſicians.

LETTER CXXVIII.

I AM juſt come home from a Week's Buſi⯑neſs, and received your Letter; which, by my Abſence, has lain a Poſt unanſwered, and which, indeed, I ſhould anſwer with the ipſe veni, as I ſhall do, at preſent; for, while I am writing, I am ordering freſh Horſes to be ſaddled, and it ſhall be their Fault, if I don't out-ride the Poſt. And doſt thou wiſh me there, to comfort you? I will be there, my well-loved Heart, with all the Softneſs, Tenderneſs, with all the Woman in my Soul, to eaſe thy throb⯑ing Breaſt and languid Head: Nay, with more [248] unfeigned Sollicitude, than Woman ever could feel; for the vaineſt Woman muſt be en⯑vious of you. Your melancholy Account of yourſelf has made me recollect that Line in Tickell, which we could not think of, the laſt Time we were together, and ſpeaking of that pretty Poem: ‘Sad Luxury, to vulgar Minds unknown.’ Which Paſſage alſo occurred to me, when I wrote to you on the Subject of melancholy Pleaſures, tho' I did not quote it.

I hope, my croſs Pet, that it is owing to the Peeviſhneſs of Sickneſs, your ſaying, you are ſurprized at your Conſtancy toward me. Any Fickleneſs in that Point muſt be charged upon yourſelf; for, without Vanity, I may ſay that it is impoſſible I can ever be leſs amiable than I was at firſt. If from thenceforward I became capable of Senſe, Science, or Philoſophy, I owe the Inſpiration to you, and you alone, my Iphigenia. When the Sun withdraws his Beams, is it a Reflection upon our Horizon, that it ſhines no more? But like that, tho' I love the Light, I ſhall retain the Warmth, 'till I am Earth indeed. You have really, my charming Woman, not only given me a Reliſh for Life, but a true Taſte for every Thing in it, which is worth living for. And, as you have given me Happineſs, I look upon it, on ſome Occaſions, as an ungenerous Act, to interrupt, or endea⯑vour to deſtroy that Bliſs, 'till I conſider you in [249] the Light of a Woman who has brought a great Fortune to a Beggar, and has conſequently a na⯑tural Right to ſquander what Part ſhe pleaſes. From you, my charming Muſe, I have learned particularly three Things, more valuable than all the Science of the Sorbonne — Chearfulneſs, without Mirth; Gravity, without Spleen; and, oh! take it for your Pains, Love, with Eſteem, the warmeſt Love, with the higheſt Eſteem.

LETTER CXXIX. HENRY to FRANCES.

I Have ſpent my Time very ill ſince I ſaw you: I have been reading a Collection of Letters from Swift, Pope, Gay, Bolingbroke, &c. which have ſpoiled my Reliſh for Writing, by giving me too good a Taſte for it. However, this Humility of mine cannot defend me from be⯑ing a punctual Correſpondent; ſince I have had the Aſſurance to anſwer your Letters conſtantly, and, as Hudibras ſays,

I may preſume that my Letters are of ineſtima⯑ble Value, while they purchaſe your's.

I am now more entertained with the private Letters of eminent Men, than I am with their [250] more public Writings; becauſe, in the former Caſe, I fancy I am converſing with them, but in the latter, I only hear of them; for which Reaſon too, I am fonder of Biography than of Hiſtory.

I muſt tell you a Circumſtance of my Weak⯑neſs, that I dropt a Tear, upon reading the Ac⯑count of Gay's Death, in theſe Letters, tho' I knew he had been dead above twenty Years.

LETTER CXXX.

THE Irkſomeneſs of our Separation needs not the Addition of your Repinings. It is ſaid, that all Unhappineſs is leſſened by Par⯑ticipation; but your Complaints double mine. My Philoſophy is prepared for any Misfortune, which falls on me alone; but I feel its natural Weight ten-fold, when rebounded from you.

Your Apprehenſion that Abſence may, in Time, create Indifference, may be true of human Na⯑ture in general, but I think my Mind is parti⯑cularly framed; for all the Effect I am ſenſible of, is, what Slaves feel, when they attempt to part. — For Diſtance in Love but ſtretches the Chain, to make me perceive the Alliance more ſtrongly.

You can be in no Danger from my Incon⯑ſtancy, if what a French Wit has ſaid be true; that ‘Abſence to Lovers, like Wind to the Fire, extinguiſhes a ſmall Flame, but increaſes a great one.’

[251]However, to ſhew you I do not mean, as Shakeſpear has beautifully expreſſed it, ‘to patch up Grief with Proverbs,’ I ſhall be in Town on the 12th of next Month; and believe me, that nothing but the Exigency of my Affairs pre⯑vents me that Pleaſure ſooner.

LETTER CXXXI.

I Reached this Place without ſtopping, which is above Half my Journey.

After Dinner I finiſhed Montaigne's long Eſſay on Raymond de Sebonde, or rather intitled, his Apology for Raymond de Sebonde; for a very little Portion of it relates to that Author. As you deſign ſoon to read it, I ſhall give you ſome Criticiſms by the Way, which, as they can be no Way neceſſary for you, I do, only to ſhew you, that I read not for my own Improvement alone, but for your Amuſement.

About the Beginning of the Eſſay he ſays, ſpeaking of the new Doctrines of Luther, that, by ſtaggering our Belief, they were likely to run us into Atheiſm. See the whole Paſſage at large. Now this Argument is bad, by proving too much; for it is equally ſtrong to ſupport all Religions; nay, the Errors too of all Religion. But the Chriſtian Religion is the only true one. —Shall we not prune away the Errors and Mi⯑ſtakes, which the Frailty of Man has ingrafted [252] on it, for Fear of hurting the Root? Muſt Truth then avail itſelf of Falſhood, and muſt the Imperfections of Man be ſanctified by the Perfection of God? Let a Man be firſt convin⯑ced of the Truth and Reaſon of any Doctrine, and then let him boldly ſpeak out, even in Re⯑ligion itſelf; nay, more freely there, for Truth cannot contradict Truth; and Religion is our greateſt Concern here, as it muſt neceſſarily be our greateſt Concern hereafter. The Chriſtian Religion is indeed founded, and very properly ſo, upon Faith; and the ſtrongeſt Reaſons, next to Demonſtration, for the Belief. But all its Doctrines are, and ought to be, founded on Reaſon—therefore ſubject to Diſquiſition. I am extremely provoked at thoſe, who juſtify the Su⯑perſtitions and Impoſitions of the Prieſts, under the plauſible Title of pious Frauds; which, with more Juſtice, I ſtile impious Falſhoods. Muſt Truth then avail itſelf of Error, &c.? For I think it Blaſphemy to affirm any Thing under the Sanction of Religion, which is not of di⯑vine Authority; either from Reaſon, which is the Deity within, or Revelation, its Manifeſta⯑tion without. If Montaigne's Reaſoning is juſt, it was ſo from the Beginning; and muſt conſe⯑quently have overlaid the Chriſtian Religion in its Birth. His whole Argument, upon this Paſ⯑ſage, might be ſhewn to be extremely weak, but that I ſhould think it a Weakneſs to con⯑fute him. However, it is not owing to any [253] Want of Senſe or Judgment in the Author, but to a certain Lazineſs in his Diſpoſition, which did not ſuffer him to examine cloſely his own Opinions; but, after the Manner of an old Man, of which all his Writings are full, found it eaſier to talk than think.

