LETTER LXV. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.

DR. Melbank acquaints me you have hurt your wriſt, and that it gives you great pain: I feel a ſincere affliction upon two accounts ariſing from this accident; firſt, be⯑cauſe it occaſions uneaſineſs to you, and, ſecondly, becauſe it prevents your making uſe of the pen. How⯑ever, [2] I charge you not to venture too ſoon to exert it. Rather let me be two or three days without your agree⯑able favours, than with them at the coſt of your inconvenience: I will endeavour to ſupport the loſs of your correſpondence, in the hope that your health may be the ſooner reſtored: and as I myſelf get better every hour, I will do my beſt to entertain you with a double portion of packets.

Am I not grown a great philoſo⯑pher? do I not at laſt acquieſce in your own ſyſtem? do I not obey your inhibitions with even a ſcru⯑pulous ceremony? and am I not a mere correſpondent? am I not the cold creature you wiſh me?

[3]Yes Charlotte, I will yield to your punctilious principles. I will not murmur, nor will attempt again to invade your repoſe by deſiring a perſonal interview, till the way to it is ſmoothed by providence. That this will be the caſe, I am certain. In the mean time I will endeavour to be contented with this remote, yet en⯑dearing intercourſe, though Melbank has been labouring to perſuade me it would be more for the health of my mind and body that I dropt the plea⯑ſures of the pen. Of this he can never convince me; though I have received from him the tendereſt treatment, and find him to be an able ſurgeon, and an amiable man.

[4]I this morning had a penny poſt letter from him, which, that I may do him juſtice, and give your gentle heart ſatisfaction, I incloſe.

LETTER LXVI. Dr. MELBANK to CHARLES. (Incloſed in the above.)

WHAT a pity it is that many of thoſe articles of conduct, which are merely points of equity, ſhould, in the opinion of the greater [5] part of the world, be conſidered as obligations: happy, however, it is for the tranquility of delicate minds, when the balance of favours between man and man is even, becauſe then no irkſome ſenſation of ſuperiority re⯑mains to diſtreſs either; and the in⯑terchange is honourable, exact, and mutual. This, Sir, is the ſtate of the caſe between you and I. I am almoſt ready to confeſs myſelf in⯑debted to the accident that brought us together. The wounds, in which I have been an happy inſtrument of cure, have been, the means of mak⯑ing known to me a man of eminent abilities, and excellent qualities. In the midſt of torture and croſs circum⯑ſtances, how have I been entertained [6] by his remarks! above all other parts of his character, I admire the libera⯑lity of his ſentiments: at leaſt they are to be admired in the theory. How ſhall I rejoice to find them equal in the practice! to ſlide again into the firſt perſon, and ſpeak plainly; have you, my dear Sir, generoſity enough to receive the incloſed, and to uſe it till I may have occaſion to re-demand it? and will you do me the juſtice to be⯑lieve I have had ſo much move plea⯑ſure than trouble in viſiting you, that, unleſs you are ſo good as to ſet down my attention to the ſcore of friendſhip, I ſhall be compelled to think myſelf too heavily indebted, and ſo deſpair of your intimacy; though I propoſe ſeeing you in the courſe of the day, [7] yet this is a ſubject I hate to talk of, and therefore I have ſent yon a poſt letter, that the fooliſh bluſh of con⯑fuſion may be ſpared to both of us; and therefore I beg we may not men⯑tion this trifling point when we meet. Your attention to this requeſt will very particularly oblige

LETTER LXVII. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.

MR. Templeton has tranſmitted to me a little rural poem, written by a literary friend of his: there is a novelty in the ſtory, and [8] a ſimplicity in the ſentiment, that par⯑ticularly recommends it to perſons of feeling. For this reaſon I am going to tranſcribe it for your peruſal.

I am always happier while I am employed either in thinking of you, or in any degree contributing to your entertainment. Were it not for bend⯑ing my mind aſſiduouſly to theſe little epiſtolary engagements, and by theſe means ſoothing my hopes, and lulling my cares, I ſhould not, I fear, be able to keep my promiſe, or withſtand the impulſes of my heart, which would carry me perforce into the apartment of Charlotte. I hope by to-morrow you will be able to take up the pen, and give me your [9] opinion of the poem. A ſingle line from your own hand, will agreeably convince me that you have again re⯑covered the perfect uſe of it. Mr. Melbank is ſtill anxious to have me ſuſpend our correſpondence: if he perſiſts in this advice, I ſhall hate him in ſpite of his generoſity. He is a great admirer of yours.

LETTER LXVIII. Dr. MELBANK to CHARLOTTE.

I FEEL myſelf to blame. I have interdicted a correſpondence, that gives both you and Charles pleaſure, and I am much afraid the health of my patient was not the only motive that led me to this. The real motive I dare not diſcover. Be it ſome atonement, that I acquaint you Charles's health is not likely to be hurt, or his cure retarded, by the letters of Charlotte. I am in a very aukward ſituation, and beg to be excuſed for dropping the ſubject.

LETTER LXIX. From the ſame to HAMLET TEMPLETON, Eſq

WHAT muſt I do, Mr. Tem⯑pleton? I am under an em⯑barraſſment, from the pains of which I can by no means diſengage myſelf? Will you, who are in ſome degree a party concerned, give me your advice. To cut ſhort the idle formalities of ceremonious introduction, I muſt open to you the nature of my dilemma at once. Would you believe it, Mr. Templeton; while I have been attempting to cure Charles, [15] I have been myſelf wounded by Char⯑lotte: yes, Sir, widower as I am, again am I caught in the nets of beauty and merit, and am vainly trying every poſſible effort to forget the form that undid my repoſe." I have already been led into meaneſſes by this clan⯑deſtine paſſion: it has urged me to deſire Charlotte to forbear writing, under pretence of its interfering with my endeavours to reſtore Charles's health. I have viſited this lovely wo⯑man ſeveral times, and have had the mortification to hear her heave a thou⯑ſand ſighs, and to ſee her ſhed a thou⯑ſand tears; although ſhe ſtill remains ſixt in her reſolution of never again uniting herſelf to him, I have not had the courage to hint at my parti⯑ality; [16] and to tell you the truth, Sir, I am witheld from ſuch declarations from various motives. I have con⯑ceived a tender eſteem for Charles, and I am unwilling to give him pain. I conſider myſelf as ſtanding in a very delicate light, and I know not how I can reconcile the different cha⯑racters of a ſurgeon, a friend, and a lover. I fairly confeſs to you, I never ſaw any woman ſo formed to pleaſe, as Charlotte: as to her having been connected with another, were not that other Charles, I ſhould make that no objection to offer her at once my heart, hand, and for⯑tune. My profeſſion is merely an object of my choice, not of neceſ⯑ſity, and I have an income that could [17] ſupport the woman of my affections affluently. Were it not for the ap⯑pearance of duplicity, which I can⯑not bear, I ſhould certainly make ſuch overtures to Charlotte, as might put both my love and my principles out of diſpute. Such a woman, Sir, would grace the arms, and bleſs the heart, of a monarch; and I ſhould rejoice to lead her by the hand into the embraces of all my family, and all my friends.

At the ſame time, what can I do? would not ſuch advances, coming thus ſuddenly from me, look like taking advantages of ſickneſs, and ſeparation? Charles's tenderneſs is too palpable! Charlotte's love is by [18] no means worn off. I ſee them both every day, and I every day find in both freſh excellencies which it would be inhuman to injure. Who knows what may happen! Cleora may die; many events, may, under the direc⯑tion of an indulgent god, auſpiciouſly concur to bring Charles and Charlotte once more into the arms of each other. I may be looked upon as an uſurper, as a ſupplanter of affection: and what makes the matter ſtill worſe, is, that I have very lately done myſelf the pleaſure of accommodating Charles with what the world conſiders an im⯑portant favour. I have lent him money; it is therefore the worſt time in the world to make propoſals. The poor lad's nerves too, are at preſent all [19] on the tremble; his ſtrength is but juſt returning; his heart is greatly agitated; he cannot get out of his chamber—what, can be done Mr. Templeton? as a friend to all par⯑ties, tell me—I am truly wretched myſelf, and yet I ſhould be aſhamed, if I wanted fortitude to prevent the wretchedneſs of others; particularly thoſe, whom I have had the honour to oblige.

LETTER LXX. HAMLET TEMPLETON, Eſq to Dr. MELBANK.

YOUR letter brought one of the greateſt ſurpriſes I ever felt ſince I came into the world: nor can I poſſibly give my ſentiments upon a point ſo particularly delicate. For aught I ſee, you are all to be pitied; and you all deſerve, and have my un⯑availing ſympathy. Heaven direct you all into ſuch meaſures as may ultimately be for the general felicity! at preſent, I can only remain anxious and wretched, till I hear that the [21] wiſhes of each are granted; and this, believe me, Sir, will be the firſt prayer of my heart.

LETTER LXXI. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.

NOT a word yet? if you were better, I ſhould have had a written teſtimony of it; and there⯑fore I have the painful certainty to know you are worſe—perhaps, Char⯑lotte, you have deceived me: a ſprain'd wriſt may be a pretence to conceal an accident infinitely more [22] alarming; you may, for aught I know, be at this moment on the bed of ſickneſs—you may be in the agonies of a ſore diſtemper—you may have broken a limb. I have queſtioned Dr. Melbank, who it ſeems attends you, pretty cloſely on this ſubject; and I do not half like his anſwers. He ſtammers; he offers me a feeble excuſe; he equivocates; and he ab⯑ruptly goes away bluſhing, becauſe he cannot diſguiſe the truth, in the veil of a better apology. My imagi⯑nation repreſents you in a condition, at which my heart achs; perhaps you are fainting, and I am not by to catch you in my arms: you are perhaps ſick, and I am not preſent to adminiſter the cordials of recovery— [23] you are weeping, and I am too diſtant to kiſs away the tear—the point is plain; and this is the truth of the whole matter; if you do not, with your own hand, anſwer this haſty letter, which I diſpatch by a porter, I ſhall draw the natural concluſions— I ſhall judge the horrors of your ſituation, and, weak as I am, venture abroad to offer my aſſiſtance.

LETTER LXXII. CHARLOTTE to CHARLES.

IT is with a ſincere pleaſure I find myſelf again able to addreſs my valuable correſpondent; and I uſe this firſt moment of reſuming the pen to thank him for his letters, and the poem: all which, I read with great ſatisfaction. It is very true that I have been ſome time in your debt, but you wall now receive a receipt in full; for this epiſtle will certainly compenſate for all that is due, and make the balances even. Since the correſpondence on my ſide [25] has been neceſſarily ſuſpended, Dr. Melbank has favoured me with a friendly call or two, and, in his laſt viſit finding me much diſpirited, he entertained me by reciting the prin⯑cipal paſſages in his own life. I was ſaying how hard it was to loſe a friend, at the time one is moſt thoroughly ſenſible of his merit: upon this he ſighed—preſſed his hand upon his heart, and wiping a tear from his eyes, ſaid, it was indeed hard; "I have experienced it moſt ſeverely, Madam, ſaid he, and, notwithſtand⯑ing my preſent flow of fortune, and fulneſs of practice, I dare ſay I have undergone more than you would wiſh an enemy to ſuffer. As you ſeem to think your own ſitua⯑tion [26] deplorable, although your friend is ſtill alive, if you have half an hour to ſpare, I will run over ſome ſcenes that may ſerve to make you con⯑tented with your own ſtate, by com⯑paring it with that of others.

But on looking a ſecond time at your letter, I perceive your meſ⯑ſenger is waiting an anſwer, upon which account I muſt reſerve the ſketch of our friend's hiſtory till my next letter.

I ſend this, merely to ſhew you the deſired hand writing of

LETTER LXXIII. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.