After his wild Manner he hops away, and flies into an Eſſay about the Rationality of Brutes. If the Schoolmen will not allow me this Expreſſion, by tying me down to a certain Definition, I ſhall only anſwer them, by quot⯑ing a Criticiſm of Addiſon's upon Pope's Eclogues; that, if they are not Paſtorals, they are ſome⯑thing better. I think he has offered a great many very bold and clever Arguments on this Subject; which, tho' they do not prove the Matter, do, at leaſt, put it out of the Power of thoſe, who deny it, to prove the Contrary. His whole Deſign, thro' the Eſſay, is, by ſhewing the Inſufficiency of human Underſtanding, to re⯑commend to us our Dependence upon Faith; and, tho' there are few People, who are more inclined to a free and canvaſſed Diſquiſition of all Matters, even the moſt ſacred, and moſt general received Opinions, than I have always been, yet the Arguments of Montaigne, deduced from the Writings of the wiſeſt of the antient and modern Philoſophers, have indeed put me out of Con⯑ceit with the vain Imaginations, and preſump⯑tuous Reaſonings, of human Underſtanding.

[254]It was ſaid by ſome Writer, that the Being of a God was ſo far from a Matter of Doubt, that it was the only Thing of which we could be certain. The Eſſay, we are upon, furniſhes ſufficient Arguments to prove, how doubtful our Knowledge is in every Thing elſe, which re⯑ſolves all Science into Faith. The higheſt Phi⯑loſophy cannot give us Certainty on the moſt trifling Subjects; if therefore we know any Thing certainly, it muſt be from ſupernatural Aid.

The whole Eſſay would be properly claſſed, by being bound up with the Moriae Encomium of Eraſmus; only with this Difference, that Mon⯑taigne is in earneſt, and Eraſmus is in jeſt. But I like my Author beſt, becauſe his is a philo⯑ſophical Eſſay; the other, only an humorous Satire.

Adeiu!

LETTER CXXXII.

I CAME hither in ſpight of very oppoſing Weather. Along the Road I perceived Marks of the violent Storm; and I found the great Sign and Half of the Stables of this Inn carried away by it. I beg, the firſt Account you hear of the Yacht, you will let me hear it.

I amuſed myſelf, on the Way, with reflecting upon every Perſon, Circumſtance, and Thing, [255] which I parted from, at —: But the only Occaſion I had to philoſophize, was on little Jenny; for, from playing with the Child, I took a Hint to examine into an Opinion, which the World ſeems poſſeſſed with, and perhaps receive it upon Truſt from one another, as they do a great many others, without inquiring philoſo⯑phically into the Matter.

I remember Mr. —, a Man of tender Af⯑fections, but withal a Perſon of excellent Un⯑derſtanding, playing one Day with a pretty Child of his own, ſaid, that he was, ever ſince it was born, waiting for, and attending to that Impulſe or Inſtinct, which is called natural Affection; but that all he could perceive was, that he loved it more and more from Uſe, as he had done other Peoples Children before.

In ſhort, when does this particular Attach⯑ment ſeize us? If it is natural, we ſhould per⯑ceive it the Inſtant we heard the firſt Cry; but, at that Time, we know nothing of the Matter. If we are ſenſible of it ſome Time after, it is merely owing to that Habit, which Mr. — mentioned; to that Proteus of Nature, Cuſtom; which has miſled moſt of thoſe Philoſophers who have read Men and Manners, without having ſtudied human Nature,—which is pretending to Phyſics, without having learned Anatomy.

But even the Inſtant the Child is born, would not the Parent rather your's ſhould die than his? So he would your Horſe. — The Love of Pro⯑perty [256] is natural; but this is Part of a general Partiality, not an Inſtance of a particular At⯑tachment. Men get their Pictures drawn, be⯑queath Fortunes to Strangers, nay, raiſe Obe⯑liſks to bear their Names; but this is natural Vanity, not natural Affection.

If either Parent was affected with this Im⯑pulſe, let us naturally ſuſpect the Mother moſt, as the Child is more immediately Part of her⯑ſelf, her Affections ſofter, and her Underſtand⯑ing weaker; and yet how little does Providence ſeem inclined to truſt to this natural Inſtinct, by furniſhing her with proper Nouriſhment for the Child, and making it turn to Pain and Di⯑ſtemper, if not that Way applied, or otherwiſe carried off, by Methods of like Operation?

Adeiu!

LETTER CXXXIII. HENRY to FRANCES.

I HAD a fine Day hither, and am now ſtretch⯑ing my Limbs before a good Fire, drinking your Health, and all your Healths. I find there is no Place, I enjoy myſelf ſo much in, as an Inn. I am there ſo intirely my own Maſter; ſo detached from the World, and diſengaged both from Buſineſs, or the vain Purſuit of Plea⯑ſure, that I feel a certain contemplative Calm⯑neſs in my Mind, which gives me a higher Sa⯑tisfaction [257] than any of the active Spheres of Life can do. However I muſt interrupt this Soliloquy, to go and take Care of poor George, who fell with his Horſe, within a Mile of this Town, and is much bruiſed; he had a very narrow Eſcape of his Life.

My ſincere Regards to Kitty. I am, my deareſt Fanny,

LETTER CXXXIV.

I HAD the Satisfaction, when I came home, of finding every Thing here ſafe from the Storm; tho' the whole Country round me has ſuffered infinite Damage of Houſe-tops, Ricks of Hay and Stacks of Corn carried off, and Trees torn up by the Roots,—while I have forfeited but a few Slates, and ſome of the Branches of my Elms diſhevelled. There is one Piece of Damage, I juſt heard of, which will give you ſome Concern, that above 200 of the fine Trees in Windſor-Foreſt are ſnapped ſhort to the Stumps.

As I have no Letter from you to anſwer, and have not been long enough in the Country to meet with any entertaining Circumſtances to ſend you, the only Amuſement I can give you, is from what I read; and as I am in Montaigne, which is alſo your Study, at preſent, I ſhall oc⯑caſionally [258] give you Hints of what I find remark⯑able in that vague, diffuſe, witty, and ſenſible Author.

In his Chapter ſtiled Pedantry, I was pleaſed to find him ſpeak a great deal upon a Subject, you may remember, I am very fond of; which is, the Diſtinction between Learning and Wiſ⯑dom. What I have to ſay on that Head you have heard; what he ſays upon it I refer you to; and ſhall only quote one Paſſage, becauſe it is whimſical, and ſomewhat in your Manner.

He one Day was at a Loſs for accounting how ſeveral Men, of the greateſt Learning among his Acquaintance, were very ſilly, weak Perſons. Upon which, a lively Woman in Company ſaid, ‘That in order to make Room for other Men's Senſe, their own muſt be ſqueezed up into ſo narrow a Compaſs, as will not leave it a Power of exerting itſelf.’ To which I ſhall only add this Remark of my own, by Way of Illuſtration: That the Underſtanding, like a Nation, ſhould always depend upon its own proper Force; for Auxiliaries too often make Slaves of thoſe they were called upon to aſſiſt. In ſhort, it is owing to this ſervile Obedience, and blind Deference we pay to the Antients, joined to an indolent Deſpair of excelling ſuch great Patterns, which has almoſt put a Period to the Advancement of Science, or Wiſdom; ſo that all the Knowledge of the Moderns is but the Learning of the Antients: Inſomuch that, [259] if you propoſe a Subject in natural or moral Philoſophy, to be diſcuſſed by any of the preſent Adepts in Art or Science, inſtead of preſſing forward into a Diſquiſition of the yet inexhauſted Fund of human Reaſon, they will poorly recur to what Archimedes, Plato, or Seneca, ſaid upon ſuch Matters. Here take a Quotation, by way of Parody:

It has been Matter of Aſtoniſhment to theſe latter Ages of the World, how the great Genii of Antiquity, at Times when Learning and Science were in their Infancy, in general, nay ſome of them aroſe in Nations confeſſedly bar⯑barous, could ſhine forth with ſuch amazing Luſtre; which, far from attributing to their own natural Force, they have poorly called in the Aid of Inſpiration, to account for. What a mean and ſtupid Expoſition is this of ſuch extraordinary Phaenomena! when the true Rea⯑ſons lie hid in the very Cauſes of their Admira⯑tion. The Mind of Man, naturally active and inquiſitous after Truth, not finding wherewithal to ſatisfy its unbounded Curioſity in the Dark⯑neſs and Ignorance of the early Ages of the World, retired within itſelf; and, attending cloſely to the Ideas in its own Boſom, from whence, in Truth, all human Science and Wiſ⯑dom [260] is extracted, did, from ſuch unbiaſſed Con⯑templation, arrive to a higher Pitch in the Age of a Man, than an Academy is able to attain to in a Century. They were certainly guilty of ſome groſs Errors in Theory, and a manifeſt Neglect, or Want of Method, in their Reaſon⯑ings; which has been the ſole Imployment of Poſterity, to correct the one and new model the other; nay, ſome of the beſt Critics have been ſo infatuated with their Beauties, eſpecially with Regard to Poetry, that they have made Rules of their very Faults, for the Moderns to err by. In ſhort, my Opinion of human Learning is, that it has made the Mind of Man like an over⯑grown Child; which, by being trammelled too long in Leading-ſtrings, and paced up and down, thro' the regular Alleys of a Parterre, is deprived of that Strength and Activity, which a free and unbounded Exerciſe, thro' the Fields of Nature, might make it capable of arriving at.— And here I muſt remind you of my Scheme of a College, mentioned to you ſome Time ago: For, if a Set of Students could poſſibly be im⯑proved in the Contemplation of Truth and Na⯑ture, without the leaſt Biaſs, or Tincture of modern Knowledge or Learning, it is impoſſible to ſay to what a Height the Mind of Man is capable of attaining.

Send me the Poem, you promiſed me, by the Return of the Poſt.

LETTER CXXXV.

I SAID I would write by this Poſt, and, in order to fulfil my Promiſe, have taken up the Pen; but find that it is not in my Power to write any thing but Words; for my Thoughts are ſo much diſſipated by the continual Hurry I have been in, ſince I ſaw you, that it would re⯑quire, at leaſt, a Week's Solitude, to reduce them to any Kind of Form; unleſs I were to ſend you a little Journal, and, by that Means, treat only of the Subject I diſlike moſt, I know no other that I could think of, while I wrote three Words, — Love and you excepted.—But you indeed are one, at leaſt, in my Idea: And, tho' that is a Theme, to which my Thoughts for ever could attend, yet, as they are not ca⯑pable of Change, and have already ſpoke all the dear, inſpiring Subject could ſuggeſt, I need not refer to your Memory, for all the Sentiments of my Heart, paſt, preſent, and to come.

As I never was happy enough to be able to, give my Opinion, from Experience, on the Sub⯑ject of parental Affection, I ſhall not venture to give it at all, for more Reaſons than one, as it unfortunately differs from your's.

To my great Surprize, the Poſtman has, this Inſtant, brought me your's from Belvidere.—Had it been a Letter, on which my Happineſs de⯑pended, [262] it would have met the ſame Delay; I am ſo heartily provoked, I could almoſt ſwear.

I am ſincerely glad to hear that your dear Belvidere and dearer Self have not received any Injury from the fierce Rage of Boreas. We have diſmal Accounts from moſt Parts of the Kingdom. No certain Tidings of the Yatcht— it is in general believed ſafe, tho' not ſuppoſed to have eſcaped the Storm. I am very ſorry for the Depopulation of Windſor-Foreſt: I think I may be allowed the Expreſſion, as ſuppoſing an Hamadryad the Inhabitant of each Tree. I think the Subject would admit of a very pretty Paſto⯑ral Elegy.

I thank you for your very elegant Diſſertation on Learning. I have the Honour to be ſo much of your's and Montaigne's Opinion, that it is im⯑poſſible for me to ſay any Thing on the Subject. —You muſt excuſe my not ſending the little Poem, you deſired this Poſt; but, to make you Amends, I ſend you a much better Thing in⯑cloſed.

I beg to hear from you continually, and am

LETTER CXXXVI.

I RECEIVED the Song of Palma's, and do not think there is any Thing in the Tune, any more than the Words; ſo far they are a⯑dapted [263] to each other. It would be an eaſy Taſk to improve the Thought in a Stanza more, but then it would not ſerve for the ſame Tune, for the whole Addreſs of the Compoſer was to ſuit proper Muſick to the Words, "Laugh"— and—"Cry;" therefore, unleſs the ſame Words were repeated in the next Verſe, the Sound, to uſe a bold Expreſſion, would be errant Non-ſenſe.

My Sentiments about natural Affection do not proceed, you believe me, from a Stoical Philoſophy, or the Want of an humane Diſpoſi⯑tion; perhaps, few People feel more of Ten⯑derneſs in their Hearts, than I do, and, from a certain Softneſs in my Nature, tho' I have not the Appearance of it in my Manners, I often experience a fond Temper for other People's Children, which ſometimes their Parents are in⯑ſenſible of. Therefore the Arguments, I amuſed the Time with, in the Letter you mention, pro⯑ceeded merely from a certain Method, I have always put in Practice, ever ſince I ventured to think for myſelf; which was, never to take any Opinion, or Dogma, upon the common received Notions of the World, or the ipſe dixit of the Schools, without firſt making it paſs thro' the Scrutiny of Senſe and Reaſon; which is the ſureſt Way of allowing the full Value to every Virtue or Quality in human Nature.

Beſides, I am jealous for the Honour or Dig⯑nity of Man; and would endeavour to reſcue [264] every Thing from Inſtinct, which can be attri⯑buted to Reflection, or univerſal Benevolence. I think too, that the Doctrine of natural Af⯑fection has often had ſeveral very bad Conſe⯑quences attending it; in making many Chil⯑dren, depending on that Prejudice, behave themſelves more unworthily toward their Pa⯑rents, than they would venture to do to their Patrons; and many Fathers have left immenſe Fortunes to graceleſs Sons, from this Miſtake, while they have left an honeſt Servant, or valu⯑able Friend, unrewarded.

I expected a good deal from you upon the Subject of my late Letters, or, what was better, ſomething relating to yourſelf; but your Apolo⯑gies put me in Mind of what was ſaid by a ſurly Courtier to King William, that King Charles refuſed a Favour with a better Grace, than he granted one.

I have often in Converſation, in reading to you, and by Letter, endeavoured to lead you into Subjects of ſome Intricacy, or Depth, in order to make you experience your own Genius, and be ſenſible of your Strength; and, tho' you are ſometimes too cowardly to engage, yet your ſlight Touches and irregular Eſſays are like the Tuning of an Inſtrument by a maſterly Hand, which has ſomething more pleaſing to a good Ear, than the irregular Performance of a middling one.

LETTER CXXXVII.

I AM ſorry the Song did not pleaſe you; but, as I have not the Misfortune to be a Con⯑noiſſeur, I like it mightily. I am not overbur⯑thened with Knowledge of any Kind, and yet I ſincerely wiſh I had leſs; as the little I have ſerves more to improve my Folly, than Reaſon, by giving me a general Diſreliſh to moſt Things that I underſtand. For Inſtance,—let the Words and Muſick of a Song be, like that I ſent you, equally bad, and I ſhall be diſguſt⯑ed with the Words, and pleaſed with the Tune; when, perhaps, if I underſtood Muſick, even as well as I do Poetry, I ſhould not have re⯑ceived any Pleaſure from either. Query, could my underſtanding Crotchets and Quavers make me Amends for robbing me of Half an Hour's Entertainment?

Your Sentiments on natural Affection, may, for aught I know, be perfectly right; but I think it is vaſtly more to the Honour of human Nature, to ſuppoſe, that our Virtues are innate, (which is but another Name for Inſtinct) than acquired; and it is to me quite certain, that this particularly muſt proceed from honeſt In⯑ſtinct; for the very utmoſt Effect, which can [266] ariſe from Reflection in this Caſe, is not to make us feel, but act, as if we felt, the natural Touch.