"IF I were now to die, 'twere now to be moſt happy." The written evidence of your recovery, and the manifeſt marks of health I can trace in your letter, are all ſuch circumſtances of ſincere joy to me, that I could ſuffer without complain⯑ing, and would, at any time pay for your felicity, the price of my own. Poor Melbank! he has been theſe two or three days unuſually penſive, and I ſuppoſe it proceeds from hav⯑ing related paſt ſcenes of anxiety. I [28] know enough of him to admire his character: I have had ſeveral fine aſſurances of his being in poſſeſſion of a noble heart. He ſhook me by the hand this morning, and, as he went out of the door, he turned his face, and diſcovered a tear. If he has had any tender diſappointments, heaven knows I pity him. You have made me ſigh for his ſtory.

LETTER LXXIV. CHARLOTTE to CHARLES.

"MY adventures, Madam," ſaid Dr. Melbank, "ſhall be re⯑lated as briefly as the intricacy and variety of them will admit—I was born under all the ſmiles of fortune, having a man of ſenſe and property for my father, a woman of beauty and honour for my mother, and no other relations whatever alive, that were likely to diſpute with me, the right of ſucceſſion. But alas! Madam, from my firſt birth-day to the ſeventh year of my age, it ſeemed to be the [30] contrivance of fortune to enrich me: for m father engaged in a buſineſs that ruined his conſtitution and eſtate in the ſame inſtant. He extended his trade till he became involved in a thouſand hopeleſs calamities — He carried his ambitious ſchemes of mer⯑chandiſe, till he raſhly run into all the extravagance of giving credit: he truſted to an agent, who, as is common enough, turned out a raſcal, and being at laſt obliged to attend vigilantly to his own affairs, he em⯑barked for the eaſt, where he had conſiderable dealings, to gather in deſperate debts to a great amount— there he caught a fever in the paſ⯑ſage — lingered for ſome days—wrote a letter to my mother during his [31] ſickneſs, and abſolutely died at laſt, a martyr to that ambition, which in⯑duces a man to give up, according to the common phraſe—a certainty for an uncertainty. True it is, that I was his only heir; but had there been fifty competitors, not one would have long felt the ſpirit of litigation riſing within them: for, when mat⯑ters came to be examined, the poor man's ambition for becoming the man of buſineſs, had buried his real eſtate in the ruins of an imaginary property: and all that he left behind him deſcended into the hands of a mercileſs crew of creditors, who veri⯑fied at leaſt, one paſſage of ſcripture, by taking care, in all ſuch caſes, [32] that the ſins of the father ſhall be viſited on the children."

"My mother, Madam, loved her huſband ſo much better than her own life, that in the phrenzy of af⯑fection, ſhe was frequently prevented from making a ſacrifice to his aſhes, of that beautiful form on which he had doated: time, however, brought her uſual lenitive, and the widow began at length to think it her duty to ſhare the poverty and misfortunes that was by this event, entailed upon her child. Her conſtitution was always delicate, and this ſore ſtroke gave additional force to a diſorder which was hereditary to the female ſide of our family. She had the [33] aſthma in all its violence, and, in a few months, it reduced her to a ſhadow. As this excellent woman had been too affectionate to ſecure to herſelf an original marriage-ſet⯑tlement, and the claimants were therefore generous enough to allow a few ſuits of half-worn apparel, which properly belonged to her own perſon; and after this, it was not eaſy to find a poorer pair than now exhibited themſelves in Mrs. Mel⯑bank, and her fatherleſs ſon."

"Maternal love, nevertheleſs, in⯑creaſed, in proportion to the neceſ⯑ſity there was to exert it. For ſome little time ſhe tried the feelings of thoſe who had been the companions [34] of her proſperity, but that ſoon failing, ſhe applied to a reſource, which may generally be depended on; i. e. pro⯑vided the application be earneſt: in a word, Madam, ſhe withdrew from the ſmiling apologies, and civil evaſions of friendſhip, to her own in⯑duſtry. Being educated in all the accompliſhments of her ſex, and particularly ſkilful at her needle, ſhe chearfully undertook to aſſiſt ladies in thoſe very decorations which ſhe was a ſhort time before entitled to wear herſelf—Nay—ſuch. was her humility, ſhe condeſcended to manage the work of thoſe very women, whom in the life-time of her late huſband, ſhe viſited upon terms of equality and intimacy; but fortune, [35] you know, Madam, elevates and de⯑grades, ſometimes in the ſame hour."

"From theſe efforts, I mean out of her work, ſhe not only accommo⯑dated me with food, but inſtruction, paying regularly for my ſchooling, and providing for me every comfort of mind and body."

"In this manner, with very few helps, were, we ſubſiſted for ſeveral years, till at length her diſorder grew, ſo bad, that ſhe was totally unable to proceed in the buſineſs— a buſineſs, Madam, which want had urged her to undertake. As I was de⯑ficient neither in gratitude, nor filial feelings, and was by this time ar⯑rived [36] at the age of diſtinguiſhing, judge the ſtate of my mind, at per⯑ceiving the dear perſon to whom I had been ſo long indebted, declin⯑ing away in ſilent and waſting agony, under my eye: her phyſician recommended change of air; and I therefore removed her a few miles diſtant, to a little village contiguous to the Thames. Still, Madam, the cruel diſtemper gained upon all our endeavours, and neither ſunſhine, ver⯑dure, nor rural breezes, could reſtore her. Sixteen days did ſhe lay pant⯑ing in the extremity, at the end of which time, we had exhauſted all the little ſavings that the exacteſt oeconomy had hoarded up againſt a rainy day, after the neceſſary ex⯑pences [37] of our ſubſiſtance were an⯑ſwered."

"For my own part, bred as I was to no employment, and but juſt raw from ſchool, I knew neither the value of talents, nor the means of getting money, by art, or by dili⯑gence; but our affairs were now come to the criſis. My poor mother lay ſpeechleſs: the woman with whom we lodged, pitied her extremely, and, as an inſtance of it, began to tell us how inconvenient it was for folks like ſhe and her huſband, who had a ſmall houſe, to let lodgings. The huſband ſpoke firſt obliquely, and then directly, of a couſin, that was upon the road, to ſtay with them [38] during the fair time; and, in the progreſs of their obſervations, they made very pertinent comments on thoſe excellent places of reſource for poor wretches—the public hoſ⯑pitals—Aſſylums, ſaid they, where thoſe who want diet and doctors, and yet have no method to procure either, may get both for nothing — In this exigence, Madam, upon the edge of every thing dreadful, famine on the one hand, and deſpair on the other, I ſallied out of the houſe, re⯑ſolved not to come back with an empty pocket—Accordingly, in the diſtraction of my mind, and in the ſimplicity of my head, I opened my caſe to the very firſt perſon I ſaw. The firſt perſon I ſaw, happened to [39] be ſuch a one, as, I fear, "take him for all in all, I ſhall not look upon his like again." He was on horſeback, not reſident in the town, but merely paſſing through it. With⯑out ſcarce knowing what I was about, I told him the incoherent ſtory, but told it to the heart—and never —no, Madam—by my ſoul, never ſhall I forget the anxious air, and melting tone with which he ſaid—Talk no more, poor youth, talk no more, but quickly lead me to your mother. What a tear did he ſhed on my hand as he diſmounted from his horſe—O God! Madam, my only ſurviving parent was breath⯑ing her laſt as we entered. She had not ſtrength to ſpeak—ſhe could reſiſt [40] the attacks of her fate, but faintly— it was juſt allowed her to ſay, fault⯑eringly—kiſs me, my ſon; and even as I was ſtooping to obey her, the lip quivered in death—in the next moment ſhe was an angel."

"This worthy ſtranger buried my mother with all the attention, and ſacred decency, due to a parent of his own; and, for a long time after⯑wards, he ſupplied me with every thing that cou'd ſooth the mind, or comfort the body. But, alas! this refuge was ſoon taken from me; the gentleman died ſuddenly, and I was once more left upon the wide world, an orphan, without a friend. I was now reduced to ſeek for ſubſiſtence [41] in the capacity of a ſervant, and had the good fortune to be taken in by a nneighbouring apothecary for the me⯑nial purpoſe of carrying out his drugs. It was at his houſe, Madam, that I firſt ſaw the exact reſemblance of yourſelf—ſimilar in ſenſe—ſimilar in beauty. I ſhall not, however, trouble you with the annals of my courtſhip: the apothecary took a particular lik⯑ing to me, and after I had been his ſervant two years, exalted me to the dignity of being his ſon, deſtitute as I was, and gave me his only daughter, intending, that I ſhould continue with him, and learn his buſineſs. He died, however, in leſs than ſix weeks, and continued his partiality, by bequeath⯑ing to me and his beloved Maria [42] —ſo was my wife called—his whole fortune, amounting to near three hun⯑dred pounds a year in landed pro⯑perty, beſides a good houſe: as an honeſt man, I muſt tell you, Madam, that the apothecary had a nephew, which, having diſobliged him, he never had ſeen for many years, and though he was once to have been the chief heir, was not ſo much as men⯑tioned in his laſt ſentiments."

"Of this, indeed, I did not hear, till I had ſpent the whole fortune; for Maria had never ſeen the young man, and his uncle never ſpoke of him to her. Since I have known the fact, I have vainly endeavoured to find the youth, that I might make [43] him amends; but my reſearches have not been yet rewarded, and the apo⯑thecary's old friends tell me they be⯑lieve he is dead."

"A fooliſh ambition is, I believe, hereditary to my family. I had no ſooner got a competence, than I left the country—ſold my houſe there; and, thinking that my obſervation had qualified me for the apothecary buſineſs, I opened, in an abſurd hurry, a ſhop of my own. I laid out a large ſum, to the worſt advan⯑tage, with a druggiſt, and finding myſelf without connections, I adver⯑tiſed for cuſtom. During this period I was ſurely poſſeſſed, for, contrary to the intreaties of my wife, whom I [44] adored, even while I contradicted, I reſolved to go on: nay, not to have any reſerve with you, I was ſo plung'd in this medical madneſs, that I pur⯑chaſed all the pompous parapherna⯑lia of the doctor, and, in the ſhop of an apothecary, had all the tremendous apparatus of a ſurgeon. I give you leave to laugh at me, when I tell you, that I cropt cloſe to my ears, a fine flowing head of hair, to ſurround my lunatic pate by a ſet of enormous curls, riſing, in formidable exact⯑neſs, tier above tier, in all the ma⯑jeſty of a phyſician. I became per⯑fect in the pat on the ſnuff-box, the management of the graver muſcles, and the ſwing of the cane: I knew the ſeveral uſes of the watch. I af⯑fected [45] to abridge my Latin, and to ſign the initials of my name as unin⯑telligibly and obliquely as poſſible; and, to ſum up the whole, I ſhould certainly have ventured upon an equi⯑page—that moſt neceſſary of all pom⯑pous appendages—had not my poor girl, with ſtreaming eyes told me, (what really was but too probable) that all thoſe accompliſhments would be of no ſort of ſervice, and that ſhe verily feared, neither chariots, nor chirurgical inſtruments, nor drugs, nor gallipots, would be of any conſe⯑quence, till I could prove to the fa⯑culty, and to my friends, that I un⯑derſtood ſomething of the profeſſion, beyond its pomps and vanities. I began to think there was ſome truth [46] in my wife's remark, for I could nei⯑ther get any mortal to tell me he was ſick; nor any man that wiſhed me well, who did not tell me that he was ſorry. One day, however, fortune was determined to throw a job in my way. It happened that a man was thrown from a ladder as he was re⯑pairing a houſe, and, in his fall, broke his leg, at the threſhold of my door—God forgive me, Madam, but judging it to be a ſimple fracture, I bleſſed heaven for the accident. I firſt ſcribbled a preſcription, in the capacity of a phyſician, then made it as an apothecary, and laſtly, I began to feel the part, as a ſurgeon. I began at laſt to bandage the leg, and to bleed the arm: but the agitation I was in, [47] put me into ſuch a trembling, that, (as I held the lancet unſteadily) I rambled from the vein, and fairly cut a ſlice from the brawny part of the arm: the patient, who was a ſtout fellow, ſtarted up enraged, and, ſwear⯑ing that I knew no more how to bleed a man than his trowel, hopp'd out of the ſhop in ſearch of an abler operator—notwithſtanding theſe igno⯑minious teſtimonies of my ignorance, I was obſtinate enough to perſiſt, till partly by pomp, and partly by va⯑nity, I exhauſted poor Maria's whole fortune: from this time I involved my dear contented girl in the effects of my folly, and we were both, for a long time, the dupes of caprice, and the ſlaves of apology. Reflec⯑tion, [48] and the remorſe attending it, threw me upon the bed of ſickneſs, and then it was that Maria hired a nurſe to wait upon me, while ſhe made application, and wrote circular appeals to the moſt opulent of her ac⯑quaintance. She undertook this moſt irkſome of all human engagements unknown to me; and it was not till after I got much better in my health, that ſhe informed me of her miſcar⯑riage. Though I ſhould have thought it impoſſible to turn the deaf ear to ſuch a creature's requeſt, yet ſhe ſucceeded, as people of both ſexes ge⯑nerally do upon the like occaſions. Curious, although common, were the evaſions made uſe of: one, had un⯑luckily juſt parted from all his money [49] —a ſecond, had taken an oath that he never would lend a farthing more to his own brother; and the reaſon was, he had already ſuffered by his good-nature — a third, was exceſ⯑ſively-grieved for me—a fourth, was exceſſively grieved for Maria—a fifth, was exceſſively glad to ſee folly, ex⯑travagance, and vanity, rewarded in this world—a ſixth, told my wife that he made it a maxim never to give money, but that, as one good turn deſerved another, he was ready to be even-handed with her, and give favour for favour—a ſeventh, ſaid he had a ſum to make up—and, in ſhort, Madam, every one had an excuſe; ſo that poor Maria returned convinced, that indigence profeſſed, [50] is the only ſtate that muſt find de⯑ſertion and deafneſs attend its peti⯑tions."