I am quite ſenſible of my own Incapacity to engage, on any Topick, with you, and, if ever I venture to give my Opinion on Subjects, that I neither am, nor ever ſhall be Miſtreſs of, it muſt be owing to a ſtrong Reliance on your Indulgence, and to the Pleaſure, I always took, in having you for a Preceptor. There is a Kind of Pride in receiving Inſtruction from the Man I love, which compenſates for the Mortification of being ignorant. For theſe Reaſons, I think your Sarcaſm rather ſevere, than juſt: For, were I even a greater Fool, than I am, it would be cruel to condemn me for being ſo, while I make no Claim to Senſe, or Knowledge; but you are welcome to ſay what you pleaſe; nor am I an⯑gry at your being witty. There is yet another Reaſon, which I may offer, in Defence of my Cowardice; and is, perhaps, the moſt valid of any,—the continual Hurry I have been in, ever ſince you left Town. While you was here, I neither ſaw, nor went to ſee any Creature; of Courſe, had not only many Viſits, but Apo⯑logies to make; and theſe, joined to more Buſi⯑neſs than ever I was engaged in, with a thou⯑ſand perplexing Circumſtances, have left me hardly Time to eat or ſleep. I have fretted my⯑ſelf to Death; perhaps, for Want of that Phi⯑loſophy, [277] and calm Compoſure, which you have ſo happily acquired.

I am, this Moment, going to dine with Lady —: I have ſpent much of my Time with her, ſince I ſaw you; ſhe is indeed a true prac⯑tical Philoſopher; her Life and Manners furniſh as a noble Leſſon, as any to be found in the Volumes of Socrates, or Plato;—yet not even her prevailing Example, nor all the little Argu⯑ments, which my diſtracted Thoughts can muſter, have been able to reduce my Mind, even to its wonted Calm. But I flatter myſelf that a few Days, by putting an End to ſome Part of my Anxiety, will abate my Uneaſineſs; and, for the reſt, Time and Time only muſt be my Phyſician.

I again earneſtly intreat, that you write to me much, and often: You cannot conceive the Pleaſure, I receive from your Letters; nor the Mortification your miſſing a Poſt gives me. Adieu, my Heart's dear Harry! I am, and ever ſhall be ſincerely and affectionately,

P. S. You have got a very ſprightly Corre⯑ſpondent, if one may judge of her Letter, by her Countenance; for ſhe fits by me writing, and ſmiling without Ceaſing.

LETTER CXXXVIII.

I CANNOT give up to you the Point about natural Affection, tho' you have diſputed it cloſely with me. You ſay Reflection cannot make us feel, tho' it may make us act as if we did, which is extremely juſt; therefore I did not make Reflection the Cauſe of this Feeling, but Habit; (See my firſt Letter) which, I ſaid, ſteals ſo imperceptibly upon us, that we miſtake it for Nature; and it is ſo near it, that it is called a ſecond Nature.

I cannot think with you, that the ſubſtituting innate Ideas, inſtead of Reaſon and Reflection, would be more for the Honour of human Na⯑ture, tho' perhaps it would be for the Dignity of it; as a Work made perfect is more valu⯑able than a Work to be perfected: The Dig⯑nity lying in the ſimple Nature of a Thing, but the Honour in the Perfection of it. And ſurely Socrates, reformed from Vice, or Paſſion, by the Force of Philoſophy, is a nobler Subject for the Honour of Mankind, than Diogenes, who was ſaid never to have been addicted or inclined to any Humour, except that of railing. It was from this Way of thinking, that I ſaid ſomething to you in my laſt Letter, which, I am afraid, has given you ſome Offence. I conſider⯑ed you as a Work, capable of Perfection, in order to rouze you to exert yourſelf. I ſaid, I [269] often tempted you to try your Strength, or found your Depth; Was this Sarcaſm, to allow you both Strength and Depth? In ſhort, let this Reflection always prevent any Miſtake of this Kind for the Future, that I love you ſo ſincere⯑ly, and like you ſo extremely, that I can never think or mean any Thing, which might give you offence: And, whenever I ſay or do any Thing which you feel yourſelf picqued at, you may reprehend my Manners, which are, I con⯑feſs, liable to Cenſure: But blame not my Sen⯑timents, which are faultleſs, with Regard to you.

I did attribute your not Writing to the Hurry of Buſineſs; and would have wrote to you laſt Poſt, but for Fear of preſſing you too much, at this Time; as the Fatigue of writing every Poſt muſt be too much for you, unleſs you had more retired Leiſure; therefore, I will not be ſo exact with you for the Future. I will write to you every Poſt, and, if you anſwer two, three, or four of my Letters at once, I ſhall be ſatiſ⯑fied; being well convinced that you will not neglect it, on Account of any Employment more pleaſant, but from Buſineſs more neceſ⯑ſary. This is what I have refuſed you, ever ſince we were Correſpondents; but have thought, at laſt, that taking off the Conſtraint of a re⯑gular Correſpondence would give a freer Air and briſker Spirit to it. The firſt ſavoured of Duty, this of Love. —I am▪ my deareſt Fanny,

LETTER CXXXIX.

MY dear Harry's promiſed Indulgence ſhall not make me leſs ſollicitous to expreſs the Pleaſure I receive from his charming Cor⯑reſpondence, than if imagined that my Thanks were the Purchaſe of that Pleaſure. I confeſs that, from the firſt, I have been incapable of making any other Return, and now find myſelf, if poſſible, leſs capable than ever; for, as the Value of your Letters increaſes every Day, or, at leaſt, my Eſteem for them, conſcious as I am of their Worth, it would appear a high Proof of Con⯑fidence in me, to attempt any Thing more, than bare Acknowledgments. Accept then, my deareſt Love, of the warmeſt Gratitude, which that Heart, you firſt taught to feel, and that Underſtanding, you alone have faſhioned, is capable of beſtowing; and let my Senſibility of your Merit excuſe the Want of it in me.

I have not, ſince you left Town, had Lei⯑ſure to read a Page in Montaigne, or any other Author. I have indeed paſſed thro' ſuch a Series of Hurry, Diſquiet, and Fatigue, that I am more than half dead; it is not to be told how much I am changed by it, but I flatter myſelf, that the Pleaſure of ſeeing you, and the Hopes I have of enjoying Peace and Content in the Country, will reſtore me to myſelf, or ſomething better.

I am ſtill in the ſame diſagreeable Way, with Regard to my Health;—perhaps, I am va⯑pouriſh, and fancy myſelf worſe, than I really am.

[271]I ſaw — this Day, he ſays your Cough ſtill continues;—for Heaven's Sake, how can you be ſo exceſſively ill-natured, as not to take ſome Care of yourſelf? You muſt, on this Occaſion, give me Leave to remind you of that nobleſt Part of Seneca's Philoſophy, which your favou⯑rite Author mentions:— ‘He that loves not his Wife, or Friend ſo well, as to prolong his Health for them, but will obſtinately die, is too delicate and effeminate; the Soul muſt impoſe this on itſelf, when the Utility of our Friends does ſo require it; it is a Teſtimony of Grandeur and Courage, to preſerve one's Life, for the Conſideration of another, when a Man perceives that this Office is pleaſing, agreeable, or uſeful to ſome Perſon, by whom we are tenderly beloved.’

Taking this for granted, what Judgment am I to form of your Affection for me, who have ſo earneſtly ſollicited you to apply the proper Means for ſurmounting that naſty, obſtinate, ill-natured Cough? If it were only from a Deſire of conquering any Thing ſo perverſe, I would get the better of it. I hope this Conſideration will have more Weight, than any other I have been able to offer; for, alas! ‘my Advocation is not now in Tune.’

The Pain in my Cheſt is ſo extreme, that I am not able to ſtoop longer.—Adieu, then, my deareſt Harry! I am, as I ſhall never ceaſe to be, faithfully and affectionately Your's, Frances.

LETTER CXL.

I Received your Laconic Epiſtle, which I could wiſh had been ſtill ſhorter, as far as it men⯑tions your being out of Order. I am myſelf a [...]ittle unwell, from drinking theſe three Days paſt; and it muſt be a very irkſome Reflection, not to be able to recollect any one Enjoyment, of which my preſent Pain was the Purchaſe; for Drinking, in general, you know I hate; and yet I would rather have drank alone, than in the Company I debauched with. Do not think me conceited in this Speech, for I really look upon it rather as an Imperfection than a Refinement, that ſo few People are agreeable to my Taſte; as it is the Sign of a depraved Appetite, not to be able to reliſh plain and ſimple Meats. The Men of half, or quarter Underſtandings, diſguſt me moſt; and mere Fools I can live tolerably well with, provided they be good-humoured; tho' a good-humoured Fool may be compared to a fine Day in Winter, which keeps us all the While in Pain with the Fear of loſing it, as it has not a Seaſon to ſupport it. It is Senſe alone, which can give Conſtancy to Chearfulneſs or Virtue.

My Diſreliſh to Company is a good deal ow⯑ing to a certain ſplenetic Caſt of Mind, which I have contracted from ſome Mortifications and Diſappointments, I have formerly met with, [273] joined to ſome Uneaſineſſes I, at preſent, labour under; which evil Habit, as I am well aware of, I ſhall endeavour to get the better of, as faſt as poſſible: For, ſhould I ſuffer ſuch a Humour as this to grow upon me, it might render me incapable of enjoying the Favours, which, per⯑haps, Fortune has in Store for me; and would be as abſurd, as unmanning one's ſelf, upon be⯑ing croſſed in Love.

You have, my charming Girl, a good deal to anſwer for, with Regard to my Diſreliſh of Converſation, in general, and are likely to in⯑creaſe the Evil every Day: For your Taſte and Underſtanding improves conſtantly; or, to ſpeak more properly, is more illuſtrated: For I be⯑lieve that, in Proportion as my Senſe improves, or Taſte refines, I may be ſaid rather to diſco⯑ver new Beauties, than you to acquire them. Here I ſhall obſerve to you, what you have ſome⯑times upbraided me with, that I did not ſeem to increaſe in my Love for you, from the firſt Time I declared my Regards. Which Obſervation is true enough; for my Love was perfect, at firſt, as I eſteemed and valued you, not only for what you then were, but by a Prae-ſentiment for what you would be. Like a ſkilful Lapidary, I valued the Jewel in the Stone; thinking the Poliſhing could add but an inconſiderable Value to intrin⯑ſic Worth.

LETTER CXLI. FRANCES to HENRY.

I DO not believe there are any Words, that can poſſibly deſcribe the Situation of my Mind: I think, I want but a ſmall Matter to render me as incapable of feeling, as I am of expreſſing it; but as I, ‘even in Madneſs, love thee,’ my Heart received a momentary Calm from your dear Letter; and, ‘for a While, forgot the Approach of Caeſar.’ You, doubt⯑leſs, expect that I ſhould aſſign ſome Reaſon for the extraordinary Emotion I have mentioned, but it ariſes from ſuch a Multiplicity of odd Cir⯑cumſtances, that it would be impoſſible for me even to recollect the thouſandth Part of them. In ſhort, my Memory, tho' contrary to your Opinion, accompanied what little Underſtand⯑ing I had, and they are both marched off to⯑gether. Whoever finds, may take them for their Pains, I ſhould be aſhamed to claim them. There is no body doubts the Mind's Suffering with the Body; and I poſitively affirm, that the Body returns the Compliment; for I am, at this Inſtant, ſo extremely ill, and tremble ſo vio⯑lently, that I can hardly hold the Pen. And it is more than probable I ſhould have enjoyed a moderate Share of Health, if my Mind had not been hurt and harraſſed.

Any Perſon of Senſe or Taſte, who has ever had the Happineſs of converſing with you, can [275] eaſily account for your general Diſlike to what is called Converſation; and what is ſtill worſe, you are the Cauſe of this Diſreliſh in others. For my Part, I have often lamented, on this Account, that we were ever acquainted; for, as by a fatal Neceſſity, we are obliged to paſs ſo much of our Time aſunder, the little, we ſpend together, hardly compenſates for paſſing the greateſt Part of my Life in a ſtrong Con⯑tempt, or, at beſt, inſipid, taſteleſs Apathy to every Thing I hear or ſee.—As we are on this Topic, I will venture to ſay, what to anybody elſe, who did not know me very well, would appear vaſtly impertinent and vain,—that I have often, in the Company of Fools, been aſhamed to give any Proofs of the little Underſtanding which Providence has bleſt me with; and have left a Party of Idiots thoroughly ſatisfied, that I was, by many Degrees, ſillier than any of the Sett.

LETTER CXLII.

THAT I have ſhewn you any Beauties in your Poem, which you obſerved not be⯑fore, is owing to the Eye not ſeeing itſelf, but by Reflection; and, like a Mirrour, have barely reported the Form, not capable of improving it, [276] But I have this Advantage in the Simile, that the Subſtance of your dear Image ſhall always remain with me, tho' the Shadow of it ſhould be vaniſhed.

So it is the Character of all Perſons of Genius to ſay Things, the Beauties of which they were not aware of: For, as all Truth, Harmony, and Order are but the Expreſſions of the innate Ideas of a perfect Mind, it is natural for the human Soul, exerted to its proper Force, to hint, unconſcious, at Science or Philoſophy, which it had never learned or thought of. The utmoſt of my Art can but explain your Wit or Senſe, not improve them; and, as indeed you have more of both, than it is poſſible your Youth and Inexperience ſhould have Skill enough to find out, it ſhall be henceforth my pleaſing Taſk to make that Mine current, which ſhines by Uſe, and, like other Treaſures, increaſes by Communication.

I do not recollect what Lines of mine you hint at; if you mention them more particularly, I ſhall ſend them, to ſhew my Obedience, even after your's.

I am ſtill in the ſame Study of Montaigne, and have begun him again, in the old Edition I had formerly by me; as, perhaps, that may give me Light into ſome Paſſages, which are very ob⯑ſcurely [277] tranſlated in the new one; and the Preſs of this is alſo the moſt imperfect, I ever ſaw, of any Book. The Errors, which the Senſe can ſet you right in, are not material; but there are ſome very unlucky ones, which lead you quite aſtray from the Subject; as, particularly, unite for untye, &c. &c. which I mention to put you on your Guard, as you go thro' it.

I declare, I never received more Pleaſure or Satisfaction from any Author, in my Life, than this. He has a thorough Knowledge of the World and human Nature, and more Wit than all the Epigrams which were ever wrote; and many poetical Flights, which the beſt Verſe, I ever read, might be proud to own. He has a Senſe, which I am fond of, more improved by Thought and Reflection, than Study or Learn⯑ing; an Underſtanding free from Prejudice, and a Judgment formed from a natural Diſcernment, and not framed upon the Doctrines or Opinions of others.

His Sentiments are every-where juſt and no⯑ble, and there is a certain Freedom in his Stile, and Boldneſs in his Expreſſion, which are ſtrong enough to break even thro' both his Tranſlators. As for what I have heard ſome ſmall Critics cavil at, that he is always talking of himſelf, is it improper to ſpeak about what he profeſſedly makes his Subject? He treats of human Na⯑ture in general, — then himſelf ought to be his particular Study: What he ſays of others, he [278] can only gueſs at, but what he ſays of himſelf, he may be ſure of. He ſpeaks often too groſsly, it is ſaid; and it is certain he does,—but then the Freedom of his Deſcriptions, and Expreſſi⯑ons in thoſe Paſſages, are only ſhocking to thoſe to whom the Study of Anatomy would be ob⯑ſcene. In ſhort, I highly eſteem his Writings, and greatly honour his Memory.