"By this time I felt my folly in all the bitterneſs of conſciouſneſs; and in the midſt of all theſe calamities my wife was far advanced in her pregnancy, when ſhe fell down ſtairs, hurried on a premature labour, and died in my arms in the evening of the ninth day—I was many times tempted to deeds of impiety and deſpair; and, having my affairs in the utmoſt diſorder, I went on board a tender, and, with very little money in my pocket more than would pay my paſſage (and even that obtained by the ſale of my drugs—for alas! [51] my eſtate was long ſince gone)—I landed in Jamaica."

"As if fortune was once more re⯑ſolved to befriend me, I was in the very ſhip with, a man of the firſt eminence as a ſurgeon, and of very conſiderable property, who had been to England to take poſſeſſion of that property. His humanity was equal to his ingenuity: my hiſtory endeared me to him: he offered me his pity; and before we had arrived at the iſland, an accident happened that changed that pity into the tendereſt friendſhip."

"He was one evening walking by moon-light upon the quarter deck, [52] when, by a ſudden ſwell of the ſea, (it being then a calm) he was thrown from his center, and fell overboard. As our ſhip was rolling, on he was ſoon at the ſtern, and I, who was the only perſon that ſaw his misfor⯑tune, ran to the boatſwain, alarmed the company, and ordered out a boat with all diſpatch: mean-time I threw a large rope from the poop, and he had the good luck to ſwim near enough to reach it—By ſome means or other the boat was en⯑tangled, and could not be eaſily ex⯑tricated—I drew the gentleman by the rope to the ſhip's ſide—the calm was now quick dead, and little or no ſwell. I brought him within half a yard of the gunnel, and then, [53] ſtooping till I was even with the water, I dipt in my arms, while another man had girt a rope round my middle, and by claſping the poor exhauſted ſurgeon in my arms with all my violence, the man above, faſt⯑ened the rope to a pully, and, at the riſque of almoſt cutting me in two, for I was reſolved not to let go my hold, drew us both up together.— From henceforward this gentleman and I were as brothers: for near five years, and a half he in every reſpect treated me as ſuch: I ſtudied with the utmoſt diligence under his tuition in the art of anatomy—I at⯑tended him over all the iſlands in every caſe, and to every patient, and in the end I became a tolerable pro⯑ficient. [54] In the mean time an opportunity of marrying to the utmoſt advantage, offered itſelf.— The idea of Maria prevented all ſuch connections. Never was applica⯑tion more intenſe, nor perhaps better rewarded—and I owed every thing to my friend whoſe name was William⯑ſon. Had Maria lived to ſee this reverſe of fortune, what could have been added unto me — At length, however, Dr. Williamſon (who had not a relation alive that was known to him) died of a fever, then epide⯑mical, in Jamaica — He made his will in my favour, and left me every thing he could call his own upon earth, except the portrait of a lady that hung round his neck, and which, [55] in the ſame condition, was buried with him. The doctor's fortune was large, and it hath given me affluence, but not joy, for I had much rather my friend, and my wife had lived to ſhare them.—"

"Here, Charles, the doctor ended, and giving a heavy ſigh, took me kindly by the hand, and wiſhed me a good night. What a multitude of revolutions, croud into the petty ſpan of human exiſtence!"

LETTER LXXV. H. TEMPLETON, Eſq to CHARLES.

I HAVE a ſtrange piece of news to communicate to my dear Charles: an old friend of mine has juſt written to me on a curious ſub⯑ject. He has, it ſeems, lately ſeen Charlotte, and is over head and ears in love with her: he has a large fortune, and is ſmitten ſo ſmartly, that he writes me word he intends to make ſerious propoſals of marriage; and only wants me to aſſure him the connection betwixt you and her is actually diſſolved. I really believe [57] he is in earneſt, and he is a man of good ſenſe, great connections, and ſplendid circumſtances, beſides being in one of the genteeleſt profeſſions. What the deuce am I to ſay to him on this point? He preſſes for an anſwer, and I am utterly unprepared for it. For your part, I ſuppoſe you would not give your conſent to her being the wife of an emperor; and yet, if this ſpark ſhould make honourable advances, and offer ſuch terms as are extremely flattering and advantageous, how would you act in that caſe? would you oppoſe, or would you promote, or would you ſtand neuter upon the occaſion? ſhall I not do right, if I tell my friend the ſubject is too nice to be [58] ſpoken to—or ſhall I—but you muſt direct me. I will not ſend a ſlip of paper till you give me full inſtruc⯑tions: and ſo, pray write to me im⯑mediately.

LETTER LXXVI. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.

I HAVE reſolved to venture into the country for the benefit of the air, and, therefore, you muſt not expect to hear from me again for ſome days. For a ſhort time there⯑fore, adieu to

LETTER LXXVII. Dr. MELBANK to CHARLOTTE.

HAVE you ſeen Charles? he has left his lodgings, and yet has taken nothing with him. His landlady informs me he went out with two-well-dreſs'd men in a coach, although it was evidently very dif⯑ficult for him to get in the carriage. If you have not heard from, or ſeen him, I ſhall be exceedingly uneaſy. I had written the incloſed letter to you ever ſince yeſterday morning, and kept it in my pocket, nor do I now ſend it without being doubtful [60] whether it ought not to be ſuppreſſed. At all events, I beſeech you not to break it open, or pay it the leaſt attention till you are perfectly ſatis⯑fied of the ſafety of Charles.

LETTER LXXVIII. CHARLOTTE to Dr. MELBANK.

I HAD a billet from my friend Charles, a few minutes before I received your favour, and though I am afraid, he ventures out too ſoon, yet I am acquainted with the deſign [63] of his excurſion, which is only to get a little freſh air; and I ſuppoſe he has taken a couple of friends with him to look out a pleaſant and whole⯑ſome ſpot. After he is fixt, we ſhall certainly hear from him.

In relation, ſir, to your incloſure, I ſhould eſteem myſelf unworthy the compliment intended me, if I did not inſtantly reply to a point of ſuch conſequence. Senſible as I am, ſir, of the honour—greatly as I venerate the ſacred rites to which you allude, it is clearly my duty to tell you, that I can never conceive myſelf juſtified in giving my hand to any perſon, while Charles is living. There are certain circuſtances between us which [64] make this reſolution, a matter of conſcience; and though it is highly probable, I ſhall never be more than that gentleman's correſpondent, yet, during his life, I am ſolemnly deter⯑mined never to admit, or even think of the addreſſes of any other man upon earth. In my unlucky ſitua⯑tion, this may ſound affectedly, but indeed, ſir, it is pure principle; and you cannot give me ſo elegant an inſtance of your friendſhip, as your interceding inſtantly with your ac⯑quaintance to forbear the revival of a matter, that muſt be unſucceſsful.

LETTER LXXIX. CHARLES to H. T. Eſq

I WRITE this letter to you in a place of confinement, to which I was carried, juſt as I was preparing to walk abroad for the firſt time ſince my illneſs. The ſhock has returned upon me a violent fever; by ſome means or other I fainted away in the coach, from ſurprize and weakneſs; and, I now find the dreſ⯑ſing has left my wound, and I am in a great deal of miſery. This is the more unfortunate, as I am re⯑ſolved not to let either Melbank or [66] Charlotte know a ſyllable about my ſituation: I have been already too much obliged by the one, and I cannot bear to be for ever racking the generoſity of the other. How any of my creditors could poſſibly de⯑tect my retreat, ſequeſter'd as it was, and apart from all my former con⯑nections, I cannot gueſs: evident enough it is, I am in priſon, and for a debt of all others the leaſt re⯑collected, becauſe I do not now ſuffer for myſelf, but for having made myſelf fooliſhly anſwerable for the extravagance of another: yet the creditor is a very humane man, and ſome cruel tamperings muſt have been uſed with him, before he could be brought to this meaſure. To en⯑quire, [67] however, into theſe points is abſurd. I am a moſt unfortunate man, and the hand of adverſity is eternally upon me.

Since I came hither, I read your letter upon the ſubject of Charlotte's marriage. Ah! Mr. Templeton, how does ſelf-love ſtand arm'd againſt the welfare of ſocial? But ſickneſs, and acute diſtreſs, hath, perhaps, mended both my heart and my ideas. I can now cooly conſider myſelf as I really am; a man mark'd out from com⯑munity to be eminently miſerable: a young creature, whoſe own family have long confederated againſt him, even till the wiſhes, which could only be ſatisfied with his deſtruction, are [68] compleated. Yes, dear Templeton, I now behold myſelf with an impar⯑tial eye—as a triumph to my ene⯑mies, as an anguiſh to my friends— as a diſtreſs to thoſe who have ever connected themſelves with me. I bluſh to examine this picture of the truth, and the only atonement I can make, is to make a decent retreat from conſcious error at once. In the firſt place, Templeton, let me endeavour, though very late, to do juſtice to Charlotte. A friend of yours, with all the advantages of birth, fortune, virtues, and a genteel profeſſion, will marry her—will lead her by the hand, you ſay, and offer her terms of tenderneſs and honour. It is enough Templeton. I ſee [69] plainly my duty, and I am inſpired by the proſpect of it. Fully con⯑vinced as you are of the gentleman's merit and circumſtances, I ſhall rely upon your judgment, and enquire no more—Pray preſent my compli⯑ments to him, and after you have read, and put a wafer under the incloſed letter, deliver it to him from

LETTER LXXX. CHARLES to Dr. MELBANK.