In his ſhort Eſſay upon monſtrous Births, which I read over this Morning, he makes a very fine Obſervation, which has amuſed me greatly,—that, perhaps, what we look upon as Monſters, may not be really ſo in the Eye of Providence; for nothing can be contrary to Nature, unleſs we miſtake Cuſtom, as I have ſaid before is often done, for Nature; and theſe heteroclite Creatures may, perhaps, have Rela⯑tion to a Species of the ſame Kind, unknown to Man. I am particularly pleaſed with his philoſophick Turn of Thought, as it takes off greatly from the Offence, which ſuch obſcene Sights naturally,—I mean, uſually give us. This Sentiment I ſhall extend farther, with re⯑lation to thoſe extraordinary Spirits in Virtue, or Science, who ſeem to excel Mankind, as if they were of a higher Species, and may, per⯑haps, have Relation to a nobler Rank of Beings; but ſent down a Claſs, or more, lower, for ſome Offence in their former State; and obliged to earn their Way up again to their loſt Dignity; according to a Diſcipline, I ſomewhere read of [279] and was pleaſed with, in an Army, where the greateſt Officer, upon any Error, or Breach of his Duty, was degraded to ſome inferior Sta⯑tion, according to his Fault, and ſo reduced to fight his Way back again to his forfeited Rank. Or, perhaps, theſe rare Genii are now and then dropped among us, to raiſe our Emulation in Virtue or Knowledge; or, it may be, to hint to us Mortals, that the ordinary Race of Man is not the greateſt Work of God; which, how⯑ever, a very little Reflection upon Providence might convince us of; for God, as it has been elſewhere obſerved, all-powerful, may not reſt at a Creature ſo imperfect, as Man.

LETTER CXLIII. FRANCES to HENRY.

THE Story, I hinted to you in a late Letter, was, in great Meaſure, the Cauſe of the exceſſive Lowneſs of Spirits, you chide me for. I am mortified at the Inſincerity and Ingratitude of ſome People, on whom I had a ſtrong De⯑pendence; particularly, Lady —; her ve⯑hement Profeſſions and contemptible Behaviour have ſerved to illuſtrate my real Opinion, that Senſe and Virtue are the only ſolid Foundation for Love and Friendſhip. I am abſolutely a⯑mazed, and angry at myſelf, for being duped by ſuch a Woman.

[280]But, in order to ſet her Behaviour in a much ſtronger Light, I have, in my Acquaintance with Lady O—, found ſuch a Contraſt, as is not to be deſcribed. Inſtead of an Affectation of Senſe and Virtue in the one, the Actions of the other ſpeak the full Force of both; Dignity, without Pride, good Humour, without Folly, Wit, without Satire, Charity, without Oſten⯑tation, and Philoſophy, with the extremeſt Quickneſs of Underſtanding and Tenderneſs of Heart, are all joined in the amiable Compoſi⯑tion of that unaffectedly, good Woman.

Juſt as I had finiſhed the laſt Line, her Chair came for me: I have been with her three Hours, and would not have quitted her now, for any other Pleaſure, but that of returning to my dear Harry.

She has indeed calmed my Mind extremely, by that juſt Method of reaſoning, ſhe is per⯑fectly Miſtreſs of, joined to ſuch Praiſes, as, from any other, would look like Adulation, but, from her Mouth, are high Reward. I hope my dear Harry will excuſe my dwelling ſo long on a Subject, my Heart is ſo much intereſted in, as it overflows with Gratitude to one, who will not even ſuffer an Attempt to expreſs it.

My ſincereſt Thanks are your's, for conſent⯑ing lately to my ſo often repeated Requeſt; you may indeed be ſatisfied, that no Avocation more pleaſant will ever interfere with my Part of our Correſpondence; aſſured of this, that I would [281] give up every Thing, that is called Pleaſure in this World, for the real one, I enjoy, in con⯑verſing with you.—Oh! when ſhall I have that Happineſs, without Allay?—

I was not picqued at your not ſuppoſing me capable of entering the Liſts of Logick with you, but at your ſeeming to gibe at my Want of Capacity; which, you know, is a Misfor⯑tune, and not a Fault. You ſay, you ‘did not mean it ſo:’ —I will believe it, firſt, becauſe you ſay it; and next, becauſe I am too low-ſpirited to be angry, if you had meant to make me ſo.

Perhaps, my preſent Dejection is the Cauſe of my fancying myſelf in a bad State of Health; but, from a Cough, which has never left me, ſince you did, and a continued Pain acroſs my Cheſt, I imagine myſelf going into a Con⯑ſumption. I ſincerely hope, I am miſtaken; for, indeed, I do not wiſh to part with thee. I intend conſulting Doctor Dawſon; when I do, you ſhall know his Opinion. 'Till then, and ever, be aſſured, the Bitterneſs of Death hath not a Pang, but what the Loſs of thee will give. I find myſelf poſſeſſed with ſuch a gloomy Ten⯑derneſs, as you, certainly, will be angry at.— Oh! my Heart's Treaſure, forgive that ſelfiſh Weakneſs, which laments thy Abſence; for Joy and thou are one!

For Heaven's Sake, burn this Letter. I am ſtrongly tempted to write another, but, if I [282] ſhould, perhaps it would be as fooliſh,—ſo e'en let it go!

I ſhould complain of your having wrote oftener to Kitty, than me; and, by that Means, ſeeming more anxious about the Buſineſs of her Fortunes, than my Happineſs; but, by making an Apology, you have acknowledged a Fault; which is all, I ever required, to render my For⯑giveneſs abſolute.

Adieu! my deareſt, beſt-loved, firſt, and only Friend! may that Happineſs, which I think you merit, and ſincerely wiſh you, ever attend you!

LETTER CXLIV.

LET us begin this Year with greater Chear⯑fulneſs, than any of the Former, as it is to be eleven Days ſhorter, than the pre⯑ceding ones; for our Legiſlature have agreed, at laſt, with the Indians, to pay Obeiſance to the Sun; and, to make this Religion a Sort of Loyalty too, I think they have reſolved to wor⯑ſhip it in the Decline, for the Alteration of Stile is to be made in September. Parliaments have ſometimes done as notable Things, as this, be⯑fore now: For, upon a Rule of the Houſe, that Queſtions of particular Natures ſhould not be put, after ſuch an Hour, they have voted away two or three Hours often, to ſerve ſome hopeful End.

[283]I am heartily ſorry for the Diſappointment, and Mortifications, you have, met with; but I have known the Lady's Character, you mention ſo long, that I am very ſure, I ſhall never be ſurprized at any Thing ſhe does; for I dare ſwear, ſhe will never, grow good. Lady —'s Character you need not put in Contraſt, to make it greatly eſteemed.

I am concerned at the Account, you give, of your Health; and cannot ſay, I hope that it is only your Spleen, which makes you fancy your⯑ſelf unwell; becauſe I think imaginary Ills worſe than the preſent, and more difficult to be cured, than real ones. I hope to find you ſoon better, than you believe yourſelf to be.

Adeiu!

LETTER CXLV.

I HAVE ſuffered my Affairs to run into great Confuſion, by my two laſt Journies to Lon⯑don; for I have not been here theſe four Months. I have been at a vaſt Expence, and nothing done as I directed.—How much I want the ſweet Support of your charming Converſe, at preſent, to aſſiſt me, at once, from Spleen and Labour! two Things, which never at the ſame Time afflicted any Perſon, who was not as whimſically compounded, as myſelf.