FINDING myſelf perfectly ſtout, and my wound free from any pain, I have been bold enough to make an excurſion into the country, juſt within reach of the penny-poſt, through whoſe medium I ſend this, and ſhall ſend my fu⯑ture letters to you, and to Charlotte. I hope, by this time, your good ſenſe and good nature have recom⯑mended you to that lady's attention: I even wiſh your ſentiments may have weight with her, becauſe, in that [73] caſe, you may be of ſervice in a matter wherein her fortunes are nearly concerned. To ſpeak plain, Dr. Melbank, an opportunity invites, which ſhould not be neglected: a gentleman of great property, and many amiable qualities, is ſtruck, I find (as indeed he well might be) with the beautiful form of Charlotte. His views are noble: he is well ac⯑quainted with her late connection, and yet his ambition is to make her his lawful wife. Judge how thorough⯑ly I muſt be convinced of the im⯑portance of her inclining to this offer, when I can bring myſelf to deſire you will deliver a letter to her upon the ſubject; a letter, Mr. Melbank, urging her by all the [74] arguments that ariſe out of the caſe, fully contemplated, to accept the hand of another admirer: nay, more; I enjoin you, ſir, as you value the the character of this charming, but injured woman, to ſecond my elo⯑quence by yours, and to ſuggeſt every thing that may incline her to a meaſure ſo auſpicious to her, in every reſpect. I ſend my letter under cover to you, and ſealed, that you may firſt run your eye over it, and ſee the motives of the now re⯑ſigned,

LETTER LXXXI. H. T. Eſq to Dr. MELBANK. (Sent without a ſignature, in a feigned hand.)

THERE is a friend of yours in great diſtreſs at the — priſon. He is ill, and your aſſiſtance, as a ſurgeon, would perhaps be deſireable.

LETTER LXXXII. CHARLES to H. T. Eſq

READ the incloſed, and pity

LETTER LXXXIII. CHARLES to MRS. P.

SINCE the moſt fortunate circum⯑ſtance that ever befel you, next to the marriage with my father, ('twere neceſſary to ſay that I mean his death) I have been ſitting down many times, to write to you; ſome⯑times in the ardour of an honeſt re⯑ſentment, and ſometimes, as a plead⯑ing, neglected child: but I have re⯑mained ſilent, even yet, an left you uncontrouled to the luxury of your [83] good ſucceſs, and of my anxieties. But your conſcience now ſeems quite brought over to your ſide, and I can no longer ſuffer you to triumph, ei⯑ther in the benefit of my inheritance, or in the warm and wicked comforts of a wealthy widowhood—(oh! what a robe of mourning has yours been madam) without trying upon you, the force of truth, and remonſtrance: — without exerting one deſperate experiment upon a heart, which ha⯑bit and nature ſeem impregnantly to have fortified (as if it were the citadel of cruelty) againſt all the artillery of the parent, and of the woman!

[84]The artifice and complottings, by which my deſtruction has been effected, are not unknown to me— How is it, Mrs. P. that you are able to reconcile to yourſelf, at the fore⯑boding age of ſixty-three, actions, of a colour ſo atrocious, that the penitence of your youth upwards were ſcarce ſufficient to wipe away? by what caſuiſtry have you pacified every private monition; and how ſkilful muſt have been that ſophiſtry, by the magic of which, you are ca⯑pable of ſitting compoſed, at the head of a table, which you have ſtolen from your child? but why do I interrogate? 'tis a maxim in mo⯑rality, that a bad woman has no limit to her crimes. You are gone [85] too far to recede; and I have no hope that you will mend in the progreſ⯑ſion, but expect that you muſt ga⯑ther guilt, as you go onward to the grave, till it ſhall be the pleaſure of providence (in mercy to me and mankind) to confine you there.

You accuſe me to your acquaint⯑ance, of wildneſs, and profuſion! 'Tis the wretched, pitiful, pretence of guilt, of private guilt, labouring for a public apology! To lay ſome error to my charge, was neceſſary to ſave you from the aſſaults of your ſex; to palliate a conduct like your's, it was indeſpenſible, to alledge ſome⯑thing againſt me; ſince, to have tormented a child in ſuch a manner, [86] without ſome ſhadow of occaſion, would have argued a temper too monſtrous to have been ranked among women; and the very boys would, in mere vengeance, have ſtoned the inhuman mother. But de⯑pend upon it, the ſick pillow, will be to you a pillow of plagues: your bed, a bed of torture; and every feather there, will prove a thorn to torment you! Is this the language of lunacy? is it the violence of phrenzy? No, madam: faithful to the injuries of its maſter, this vin⯑dictive hand has hitherto confined itſelf to ſentiments of the moſt frigid moderation. From this moment, I cut you away from the inſulted ſen⯑ſibilities of affection: when nature diſ⯑cards [87] you, what claim can you have upon the heart of a ſon? and yet, do not think, I mean to forget you ſo far as to leave you to yourſelf. Believe me, madam, the day of ſuch voluptuouſneſs is paſt; and although you have robbed me of every right which ſhould at leaſt have divided with you the comforts of the world, I will henceforward take care, that you ſhall no more enjoy them, with⯑out the heavieſt tax of indignant re⯑probation.

Your argument with my poor father was always in the ſame ſtyle: "I ſhould ſpend his fortune." With what parental piety have you pro⯑vided againſt this! but even grant⯑ing [88] it had been ſo: had I not on my ſide the claims of nature and of blood? and what were your claims, madam? The claims of a gay, needy woman, who after having been long ſetting in vain, the matrimonial trap, caught in it, at laſt, a gentleman of property: and, by theſe ingenious meaſures, roſe from the indigence of your widowhood, to the dignity of a wife, and, by ſurviving the ſecond huſband—en⯑joyed widowhood again with all its moſt favourable perquiſites. Con⯑ſider your ſhattered fortunes, at the time of your matriculation into my father's family. Did you bring ſix-pence into that family, which you have thus iniquitouſly plundered? are you not ſcorned by the very peo⯑ple, [89] whom the maxims of ſordid courteſy oblige to receive the hated gueſt into company? nay, have not many of theſe openly diſcovered their indignation? has not your brother, the good Mr. S —, of⯑ten ſpoke warmly and diſdainfully againſt the cruelties, which, at once mark and ſtain the character of ſiſter and of chriſtian? has not your uſage to the unhappy writer of this letter, even in the ſoft moment of unoffending infancy, been the re⯑monſtrance of the rich, and the pro⯑verb of the poor? did not your inhu⯑manity "grow with my growth, and ſtrengthen with my ſtrength," till I was three times compelled to find re⯑ſource from the unkindneſs of a mo⯑ther, [90] in the wanderings of the world, and in getting a meal in whatever part of that world I could obtain it? is there a pang, a ſorrow, a diſaſter, or an agony, which, either your arti⯑fice, or open malignancy, has not inflicted upon me? have you not been the topic and the ridicule of the very man — Mr. W —, whom you ordered to exert the ty⯑ranny of the rod over me, at an age, when the birch ought to have been retorted on his own poſteriors? did not this very man, I ſay, point at you from the public pulpit in the the preſence of the Deity; and did not your conſcience take alarm, till it extorted from you a paltry half crown, almoſt the largeſt liberality, I [91] ever had from you? have I not ſtated facts? have I ſtated more? I appeal to an indignant county; I appeal to a large, atteſting, congre⯑gation; was it not alſo amongſt your ſchemes, to ſhip me away for the torrid terrors of Senegal? and was not the very captain—a ſea captain, madam, who had paſſed his life on the rugged boſom of the ocean—too tender, to acquieſce in a ſtratagem, at which (though a woman projected it) the pity of a panther, and the bowels of a bear, might have re⯑volted?

You often ſay in your converſa⯑tion, that "I have loſt my character:" oh! hard of heart! I have ſo: thanks [92] to my own mother. I have not only loſt that, but my health, happineſs, and patrimony! The latter of which you now riot in. What a pity, that you are in the wane! what a pity, that there ſhould be one, who muſt ſoon plunder the plunderer! what a pity, that death muſt in a very few years, defraud the defrauder? theſe, however, I know, are thoughts, you pretend to indulge; you are among thoſe magnanimous characters, that, with Roman fortitude, can bear pain, combat inconvenience, and ſmile at diſſolution: this kind of ſtoiciſm I have heard you boaſt; and it muſt be confeſſed, you are, when in perfect health, a notable heroine. How well you can ſupport poverty with a full [93] purſe! how much more independant and ſtationary you are, than your wicked Son: with a well furniſh'd houſe, and affluent income at com⯑mand? my houſe, madam; my for⯑tune! but pray enjoy them: by the laws of Rapine, they are yours. I can earn the bread of fatigue, while yours is already provided (by your own impiety provided) and much good may ſuch proviſion do you!

You are, I find, as you ever was, ſeconded by that infamous attorney, Mr. J.—, and I dare ſay you have made your ſtory good, among ſuch of your friends, as live at a diſtance from the great ſcene of your ſtrata⯑gems: with them, you are, alas! [94] the beſt, but moſt unfortunate of pa⯑rents; a deſolate widow-woman, for⯑ſooth, who equally mourns, the loſs of her lord, and the wanderings of her child! Oh! force of feminine fraud! execrable, execrable deluſion! where, where, madam, muſt I look for a parallel to you? not in man, ſurely; not in any one of your own ſex, I hope, to heaven! for the Counteſs of Macclesfield herſelf, whoſe in⯑famy, you know, is publiſhed, was merciful and maternal to you. I fear we muſt quit the bounds of this world, in ſearch of the ſimile, and, deſcending into another, find your reſemblance, in the father of fineſſe. It is recorded, you know, madam, of him, and of him only, [95] that he could for his purpoſes, aſ⯑ſume all ſhapes and characters; "make the worſe, appear the bet⯑ter cauſe," and ſometimes roſe even a miniſter of light to determine pre⯑ciſely, whether he was in reality, an angel, or a fiend. There is, however, a uniformity in your cha⯑racter, not unworthy of you: to be complete in crime, is at leaſt, more ingenious, than a half-witted, bungling villainy. You are above being content with your mere vic⯑tory, in the Court of Chancery; and as the magiſtrate did not take care to compel you to preſerve, my poor pittance in reverſion, after you are gone to account, you ſeem reſolved to delay the ſale of the [96] eſtate; and had rather, I perceive, pay away all the hopes I have in the world, in the intereſt of cre⯑ditor's demands, than depoſit the annuity in the funds; leſt, it might be poſſible for your perſecu⯑tion to die with yourſelf. But you are determined, I find, to be con⯑ſiſtent; and are, therefore, taking the only meaſures, which will en⯑able your barbarity to ſurvive the grave.

My exhauſted paper warns me to quit you for the preſent; and I ſhall leave you, madam, to ſup "with what appetite you may," though I am confident your reliſh to it would be keener, were you to [97] know that I have no ſupper to enjoy. In this important particular, how⯑ever, I muſt diſappoint you. My ſenſes are ſtill ſufficient to the pur⯑poſes of common life, even though liberty is taken from me. I have frequently heard you wiſh, that I could neither read nor write. Pre⯑reſolved as you were, to drive me to a dependance on the efforts of writ⯑ing and reading, I ſee nothing pre⯑poſterous in the wiſh. I ſup⯑poſe then, it would give the total finiſh to your exultation, if it ſhould pleaſe the omnipotent to touch the brain. The loſs of my ſenſes would, indeed, be joy to you; and I know not whether your heart would not open wide enough to purchaſe for [98] me the bells, the whip, and ſtrait waiſtcoat, could you at the ſame time purchaſe the delirium, which would make ſuch dreadful furniture neceſſary. But, perhaps, this may never be crouded into the catologue of my calamities: he, who feedeth the ravens, rewards, at leaſt with bread, the efforts of an injured child. Providence will protect thoſe, whom the parent has neglected: when the thoughtleſs oſtrich leaves her egg under the ſand, it is reſcued from the violence of the wave, and is called into being, by the ſun beam. The alluſion is ſtriking, madam. May God give you (though late in life) a ſoul to feel it. Farewell; I will write again ſoon. Your.

P. S. I find, I am to enroll among the catalogue of your maternal in⯑dulgencies, my preſent confinement in the place from which this letter is dated. Had not this laſt ſtroke of barbarity been added to the reſt, I had not even now taken up the re⯑taliating pen: but I have been too long paſſive—you triumph in the ſe⯑verity with which I meet the attacks of calamity, and you have at length extorted from me a reply.

LETTER LXXXIV. Mrs. P. to CHARLES.

YOU have written a very long letter, to a very ſhort purpoſe, ſince it only induces me to exhauſt a very few ſentences upon you, in or⯑der to ſhew, with what a ſincerity I deſpiſe you. Let them laugh, who win: let thoſe who loſe, rave: I have got the eſtate, and ſee no reaſon why I ſhould interrupt the compoſure and luxury it produces, by putting myſelf in a paſſion.

LETTER LXXXV. CHARLES to Mrs. P.

I THANK you, madam, for this laſt blow at my ſenſibility. May it be as effectual as you could poſ⯑ſibly wiſh it! and may the hand that hath ſmitten, have no future oppor⯑tunity to be uplifted, againſt the bleeding heart of

LETTER LXXXVI. CHARLOTTE to H. T. ESQ;

OH! God of heaven, Mr. Tem⯑pleton, what am I to do now? All that I felt before, was lenity to the miſery in which I am at this minute involved. Poor Charles is in a priſon, without money, without health, without a friend! He has ſent a letter to Mr. Melbank, and another to me, diſguiſing his ſitua⯑tion, and adviſing me to accept the hand of ſome other man, whom he [...]s given to underſtand has addreſſed me. It was from Cleora, that I [103] learned his calamity, and that it is occaſioned by the malice, and unna⯑tural ſchemes of the reſtleſs Mrs. P. his mother. I have not ſeen Dr. Melbank ſince I received this killing intelligence; and when I do ſee him, there is a certain circumſtance which makes it highly improper, that I ſhould apply to him, of all the men in the world, for relief. How, Mr. Templeton, how dreadfully is this excellent youth reduced? what a ſoul muſt he poſſeſs to write ſuch generous letters at a criſis ſo de⯑plorable? Perhaps he has had a re⯑turn of his fever—perhaps—indeed, ſir, I am almoſt diſtracted. I dare not go to him, nor can I ſtay away from him. Oh! theſe cruel debts, [104] that are pulling perpetually at his heart-ſtrings! Oh, ſir, what ſtep can I poſſibly take! Almighty God direct me!

LETTER LXXXVII. From the ſame to the ſame.

TO what accumulated indigni⯑ties, does the want of a for⯑tune expoſe me? Soon after I had ſealed my laſt letter to you, I hurried on my things, and walked out into the Park, to meditate on the ſteps I ſhould take in this dilemma. I had not gone more than half the length [105] of the place, before a gentleman ac⯑coſted me by my name, and enquired into the cauſe of that uneaſineſs, which was but too apparent. In the diſorder of my heart, I told him the whole ſtory: I ſoon recollected in this gentleman, one of the many who careſſed Charles for his brilliant ſenſe; and, as he had lately come to ample fortunes, I began to hope I had met the perſon who would aſſiſt in the neceſſary buſineſs. The debt, ſaid I, is but an hundred gui⯑neas: what ſay you? will you conde⯑cend to ſerve a good man, whom you admire? will you exalt yourſelf by en⯑tering a place of confinement? if ſo, go to him: conceal from him by what means you heard of his mis⯑fortune, [106] and may the power that ſees the generoſity, reward it.

He pencil'd down my addreſs, in order, as he ſaid, to acquaint me what he had done, took me kindly by the hand, and bidding me be more chearful, left me. How happy was I, to ſee him walk briſkly down the park! and, when out of ſight, I was ready to drop upon my knee in gratitude to the God, who raiſed up to my poor Charles, ſo able and ſo amiable a protector.

I chearfully went home; where I had not arrived half an hour, before a ſervant, in a livery I recollected, brought me the following card. Oh! [107] Mr. Templeton, why ſhould I be thus inſulted? yet, never tell Charles of it, if you have the leaſt regard to the moſt uphappy

LETTER LXXXVIII. CHARLOTTE to H. T. ESQ;

I HAVE not yet either heard from, or ſeen Dr. Melbank; and the inflexible Charles ceaſes to cor⯑reſpond. Though perſonally divided from this worthy man, I muſt even [110] conſider myſelf as his neareſt and deareſt friend. What then muſt I ſuffer, to ſee myſelf unable to do the leaſt ſervice for him, in the greateſt exigence. I have been to five of thoſe men, who advertiſe to lend money on annuities: my poor pittance is ſo ſtrangely bequeath'd, that I cannot poſſibly diſpoſe of it. I fully know your circumſcribed ſituation; I have ſent every thing of value I could poſſibly collect to be pledged, and the utmoſt I can raiſe is fifty-two pounds. Cleora refuſes to tell me the name and addreſs of the creditor, or elſe, I might, per⯑haps, compromiſe the debt — oh! heavens, Mr. Templeton, I am this moment ſtruck with a thought which [111] may prove propitious. I will put it inſtantly in practice.

LETTER LXXXIX. CHARLOTTE to CLEORA.

MONEY, which Charles lent, is very unexpectedly paid into my hands by the borrower, and I incloſe a note to the amount of it. Charles's preſent ſituation may per⯑haps be greatly alleviated by ſo [112] trifling a ſum as fifty pounds; at leaſt he will be glad to find, one of the many people he has obliged, turns out grateful: but, I am perſuaded, he would receive this ſupply with double pleaſure at the hand of Cleora. There are certain diſguiſes which are really virtuous, upon account of their motives: ah! that I could prevail upon Cleora to pay Charles an im⯑mediate viſit, and offer him the fifty pounds, as ſo much raiſed upon her by the ſecurity of her marriage ſettle⯑ment: in ſuch a deluſion there could be no criminality; for he does not yet look for the payment: at the ſame time, it might have ſuch an affect upon Charles's heart, that a perfect reconciliation might be the [113] conſequence. Let this be as it will, I ſeal up the ſum, and leave the me⯑thod of conveyance to your direc⯑tion.

LETTER XC. CHARLOTTE to CHARLES. (After Cleora declined to ſend the money from motives of not inter⯑fering.)

CRUEL as you are with your concealments, I have heard of your misfortune. In proſperity, [114] Charles, I could forgive you for deſerting me, but to drop my cor⯑reſpendence in your diſtreſs—how could you be ſo inhuman?—Though I flatter myſelf you are ſtill a lover of juſtice, and, if ſo, you will not ſcruple to receive what accompanies this letter, which is at preſent of no ſervice to me, and may be of ſome to you. You will recollect, Charles, that I did not refuſe your addreſs, on a ſimilar ſubject, and I have, therefore, a right to expect you will not refuſe mine. —Ah! Charles, do not at ſuch a time reject my friendſhip:—do not deſpiſe and caſt off my attentions, when they ought to be ten times doubled. Re⯑member what I ſay to you, and fare⯑well,

LETTER XCI. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.

OH! my dear, dear friend, I am oppreſſed—I labour— I am bowed to the very earth with with the weight of various obliga⯑tions—I am almoſt ready to execrate the deſtiny that makes it neceſſary for for me to receive them—had my hard-hearted mother permitted my father to follow the feelings, which nature generally annexes to the pa⯑ternal character, I had then been able to confer benefits, inſtead of receiving them. I might then have ſought out merit, diffidence, and undiſtinguiſhed [116] virtue, from the barren vale of obſcu⯑rity. Inſtead of which, I am con⯑demned to be myſelf the object of benevolence:—how, madam,—how is a ſoul like mine to ſupport the bur⯑den of perpetual favours? that they are delicately beſtowed, is an aggrava⯑tion. I feel them, Charlotte—I am conſcious of them, and they enter into my ſoul.

This is the preamble to a tranſ⯑action, of which I ought, perhaps, to bluſh. I am at liberty—I am free—my debt is wholly diſcharged —your letter was delivered to me on the outſide of the priſon door — I was juſt ſtepping into the coach that carried me to my old apart⯑emnts; [117] —my protector was leaning upon my arm.

Ah! Charlotte—ſuch a friend— Whom do you think capable of ſuch things? to whom is Charles in⯑debted for his liberty? it is not to be conjectured — Know then that he who ſo lately ſaved my life by his ſkill, hath now ſaved my freedom by his generoſity—Let the name of Melbank be carried upon the roſy wing of gratitude, to the heaven of heavens. I fold up his letter upon the ſubject: give it your tears, Char⯑lotte — give the author of it your adoration—but pity, I charge you to pity, the inſignificance of

LETTER XCII. Dr. MELBANK's letter to CHARLES.

A FRIEND of mine, of the tribe of Iſrael, has offered to lend you a ſum of five hundred pounds upon the reverſion. He has been with me this morning, and upon terms, (moderate enough for a Jew) agrees to furniſh the money. As this kind of brokerage buſineſs is generally kept a ſecret, I think you had better not mention it to any un⯑concerned perſon: by which means the matter may be privately ma⯑naged, and nobody the wiſer.

LETTER XCIII. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.

THE matter of raiſing money on my reverſion is all fineſſe. It is all a trick of the unparalelled Melbank's, who wanted to deceive me into a notion, that I was making uſe of my own property. I wiſh to heaven we could all meet over a diſh of tea, and that you would both give me an opportunity to proſtrate my⯑ſelf in the preſence of each other. Let me deliver your bank-bill with my own hand—

LETTER XCIV. CHARLOTTE to CHARLES.

MELBANK, is too great for the compliment of com⯑mon language. He dines with me to-morrow—are you diſengaged—? dare you truſt your heart—? Dr. Melbank ſays there is no fear —The dinner will be ready at three o'clock.

LETTER XCV. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.

I AM to be truſted—Love yields the laurel to gratitude.

LETTER XCVI. CHARLOTTE to Dr. MELBANK.

I HAVE written the invitation you deſired, with a trembling hand.—He will come!

'Tis within a few hours of the ap⯑pointment.— The clock is now ſtriking twelve: every ſtroke vibrates on my heart—every ſtroke is more than a ſecond nearer to the time. Gracious God! Cleora is this minute paſſing by my window—ſhe kiſſes her hand in compliment—I have [122] not the courage to call her up.—She goes on.—She is out of ſight.

I will this inſtant forbid him.— He ſhall not, Dr. Melbank—he muſt not come.—I am feelingly per⯑ſuaded of the conſequences, and I— muſt—prevent them.

Adieu.

LETTER XCVII. Dr. MELBANK to CHARLOTTE.

I AM not very well, and yet I will be with you in ten minutes. You have nothing to apprehend: all will be as it ſhould be.

LETTER XCVIII. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.

SOMETHING has hap⯑pened, that prevents me the pleaſure of dining with you; I am, therefore, obliged to ſend that in a letter, which I at firſt deſigned to deliver perſonally. I expect the favor of a viſit from Dr. Melbank in the evening.

LETTER XCIX. H. T. Eſq to CHARLES. (Received before the above letter was ſent.)

AFTER having congratu⯑lated you on the recovery of your liberty, and on the acquiſition of Dr. M—'s friendſhip, I muſt inform you, that you are more o⯑bliged to that gentleman, than you can at preſent imagine. It is a duty I owe both to him and to you, to in⯑form you of what I know concerning the matter. Dr. Melbank, Charles, [127] is the very man, who applied to me on the ſubject of Charlotte's mar⯑riage—Dr. Melbank it is, who would lay himſelf, and his fortunes at her feet, before the altar: he it is, who can ſtifle his own paſſion, in pity to yours: he it is, who can ſerve the man that ſtands in the way of his tendereſt wiſhes.