[284]However, I have brought my favourite Mon⯑taigne with me, for I dare not truſt myſelf alone; and, tho' I am inamoured of Solitude, yet I never retire, but in order to chuſe my Com⯑pany; which I cannot always do, when I live in the World. Some Dramatis Perſona ſays, ‘Death is the being born to Plato's and to Caeſar's.’ Then ſure a philoſophical Solitude is to live with them. There is this flattering Difference between the World and a Library, that there you are ſubject to every Fool's Hu⯑mour, here you can make every Wit ſubject to your's. It is ſaid, that a Man muſt be a God, or a Brute, who can live alone: Be it ſo! but ſurely the Contemplation of Virtue, Truth, and Nature, being the higheſt Entertainment of An⯑gels, may enable a philoſophick Mind to ſup⯑port Retirement, without Hanging, or Drown⯑ing. Mere Solitude, or even the moſt learned Leiſure, is ſaid to unqualify a Man for the Com⯑merce, or even the Converſation of the World; and perhaps it does;—but this Objection is only from them to you, not from you to yourſelf. Dancing may be a neceſſary Accompliſhment for the Stage, but why ſhall a Man practiſe Coupees, who only means to walk? Such Hints as theſe ſhould make a virtuous Mind the more inamoured of Fields and Groves; for ſure it is a high Recommendation of Truth and Honeſty, that the firſt would diſappoint a Courtier's Pre⯑ferment, and the latter mar an Attorney's For⯑tune.

[285]I read over a long Chapter in Montaigne Yeſ⯑terday, abſurdly ſtiled, of Cruelty; for the Sub⯑ject is entirely on Virtue. I think this Eſſay by much the beſt of all his Works, and well worth frequent Reading. I don't know whether any Thing, he has ſaid, is the Occaſion of this Obſervation occurring to me, but I have often thought, that the Writers both upon Religion, and Morality, have ſaid enough about Virtue and Vice; yet have not ſufficiently diſtinguiſhed between Vice and Vice; which would be a more uſeful Criticiſm, as leſs obvious. I am realy afraid that ſome of the Works of our learned Divines have hardened more People thro' Deſpair, than ever they reclaimed by Re⯑pentance; proceeding too much upon a literal Conſtruction of that Text, ‘He who is guilty of the Breach of any Part of the Law, is guilty of the Whole.’ Which is a Doctrine as ſevere againſt God, as againſt Man.—For, then, who was born to be ſaved? My Opinion is, that, as there is no Vice, which the Frailty of human Nature may not be led into; ſo there is no Crime, which the Divine Nature will not pardon, and the moſt irreligious Crime is the Deſpairing of that Pardon. The Chriſtian Re⯑ligion goes Hand in Hand with the Weakneſs of human Nature; and the very Doctrine of Repentance, without which no Man can be perfect, ſuppoſes us to have erred. Chriſt was a Pattern given us to imitate, not to equal. [286] However, when our Saviour wiſhes the bitter Cup to paſs by him, and makes that frail Eja⯑culation, Eli, Eli, lama ſabacthani! he ſeems to ſuffer with more Weakneſs, than many Mortals have betrayed in Death or Torments. But ſurely this was to abate the Vain-glory of Stoic⯑iſm, to humble the Pride of Self-ſufficiency, and to ſhew us that God, who made us, as we are, indulges human Weakneſſes even in the moſt perfect Man.

Farewel, my charming Sinner! and I wiſh I had half your Virtues to attone for even all my Frailties.

LETTER CXLVI.

I HAVE obſerved, ſince you left Town, that the Letters, which have paſſed between us, have not had the leaſt Air of a Correſpon⯑dence. Your's, indeed, are infinitely ſuperior to any Thing I have ever ſeen under that De⯑nomination, being regular finiſhed Eſſays; while mine have been mere Acknowledgments for the Receipt of ſuch a Treaſure. And, if, at any Time, I have chanced to vary from the uſual Form, and given Expreſſion to my own Thoughts, which are only filled with Tender⯑neſs for you, you have not deigned to take the leaſt Notice of them. To illuſtrate this Truth, [287] can any Thing be more extraordinary, than your addreſſing your Anſwer, to the moſt im⯑portant Concern of my Life, to Kitty; yet write to me by the ſame Poſt, without ever mention⯑ing it? However, the Means cannot rob me of the Pleaſure, I take, in knowing you are well.

Whatever Effect Spleen may have on my Mind, I do aſſure you my Body, without that, is much diſordered: But I hope every Thing from clear Air, Regularity, and Content; none of which I have the leaſt Expectation of enjoy⯑ing in London, tho' I believe I ſhall not go above five or ſix Miles from it, in Purſuit of them all. My Scheme, with Regard to Hert⯑fordſhire, is quite changed, — but more of this, when we meet. You flatter me with the Hopes of ſeeing you—Do you really think of coming? Tell me, and when?

Mr. and Mrs. — have left Town. Mr. — goes to Ireland next Monday: I am juſt going to bid him Adieu. Indeed I ſhall be the moſt diſconſolate of all Mortals, left among thoſe, who ſerve only to debar me of the Plea⯑ſures of Solitude, and remind me of the Abſence of them I love. I deteſt going abroad, yet muſt be obliged to it; for it will be impoſſible to bear Home without a Companion, or the Liberty of Reading: Which laſt, ſhould I attempt, would not only be impracticable, but explained into an Act of the higheſt Diſregard and Ingratitude, by my Aunt.—Is not this a pleaſant Situation?

[288]I have read ſix or ſeven Chapters of Mon⯑taigne; but, as I read regularly, am not come to that, you lately mentioned, on Cruelty. I like him vaſtly, and have a Kind of Pleaſure in recalling the Ideas he inſpired me with ſome Years ago. I am aſhamed, and ſorry to tell you, that I think my Underſtanding and Judg⯑ment were infinitely ſuperior, even in my childiſh Days, to what they are at preſent. I can only account for it by my Thoughts being more diſ⯑ſipated, and eagerly engaged in a Variety of Purſuits, than they then were: And, there be⯑ing, at firſt, but a ſlight Foundation, it was in⯑tirely deſtroyed in the Diviſion. I will not ex⯑patiate farther on thoſe Merits, which, as I no longer poſſeſs them, may appear to you quite imaginary; but ſhall build all my Hopes of your Regard on one, which neither Time nor Chance can alter—that of being ſincerely and affection⯑ately

LETTER CXLVII.

HOW could you take me to Taſk ſo un⯑fairly as you did, about my Careleſſneſs, with Regard to your Inquiries? Recollect your⯑ſelf of my Letter to Kitty, you'll find, when I had ſealed mine to you, that Poſt, George brought me your Letter from —. I was then writ⯑ing to Kitty about Buſineſs, and I thought the Account of my Health would come as quickly [289] to you by a Paragraph in her Letter, as if I had broke open a Seal, to inform you of it in your's. This would have been ſuch a Piece of Forma⯑lity, as I would be very ſorry, we were upon Terms to require. As for the critical and phi⯑loſophical Subjects of my Letters, which you ſo genteely reprimand, let me make this Apology for them: That they never once diverted me from anſwering, and obſerving upon every ſingle Paragraph of your Letters; and I only eſſay my own Fund, when I have nothing better to com⯑ment upon.

Your Obſervation upon diſagreable Company is very pretty, and juſt. They deſtroy the Plea⯑ſures of Solitude, but leave us the irkſome Part of it; which is, the Remembrance of our ab⯑ſent Friends; and this too in a ſtronger Man⯑ner than when alone, by affording us an Oppor⯑tunity of Compariſon. I am ſure you make a provoking Compariſon between your former and preſent Underſtanding; and the Reaſon that you thought better of the firſt, was, becauſe it was the weakeſt. Our Humility increaſes in Pro⯑portion to our Senſe and Knowledge A Per⯑ſon in a Valley is inſenſible of the narrow Cir⯑cumference of his Sight; but mounting up the Hill, the Extent of Proſpect betrays the ſhort Limits of that Senſe. If you will reſt your Opi⯑nion upon my Judgment in this Matter, be aſ⯑ſured that I never ſaid any Thing either of your Senſe, Wit, Taſte, or other Merits, that I [290] did not really think to the full Extent of the Letter.