Now, Charles — now is your time.—Are you equal to an exalted action?—have you an ambition that ſcorns to be vanquiſhed?—can you really practiſe the precepts, and the ſentiments, expreſſed in the letter you deſired me to deliver to the gentleman who courted Charlotte upon terms of honour? if you can do all theſe [128] great things, this is the critical mo⯑ment: this is the golden opportu⯑nity.—You know what would exalt your character — you know what will ſink the ſcale of obligations, diſagreeable to the dignity of Charles's ambition. Conſcious of your vir⯑tue, I will never ſpeak or write another line on the affair, but will leave the noble heart to its natural operations.

LETTER C. Dr. MELBANK to CHARLES.

IN compliance with your whim, we have dined without you; but our tea will want its ſocial flavour, and be totally inſipid, if not inſpirited by your company. The kettle is boiling with expectation.

LETTER CI. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.

WHY, why did you ſuffer me to ſee you—why, after I had ſent an apology, did you throw the temptation a ſecond time in my way?—I ſaw you at the tea-table— you trembled as I came into the room!—what a vermilion covered your face!—by what a death-like paleneſs was it ſucceeded—how un⯑lucky was Melbank's departure!— how fatal the illneſs that occaſioned it!—Why were we left alone?— why, after ſuch an abſence, were [131] we permitted to be in the ſame cham⯑ber together? You were cruel enough not to draw away your hand as I took it—your reſiſtance, was a more than half invitation—I carried it to the boſom, againſt which the heart was violently beating, and you did but faintly frown — the arm that I claſped round your neck, brought me within reach of your lips, and in⯑ſtead of throwing me away from the preſſure, you permitted me to kiſs them twice. Had not I at that mo⯑ment brought Templeton's letter out of my pocket — what might have been the conſequence? I bow re⯑verently to the guardian Deity that ſaved us both.

[132]Charlotte, we muſt meet no more— I give you to the only man in the world that deſerves you. You ſay, he cannot ſpeak upon the ſubject.— No matter for that—His delicacy ſhould emulate ours. Every princi⯑ple that ought to actuate man and woman, demands that we ſhould make the ſacrifice to his happineſs, mutually. He loves you unbound⯑edly.—His honour only, can exceed his paſſion.—He has thrown our ge⯑neroſity beyond all diſtance. There is but one way upon earth to get again within ſight of him. Severe, I perceive, will be the martyrdom on both ſides.—Ah, Charlotte, we have deceived ourſelves.—Our affection is [133] more tenderly animated than it ever was—it was in yeſterday's interview more palpable, than at any former period?—it glowed in our cheeks— it ſhone in our eyes—it ſtreamed in our tears—it panted in our hearts— what of that?—the duty is propor⯑tioned to the danger: were we ten times dearer—if alas! that were poſ⯑ſible, I am perfectly ſatisfied, we ought to ſubmit. Who ſaved the life of Charles, but Melbank? who brought him by the hand out of a priſon, but Melbank? what does he require in exchange for all this? he requires nothing: but, if circum⯑ſtances favoured, he would make Charlotte the wife of his heart, his hand, and his fortune—what bene⯑fits [134] would reſult from that connec⯑tion? all that we ought to deſire: the felicity of the nobleſt character of God —an honeſt man; with riches, ſplendor, faſhion, elegance in the train. You cannot love him—admit it: he cannot expect it at preſent. But ſtill, you eſteem, you venerate, you admire. His paſſion preys upon his health—I ſee it in his ſudden pale⯑neſs—I ſee it in his counterfeited ſpirits—I am ſo abundantly obliged, Charlotte, that I ſhall die—I ſhall die with confuſion, if I am not by ſome means able to make a return. One great opportunity courts me. I can yield to him the object of my adoration—I can yield her in the bloom of beauty—in the warmeſt [135] ardours of my affection. Yes, Char⯑lotte, I can, in this caſe reſign you, though I were to expire in the effort. God knows how my heart will bear it, but Charlotte—I will bear it, and have even ſtill intrepidity enough to bid you imitate

LETTER CII. From the ſame to H. T. Eſq

WERE I not fully reſolved to do juſtice to the advice of of your letter, I ſhould want the courage to anſwer it. But, coſt what it will, you may depend upon the gratitude of

LETTER CIII. CHARLOTTE to CHARLES.

I AM a very wretched woman, Charles, and know not to what fate I am reſerved! never ſure, was any one in ſo intricate an embarraſſ⯑ment. Upon one condition, how⯑ever, I will make the ſacrifice you deſire, even though the loſs of my ſenſes ſhould enſue. Ah! my friend, what an [...]gonizing trial do you put me to! ſtill I repeat it to you, if Charles will make one great offering to generoſity, another ſhall imme⯑diately be made by

LETTER CIV. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.

SENSIBLY touched as I now am, there can be no condition with which I ſhall not acquieſce, to to promote the honour of Charlotte, and the happineſs of Mr. Melbank, who manifeſtly avoids me, leſt his tenderneſs for you, and friendſhip for me, ſhould betray him into an explanation. Make your own terms: they ſhall be adopted by

LETTER CV. CHARLOTTE to CHARLES.

GIVE your hand to her, who has lawfully a right to it, and I will preſent mine to Mr. Melbank when he ſolicits it.

LETTER CVI. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.

CAN nothing leſs than ſuch a circumſtance ſatisfy you? how⯑ever, to ſhew you how far I can go to perform what is dictated by conſcience, I comply.

LETTER CVII. CHARLES to CLEORA.

SUPPOSING all paſt actions obliviated, have you any parti⯑ality for

LETTER CVIII. CLEORA to CHARLES.

I THANK you, ſir, more for the hundred pounds you deſired Dr. Melbank to pay me, than for the offer of your hand, which for many delicate reaſons, is not acceptable to

LETTER CIX. Dr. MELBANK to H. T. Eſq

YES, Mr. Templeton, I will go through what I have begun, or periſh in the attempt.—I am not, however, boaſter enough, to pretend that my heart is ſerene. Oh, Sir, it is torn almoſt to pieces. I feel my affection for Charlotte, and my admi⯑ration for Charles, increaſe upon me every hour. I have ſeen them both together, in the ſame room, and the ſtruggles they had, to conceal their agitation from a third perſon, broke [141] through all diſguiſes.—Never did I be⯑hold ſuch a ſcene—I could not ſupport it, but withdrew, and left the lovers to themſelves. Wretched as I am, I deplore the misfortune that keeps them aſunder, and, though it may ſound like romance, I would do much to promote their happineſs. Nay, I will do every thing within my power. 'Tis, in my opinion, a baſe action to divide them—ſhould Charlotte even yield to my propoſals, upon a re-appli⯑cation of them, what would be the con⯑ſequence? I ſhould poſſeſs a woman's hand without all her heart. I ſhould greatly add to the miſeries of a man, already too much opreſſed.—I cannot bear the thought—I ſhudder at it, Mr. Templeton. No, Sir,—let me not [142] take an undue advantage of the cala⯑mity that called me into the fa⯑mily. — It cannot be —I foreſee the horrors it will heap upon two pre-poſſeſſed hearts.—They labour at in⯑difference, and they diſcover attach⯑ment.—I will avoid both.—Some would ſmile at a man, on the wrong ſide of thirty, being thus conquered, by a tenderneſs, they would pardon only in eighteen. But frigid tem⯑pers, are no proper judges of more ſoft and pathetic conſtitutions.— That I do love Charlotte, is, alas, too fatally true! but my affection ſhall not ſeduce me into a meanneſs, un⯑worthy of

LETTER CX. CHARLES to Dr. MELBANK.

VERY long, and very anxi⯑ouſly, have I waited for you: I want to conſult you upon a point, not to be truſted to paper, or the poſt— but, what will, I know, weigh more with you than all the reſt. I want to lay myſelf under another obliga⯑tion to you.

LETTER CXI. The ſame to the ſame.

I AM ſorry to inform you, dear Dr. Melbank, the wound in my breaſt is broke out again, and de⯑mands your immediate aſſiſtance.

LETTER CXII. Dr. MELBANK to CHARLES.

TOO generous, too amiable, Charles, how could you in⯑vent a ſtratagem, that you knew I could not ſuſpect, or reſiſt yielding to, in order to betray me into the interview, I had, with ſo cautious an officiouſneſs, avoided. 'Twas a virtue that verged upon barbarity. Every one of your arguments, how⯑ever, convince me, that I ought not to proceed—Charlotte, you ſay, will make me happy—ſhe will conci⯑liate the general joy, by ſubmitting [145] to my wiſhes. How, Charles, can that be called a general joy, which would produce general infelicity?— ſhe would ſubmit—it may be ſo—the more angel ſhe — But who could, under ſuch circumſtances, be baſe enough to ſuffer the ſubmiſſion? it can never be. I ſee my duty, and cannot ſuffer even the moſt eloquent paſſion—not the perſua⯑ſive, all-ſubduing voice of love— to lead me from it.

I will give my young man proper inſtructions as to your wound,

LETTER CXIII. CHARLOTTE to CHARLES.

HOW much am I reſtored to my ſerenity, by the receipt of a letter, which I incloſe, from the noble-minded Dr. Melbank. With regard to Cleora's refuſal of your hand, I have only to ob⯑ſerve, that I have done my duty, and you have done yours: let that, my dear friend, be a great ſa⯑tisfaction to us both. The worſt is paſt; Dr. Melbank is ſatisfied— Cleora is ſupplied with money— Charles is at liberty, and Charlotte will ſoon acquire ſufficient ſerenity to write to him — but you ſhall no longer be detained from the letter which has put me in ſpirits—

LETTER CXIV. Dr. MELBANK to CHARLOTTE. (Incloſed to Charles.)

IF you can forgive me for having tried, by a ſplendid propoſal, to wean you from the affection you bear, and ever ought to bear to Charles, I may ſtill expect your friendſhip, though I tell you that I would not now marry you for the uniting Indies; you have given my heart ſome pangs, and I have richly deſerved them; for I ſhould have held ſacred the friendſhip betwixt you and Charles.—In my [148] more ſerious opinion, formed as it now is, on deliberation, I think you ſhould not go to the altar with a mo⯑narch. The ſcenes, which I find you have both been engaged in, muſt have eſtabliſhed a tenderneſs not to be conquered. If fortune ever fa⯑vours, you will ſanctify your mutual paſſion, by a public teſtimony: if it ſhould not, I can ſcarce think either of you at liberty, conſcientiouſly ſpeaking, to enter into other engage⯑ments. I am leaving London for ſome weeks, but at my return I ſhall certainly enquire after the amiable correſpondents. Mean time,

LETTER CXV. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.

MELBANK, is like one of thoſe glorious phoenomena which awes us weaker, and more imperfect mortals, into ſilence. He reaches the reſolution of Charlotte, and throws out of ſight the fortitude and dignity of Charles. As the poet therefore ſays of the deity, I ſay of Dr. Melbank.

[150]He is too great to talk about; let us content ourſelves with thinking of him.

I find Charlotte, we muſt not in⯑dulge ourſelves in any more inter⯑views—they are treacherous—they betray us. Let us endeavour to be contented with our uſual pleaſures of correſponding: let us follow ſtrictly the advice of our friend. I am weak enough to confeſs to you, that I am more rejoiced at Dr. M—'s noble conqueſt over himſelf, than at any thing I ever felt ſince my exiſtence. Had he married you—had he doubled my obſtacles—had he taken you for ever from me—or had the cruel cer⯑tainty [151] of your being wife to another attended me—God knows, how I ſhould have ſupported it.

All his generoſity—even though he had thrown his whole fortune into my lap—would have ſhrunk before me; and ſuch is the inconſiſtence of a tender heart —although I was my⯑ſelf the propoſer and promoter of the union, had it been carried into exe⯑cution, I believe I ſhould have hated him, and hang'd myſelf. But as it is, I could build churches, and erect monuments to his memory: he has ſaved me from deſperation: he has made me able to bear Charlotte's ab⯑ſence. While I know that ſhe is not connected with another, I can bear to [152] live without her ſociety. I am happy to hear conſtantly that ſhe is well, that ſhe attends to her intellectual im⯑provements—that ſhe will often read my letters, and employ herſelf in the innocent taſk of writing anſwers. All theſe things were, I own, very lately, conſidered as too little—but adverſity brings us to a proper ſenſe of rational bleſſings; and the proſpect of ever⯑laſtingly loſing the tenderneſs of Char⯑lotte, has made me ſatisfied with that, which at preſent ought to ſatisfy me. My ſituation indeed, appears, upon reflection, to be much more ſupport⯑able, than I at firſt imagined! how much ſeverer might it have been rendered, by either your marriage or your death! let me endeavour to [153] procure comfort from compariſon. We are both happier than thouſands —I have at this minute an inſtance in my eye to juſtify this, and, as I am ſure it will ſerve to make us both more reconciled, I will, in my next letter, communicate it to you,

LETTER CXVI. From the ſame to the ſame.

WHILE I was at the houſe of the ſheriffs officer, Charlotte, an adventure ſtruck me ſo forcibly that it would be barbarous to refuſe [154] (to ſo tender a heart as your's) the recital of it; eſpecially as it will ſhew you, that there are agonies in life, compared to which, ours are tranſient and trifling. In mourning our own calamities and diſappoint⯑ments, let us not too ſelfiſhly forget the calamity of others; but where (as in the following caſe) we ſee wretched⯑neſs exceeding our own, let us re⯑member, that, not to be the moſt miſerable, is at leaſt one ſource of contentment; and inſtead of mur⯑muring, we ought to ſympathize.

Soon after I was arreſted by Mr. Trap, and conveyed to his houſe, I beheld a young man ſitting in a very penſive poſture, reſting his cheek up⯑on [155] one hand, and holding a pen in the other. He was not at all diſ⯑concerted at my being brought in, but ſmothered the ſighs as well as he was able, and began to write. "There's more ſtuff in the office, maſter, ſaid a fellow that now en⯑tered the room—there's two or three more of the roe and doe family come to viſit you—it is a ſad thing to be ſure, but, howſomdever, you ſhall not go over the water to-night; you are every inch a Gemmun, I will ſay that, and you ſpend your money like a prince. No, no, God forbid I ſhould carry any Gemmun out of my houſe while he behaves as ſuch; ſo ſit ſtill, for you ſhan't go to jail till to-morrow."

[156]Upon this Charlotte, the poor young man looked up, diſcovered his eyes ſwimming in tears, drew a handkerchief out of his pocket, and put it over his face.

Having a little recovered himſelf, he took up the pen again, and juſt as he was applying it to the paper, his features aſſumed ſomething of conſolation: but this again, was pre⯑ſently daſhed by the appearance of the bailiff's wife, although, to do her juſtice, ſhe was a very obliging woman.

There are ſome meſſages, you know, ſo diſpleaſing in their own nature, or at leaſt rendered [157] ſo by the peculiar circumſtances which introduce them, that they would ſeem diſguſting, though they were to be delivered by the lips of the graces.

Mrs. Trap therefore, was as gra⯑cious as it is poſſible for any one to be, who preſents a bill that requires to be diſcharged on the ſpot. Her harangue was to the following ef⯑fect.

She was very ſorry to trouble him, but it was a rule. It made all things, on all ſides eaſy:—ſcores, were ſcores; ſhort reckonings made long friend⯑ſhips—gentlemen were here to-day, and gone to-morrow; and therefore [158] ſhe hoped he would not be offended at the cuſtoms of the houſe.

Here, Charlotte, the priſoner took his hand from his pocket, from whence flew one ſolitary guinea, and he proteſted to God, that if the fifti⯑eth part of that ſum more, would purchaſe him a paſſport to paradiſe, he could not raiſe it.

I was, ſoon after this declaration, left alone with my fellow priſoner, who, ſtill preſerving an air of dejec⯑tion, addreſſed me, as you will find it recited in my next letter.

LETTER CXVII. From the ſame to the ſame.

WHY ſhould you deſpair, ſir, ſaid I? becauſe, replied Mr. Reynolds, my condition is on all ſides deſperate: beſides that I have no money, I have no friends to procure it, nor any means or health to ac⯑quire it by: you, ſir, are, no doubt, brought here by ſome misfortune, but God forbid you ſhould match in miſery the moſt unhappy man that is now ſpeaking.

[160]Poor as I was Charlotte, and deſ⯑titute both of fortune and happineſs, I put my hand into my purſe, which being perceived by Reynolds, he waved his hand in token of diſappro⯑bation, and, with ſwimming eyes, ex⯑claimed, pray take your hand from your purſe, ſir—I beſeech you to take it away—I am reſign'd—I bow me to the burden of my fortunes—money cannot, you know, Sir, medicine to a mind diſeaſed—not the fortune of the Eaſt collected, could reſtore me to my tranquility.

I beg, Mr. Reynolds, ſaid I, that we may paſs the remainder of our [161] evening together without interrup⯑tion: as we are united by a ſimilar misfortune let us make it a ſocial one. My fate, like yours, is not to be al⯑leviated by money, yet let us, for this one night, live in the hope that the morning may bring comfort on her wings.

You are very polite, and propoſe what would be extremely agreeable, Sir, ſaid Mr. Reynolds—but really— really—I—I—I—.

Here Charlotte, he began to re⯑examine, and ſhake his pockets.

Oh fie, fie Sir, ſaid I.

[162]I went out, and ordered (agree⯑ble to the ſlender ſtate of my finan⯑ces, and with a prudent recollection of the charges of the houſe) a com⯑fortable ſupper. At my return, poor Mr. Reynolds was weeping over a letter, that, by the evidence of ſeve⯑ral places much worn, and a variety of foldings, appeared to have been the frequent ſubject of dear and ſoli⯑tary meditation. After he had read it, he preſſed it to his heart, and kiſſed it; he looked ſteadily at me, and, think⯑ing the ſentiments would ſpeak beſt for themſelves, put it into my hand, without uttering a ſyllable.

As I know, my lovely correſpond⯑ent Charlotte, does not poſſeſs a heart [163] like that invulnerable piece of rock which lies putrifying in the boſom of Mr. Timothy Trap; as I know, on the contrary, ſhe can pity the ſor⯑rows that even ſurpaſs her own, I will oblige her with a tranſcript of of the contents of the letter, which the priſoner truſted to my peruſal.

I ſhed, my Charlotte, over this epiſtle, the tears of ſenſibility: it was written in a faint hand, the words ſcarce legible, and every ſyllable ſpoke the diſorder of the unfortunate writer. When I returned it to Mr. Reynolds he kiſſed it as before, fold⯑ed it up as a miſer would have folded a bank bill of a thouſand pounds, ſurveyed it on all ſides with the great⯑eſt [166] tenderneſs, and then depoſited it in a little box of ebony.

So heaven befriend me Sir, ſaid he, as he put up the box, I would not part with this to be reſtored to all the fortune I had a right to inherit. No barbarous mother! no, inhuman parent, this you cannot take from me: of this ineſtimable relique you cannot rob me: this is a treaſure your child can call his own, in defiance of all your artifices. I thank the great and good God, for the bleſſing—oh that I could find an honeſt man who would lay it upon my boſom when I enter the grave, for which I have long moſt pathetically petitioned.

[167]Mr. Reynolds, ſaid I, you ſee that friend now before, you, ſhould I ſurvive, and if not, I would recom⯑mend that office to a dear and faith⯑ful woman who would not neglect it.

I had ſcarce finiſhed this promiſe, before Reynolds was upon his knees, and gave me, as he roſe, with his hands claſping mine, ſuch a look of acknowledgment, that I felt enter into my heart.

And is there then, ſaid I, is there another Mrs. P.—and was there ever another Charlotte? did Mr. Reynolds call the one his wife, and and the other his mother? if ſo— you have ſtill reaſon to be contented [168] Mr. Reynolds: the bleſſed ſociety of ſuch a wife, is more than a balance for the curſes, keen as they are, of ſuch a mother.

Bleſſed ſociety, returned Mr. Rey⯑nolds, yes, Sir, her's was a bleſſed ſociety: horrible as was the death ſhe died, the life ſhe lived might atone even for the crime of ſelf deſtruction. She was eleven years Sir by my ſide, during which time we were never in proſperity, and yet—ſuch was the charm that mutually bound us—we threw adverſity into deſpair—ſhe was my wife upon earth—ſhe is an angel in heaven. If you Sir have got the counterpart of her, do not talk of pains, or priſons, or penalties—if [169] there is not ſomething wrong in your heart—it muſt be happy.

Upon this, Charlotte, I ran over the heads of my hiſtory, at which even with the ſoftneſs of a Deſdemona, he wept particularly at ſuch parts as re⯑lated to my mother's barbarity, and my Charlotte's kindneſs—(I did not men⯑tion Cleora by name) and, after I ‘He gave me for my pains a world of ſighs’ had ended, he promiſed to reward me with a ſcene or two from his own diſaſterous volume.

[170]But the recital of this muſt be re⯑ſerved to a future opportunity. I am this inſtant ſummoned upon in⯑diſpenſible buſineſs. Pity Reynolds, and pray for

LETTER CXXVII. Dr. MELBANK to H. T. Eſq

TEN days have I taken to compoſe an agitated, and, I had almoſt ſaid, infatuated mind. I have engaged myſelf with unuſual aſſiduity in the buſineſs of my pro⯑feſſion—I have read—I have written —I have idled, I have toiled.— [171] Alas, Mr. Templeton, I am aſhamed at my progreſs, or rather at my hav⯑ing made no progreſs at all.

I am ſtill a ſlave to my paſſions— this charming woman, pre-engaged as ſhe is, ſtill crouds on my imagi⯑nation—I have baniſhed myſelf from her ſight, and yet I ſee her: I have pretended an abſence from town on purpoſe to avoid all formal commu⯑nication,—yet, notwithſtanding all this, I bluſh to tell you, I am a very miſerable man. My friends perceive the effect in my looks, without know⯑ing the cauſe—the cauſe I dare not mention, leſt I deſervedly become the object of ridicule. You have, dear Mr. Templeton, a gentle heart, [172] and it is ſome pleaſure to correſpond with you: Charlotte paſſed the other morning by my door, as it is uſual with her, in her way to the park, and ſhe called to know of my ſervant (ſuppoſing me to be out of town) whether I was well, when ſhe laſt heard from me, and when I was ex⯑pected to return. Happy was it for me that I had pre-inſtructed my ſer⯑vant in caſe of enquiry. An inter⯑view at ſuch a criſis, would have cer⯑tainly, deſtroyed all my better reſolu⯑tions: and yet as ſhe went from the door, as I was in the ſtreet parlour, I could not avoid going to the win⯑dow: the blinds favour'd me. I ſaw her depart—ſhe was dreſs'd by the hand of Hebe, and, in my opinion, [173] more beautiful than ever. I heard her ſweet and tuneful voice leave her beſt compliments for Dr. Melbank: the ſound thrilled my ſoul. I was ſtrongly inclined to open the door that led to the entry where ſhe ſtood. I got up—took hold of the door handle—drew it—ſet it on the jar— every word ſhe uttered was more diſ⯑tinct—"She cordially hoped I was quite well—ſhould be exceedingly glad to ſee me upon my return to town—and deſired her moſt affectio⯑nate compliments might be tranſ⯑mitted."