LETTER CXLVIII.

THE Lines you deſire, are not worth ſend⯑ing; but to write good Verſes is one Thing, and to obey is another; ſo, according to your Commands, take what follows.

[...]

A vile Phraſe, and worſe Matter! but both preferable to the Subject. I ſuſpect theſe were not the Lines, you enquired for; and fancy thoſe wrote in — were what you meant; tho' I believe I gave you them before. They had ſome Spirit it them, but alluded to ſecret Hiſtory ſo much, that they could not be underſtood without a Comment, which I ſhall never give.

Let us now proceed to Proſe, for I look upon Verſe, I mean Rhyme, to be ſuch a Device for reading or writing, as the jingling Bells, which our Carters uſe, that are ſuppoſed to en⯑courage [291] their Brutes to labour with more Chear⯑fulneſs; and I ſhall ever honour that Critick, in the Claſs of falſe Taſte, who ſaid that Milton wanted only the Ornament of Rhyme, to ren⯑der him perfect. Such a Genius would cut all the Trees of a Foreſt into Pyramids, and fa⯑ſhion Mount Athos into the Figure of a Man; as was projected once by Alexander, and ſhew the Power of Art, by it's. Violence upon Na⯑ture.

To give you my Opinion of Rhyme, I look upon Puns to be a Species of it, as they are a Jingling of Words, and a Tinkling of Sounds. Indeed, thoſe, who can write like you, may be excuſed, where the real Beauties of Poety ren⯑der the Reader inſenſible to the Crambo; but then this Apology is ſuch a one, as is made for the Quibbling of Shakeſpear, that the falſe Re⯑liſh of the Age required ſuch a Condeſcenſion. You uſe Verſe, as you do Cloaths; not for the Ornament, but in Compliance to Cuſtom; and not becauſe you have one Blemiſh to cover, but becauſe you can afford to hide many Beau⯑ties.

I left — this Morning, not that I had fi⯑niſhed my Buſineſs there, but becauſe I had read out the only Book I had with me; and was then expoſed to the Mercy of the Winds and Rains, which have been very ſevere there this Week.

[292]The only Fault, I find in Montaigne, is the Profuſion of Quotations, he interſperſes thro' all his Works. It is neceſſary ſometimes to il⯑luſtrate our Reaſonings by Examples; but theſe ſhould be drawn from our own Obſervations, rather than the Sentiments of others. When we treat of Death, Immortality, &c. why need we produce the Opinions of Plato, or Seneca, upon theſe Subjects? We dare not depend on our own Strength, but lean upon others, and often ſupport weak Judgments by the Force of Authority. This is one of the Reaſons we make ſuch ſlow Progreſs, of late, in Science, or Philo⯑ſophy; for we follow one another in ſuch beaten Tracks, that our View cannot be extended far⯑ther than to the Perſon, who goes before us; and are afraid of turning to the Right, or Left, leſt we ſhould loſe our Way. I am ſo diſatiſ⯑fied with Quotations, that I run into the con⯑trary Extreme, and endeavour to avoid them, as much as others do to bring them in; inſo⯑much, that I often ſhun the very Thoughts, which naturally occur to me in writing, or ſpeaking, if I recollect they have been made uſe of, upon the ſame Occaſion before. This is, perhaps, an Affection greater than the other; and may fall under the Cenſure objected to Writings of this Kind, that thoſe, who will not condeſcend to ſay any Thing, which has been ſaid before them; will, probably, never ſay any Thing, which will be quoted after them. But this laſt [293] Nicety, perhaps, I owe to my Correſpondence with you, leſt I ſhould be ſuſpected of Plagia⯑riſm; as you have read every Thing, which I am capable of Underſtanding; yet I have a more humble Reaſon for avoiding Quotations; that I don't care to give People an Opportunity of making Compariſons to my Diſadvantage.

There is a Paſſage in Montaigne, which I am particularly flattered with, becauſe it puts me in Mind of a bold Expreſſion and Sentiment of mine, in a former Letter to you; ‘that I had ſo compleat a Poſſeſſion of you, that I enjoy⯑ed your very Abſence,’ or Words to that Purpoſe. Speaking of a Friend, he loved, he ſays, ‘A Correſpondence deſtroys Abſence, as it gives us a Liberty of converſing together. We better filled, and extended the Poſſeſſion of Life, in being parted. He lived, rejoiced, and ſaw for me, and I for him, as plainly as if he had himſelf been there. One Part re⯑mained idle, and we confounded one another, when we were together. Diſtance of Place rendered the Conjunction of our Wills more rich. The inſatiable Deſire of perſonal Preſence ſomewhat implies Weakneſs in the Fruition of Souls.’ Nothing can he more finely ima⯑gined, or better expreſſed, than this whole Paſ⯑ſage; after which, I will not venture to add any Thing of my own, but conclude in his Words: ‘While natural Conveniencies fail, [294] let us ſupply the Defect with thoſe that are artificial!’

LETTER CXLIX.

I AM jealous of you, from your laſt Letter. You ſay H. G. and J. S. make ſuch a Noiſe in the Room, that you cannot attend to what you are writing. I don't care that you ſhould divide yourſelf between your common Acquaintance, and me; and am ſuch a Churl, that I have no Enjoyment either of your Con⯑verſation, or Correſpondence, but when I have them entirely to myſelf.

When I write to you, my whole Soul is yours. I am not however ſo ſelfiſh, or rather, I am ſo ſelfiſh, as to be willing to communicate your charming Converſe to thoſe few, who have a juſt Reliſh for your Wit and Senſe; for this is but enlarging my own Capacity, and increaſing my Comprehenſion, which is too narrow, to enjoy the Fullneſs of the Feaſt.

If I appear to have a better Philoſophy, or more refined Senſe than formerly, it is but to accommodate myſelf to your Sentiments and Taſte; which, by the Continuance of your Favour, may perhaps ſtrengthen Habit into Nature. However, in general, I endeavour to [295] appear to you, what I really in myſelf am; be⯑cauſe I cannot be otherwiſe aſſured either of your Love, or Eſteem. I am certain that, by ſhewing myſelf in this Light, I may leſſen both: But then I ſecure thoſe Portions of each, which I may honeſtly, or prudently claim. All farther Regard is but paid to ſomething foreign from me; and I ſhould be jealous of your Attach⯑ments even to an imaginary Perſon,—ſhould I pretend to more Knowledge, Virtue, or Philo⯑ſophy, than I poſſeſs, what ſhould I do more, than idly raiſe Sentiments, or Affections in you, which I am not able to gratify? And would be a Sort of Weaning you from your Attachments to me, as if a Peaſant-lover ſhould endeavour to inſpire his Amaryllis with high Notions of Pomp, Riches, and Grandeur.

All the Hazard, I run, from my free Com⯑merce with you, is that, as Preſumption, and Self-ſufficiency are apt to get the Start of Senſe, or Knowledge, your Praiſe and Approbation may give me ſuch a Vanity, as poſſeſſed antient Heroes with an Opinion of their being more than Human, but that the Charms of your Per⯑ſon tempt me often to recollect my Manhood. However, the vain Apotheoſis may ſtill remain when I reflect, that God's themſelves have been inamoured of mortal Women, leſs amiable than you; who have every Perfection of the moſt Eminent of your Sex, without their Extremes. The Philoſophy of Portia, without her Stoiciſm; [296] all the Love of Sappho, without her Wanton⯑neſs; the Wit of Heloiſe, without her Pro⯑phaneneſs; and the Spirit of Cleopatra, without her Extravagance.

Write to me, my charming Epitome, but never, when you have any Thing elſe to do.