Oh Mr. Templeton, had ſhe ſtaid another minute, I ſhould have diſ⯑covered [174] myſelf and my infirmity.

Adieu: Pray for the returning reaſon of your

LETTER CXXVIII. Mrs. P.—to CLEORA.

CHARLES, I find, is out of pri⯑ſon, chiefly through the means of Charlotte, who has contrived to raiſe him up a friend in the extrava⯑gance of one Dr. Melbank. No doubt the woman buys this man's friendſhip, at a pretty dear rate: however, Charles is mean enough to [175] accept of a favour by whatever means it is procured; and as you have no⯑thing to expect from his generoſity, I would adviſe you to threaten him with putting ſome other of his credi⯑tors in purſuit of him; thus, perhaps, you may extort through fears, what yout cannot obtain through a ſenſe of duty.

LETTER CXXIX. The anſwer from Cleora.

I Can never adopt the meaſures you adviſe, to oppreſs Charles, it would only put it more out of his power to befriend me in point of money mat⯑ters. He gives me from time to time as much as his circumſtances admit, though I am not ſure, if the preſents be not chiefly made at the inſtance of Charlotte. I perceive it is a vain endeavour to diſunite them. They ſtill love, and ſtill correſpond.

LETTER CXXX. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.

LONG as it is, I make no apo⯑logy, Charlotte, but expect many thanks for giving you, as related by himſelf,

To Mr. MEADOWS, Bookſeller, Paternoſter-Row.

MY wants are extreme: the opportunities of ſupplying them, are few. The greateſt part of thoſe wants have been brought about by misfortune: I have this day a bill coming due for houſe rent; or I ſhould rather have ſaid room-rent. Will you this once advance a ſingle guinea, to prevent, the unhappy con⯑ſequences.

Mr. Meadows returned by the bearer, this ſhort and laconic re⯑ply.

Upon the receipt of this audacious letter, I thought my reaſon would have left me. I threatened venge⯑ance [190] on the barbarous writer. Oh Sir, hear the circumſtances that at⯑tended it. I had many misfortunes, and many debts upon me. I dared not venture abroad till the ſhades of the night befriended me. I ſold the la⯑bours of my pen to this fellow, on his own terms, and I had entruſted him with the knowledge of my abode that I might correct what are called the proof ſheets, as they come from the preſs: the wretch knew at what an advantage he took me, and that he might ſay almoſt any thing with impunity. But, oh Sir, what villany could exceed his inſult at ſuch a time —by a fellow too with whom I had ſcrupulouſly fulfilled every engage⯑ment, and who knew not a ſyllable [191] of me or of my affairs, but from the vague breath of partial or vulgar re⯑port.

I did not however, anſwer his im⯑pudent letter, but cruſhed it in my hand, and to prevent its being ſeen by the too cruel and ſympathizing Lucia, threw it into the fire.

Diſdaining to work any more in the ſervice of Meadows, I ſought out a new talk-maſter; I left the manage⯑ment of the remainder of the two and twenty pence to Lucia, and began my ſearch. I at length made myſelf known to one, little celebrated, but very buſy, and was directly to begin a new family bible, by a certain Dean [192] and a ſociety of clergymen—my new maſter had juſt dined, and as the cloth was removing, I ſuppoſe he ſaw me look ſomewhat wiſhingly. He was very much addicted to wit, and thus facetiouſly began to interrogate.

"What, I warrant me now, you eat as well as I—that is, begging your pardon, you would if you could! ten to one but you drink too—eh? what a pity it is you ſcribere-cum-daſho gen⯑try ſhould be peſtered with thoſe plaguy paſſions, and hankerings after meat, drink and cloathing. Zounds! if I was an author— I would live like the ^* camel on my own idearers. Oh d—m—e you [193] you a'n't half an author yet—well, come, ſince thee haſt ſuch curſes upon thee, thee canſt not help 'em—ſo, here, Suſan, Suſan, (he went to the door of the kitchen ſtairs) bring up the beef bones, here's one of my authors a hungry, as uſual—bring up alſo Suſan, the ſuety pudding that was too little boiled a ſunday, and the broth that your miſtreſs ſaid taſt⯑ed of the copper, and all the bits of broken bread that you can find, and make haſte. Damme maſter author, I am better than a father to you, even before you have written a ſingle ſyllable.

Better than a mother Sir, ſaid I, you aſſuredly are; and then the tears [194] ſprang into my fooliſh eyes, as I com⯑pared the delicate dinner that I ſup⯑poſed ſhe then might be eating, to the bare bones, ſtale pudding, coppery broth, and broken bread, that Suſan was now going to place before me. However, as I was never quite ſo hungry ſince I was born, and as I knew my ever dear Lucia had ſuffi⯑cient for a frugal meal, I never eat a more hearty meal, or bleſſed heaven with more ſincerity, that a meal (though coarſe) was beſtowed at all.

When Mr. Reynolds had finiſhed the laſt ſentence, Charlotte, the bai⯑liff's ſervant brought in the ſupper, and his hiſtory was ſuſpended. You [195] muſt therefore ſuſpend your curioſity, till I can recollect the remainder of this moſt intereſting narrative.

LETTER CXXI. From the ſame to the ſame. The hiſtory of Mr. Reynolds con⯑cluded.

WHEN ſupper was over, and I had perſuaded Mr. Rey⯑nolds to drink a glaſs of wine, he proceeded in this manner.

[196]In the midſt of this literary labour and indigence, a relation of Lucia's died, and bequeathed her the ſum of two hundred pounds. This was a delicious windfall, and I received it in bank bills a month after the per⯑ſons deceaſe: violent, and immediate tranſitions however, are undeſirable and dangerous: the leap, from po⯑verty to plenty is truly alarming, and many a man's head turns giddy in making it. Such was the preſent caſe. I had no ſooner got this pre⯑cious treaſure in my hands, than I gave a looſe to imagination. As it was Lucia's money, I could not bear the idea of uſing it for my purpoſes. I conſidered the poor hut in which that excellent creature reſided, as un⯑worthy [197] ſuch an inhabitant, and there⯑fore, immediately, and unknown to her, I took two little neat apartments, and furniſhed them to—what I knew to be her taſte—I reflected upon the forlorn ſtate of her wardrobe, and I repaired it by ſilks, laces, linens, &c. to the amount of almoſt one of the hundred pounds — with theſe pur⯑chaſes, which I made from time to time in the courſe of the firſt week, I, at a proper period, made Lucia ac⯑quainted, and the dear creature Sir was almoſt ready to faint at the tid⯑ings. She ſaw the conjugal delicacy and diſintereſtedneſs of my intentions, but ſhe ſaw alſo the imprudence of laying out all our little property, in finery, that was wholly inconſiſtent [198] with our embarraſſed ſtate, and our future expectation. Luckily, how⯑ever, my furniture was ſecond hand, and I had eighteen guineas ſtill in my poſſeſſion: we therefore agreed to manage this with the utmoſt frugality, till I could ſupply myſelf by writing ſome work, that, by tak⯑ing time and pains with it, might be likely to eſtabliſh my reputation as an author; after which, according to the trite expreſſion, a man may lie a bed. In purſuance of theſe oeconomi⯑cal reſolutions, I had fixed upon my ſubject, ſketched out the plan of my deſign, entered upon the introduc⯑tory parts, and began to kindle in the progreſs; when, lo! I had not, with all my foreſight, provided againſt [199] certain demands which various trades-people had on their books againſt me, for former neceſſaries.

One evening, after I had laid aſide the pen, in order to enjoy the ſweets of a converſation never tedious, and always tender; juſt as Lucia began to entertain me with a favourite ſong, a man came into our apartment and preſented a bill for thirty-ſeven pounds, which had been owing him, and collecting to that ſize, for up⯑wards of two years. Startled as I was, I hardly knew, how to ſtammer forth an apology, and the creditor perceiving my confuſion took it as a token of my diſtreſs, and was therefore reſolved to have his money on the ſpot. I equi⯑vocated. [200] He left me abruptly, and, with the authority of a creditor, ſlapt to my dining-room door with a ſhew of indignation. Our ſong, and all our harmony, you may be ſure, was now broken, and we were left to many ſorrowful reflections.

Our affection, however Sir, was of ſo delicate a nature, that all the ar⯑dours of romance were realized in my conduct, and even paſtoral ſenti⯑ments ſcarce did juſtice, to the ten⯑derneſs of my paſſion.

Nature had formed her for emi⯑nence, and ſuch was her mind, that ſhe bore with me the burden of anxi⯑ety, and doubled the ſenſe of better [201] fortune, at the time that ſhe ſhared it. But the great charm which en⯑deared and diſtinguiſhed her, was, that fervid fortitude, that gave her ſtrength (even after the bed was torn from under her) to go through the moſt piercing inconvenience, and the hardeſt trials. The inſults I ſuſtained however, were too much for her, and ſhe grew quite melancholy, and would ſometimes paſs whole days without being able to utter a word— at laſt the hour approached when all the miſeries of my exiſtence were to be collected to a point—when for⯑tune, piqued at my former defiance of her, by one deciſive blow—the moment at laſt came—which—which —you know the reſt, Sir —ſpare— [202] ſpare—oh ſpare me the repetition— Lucia is in her grave—excuſe—ex⯑cuſe me—

Mr. Reynolds, my dear Charlotte, broke off abruptly—ſo muſt Charles.

P. S. My tears will give me leave, in pity to you, to inform you, that I this very day am to have Mr. Reynolds's company at dinner, which may ſerve to ſhew that he is no longer in a houſe of confine⯑ment. Adieu.

LETTER CXXII. CHARLOTTE to CHARLES.

HOW truly do I pity the unfor⯑fortunate Reynolds! — how [203] much am I obliged to Charles for the narrative — but how infinitely do I honour him for the ſentiment and intelligence of the poſtſcript— and ſo you have reſtored the priſoner, to freedom — what a fate was his Lucia's — ah Charles, how many tears did I ſacrifice to her death-bed letter—mercileſs creditors — what a woman—what a wife did ye deſtroy! how will Templeton rejoice—how will the good Melbank, who is arrived, congratulate Charles on the ſervice he has rendered ſuch a character as Mr. Reynolds!—in a jail, only for twenty-five pounds!—a man of his brilliance—good God!—but he is now at large, and through my Charles's means—oh my friend, bring us all to⯑gether [204] — what have I ſaid? — no Charles—no—adieu to viſits—fatal indulgencies!—and yet—ſurely— when we think of Reynolds—when his harder, much harder fortunes are conſidered—we may be well ſatisfied —cannot we cheriſh the moſt tender and innocent friendſhip, without once cheriſhing a guilty thought! how un⯑reaſonable! oh Charles, let us be above it — we will aſſuredly all have one happy meeting—I will put con⯑fidence in you, becauſe I know I can now ſafely truſt myſelf. Farewell. You ſhall ſoon hear again from

LETTER CXXIII. CHARLOTTE to Dr. MELBANK.

CHARLOTTE, hears of her good doctor's return to town with great pleaſure, particularly, as ſhe wants both his advice and com⯑pany on Wedneſday, to meet Charles, and an agreeable ſtranger.

LETTER CXXIV. Dr. MELBANK to CHARLOTTE.

IT is impoſſible to reſiſt your in⯑vitation. I ſhall attend it—and [206] yet, is there not a little tincture of— of—of—pſhaw, nonſenſe, into what idle ſtuff am I rambling! you may depend upon me.

LETTER CXXV. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.

MR. Reynolds will not be the only viſitor you may expect on Wedneſday: you will ſee another of your friends on that day, beſides Dr. Melbank, the incomparable, and the unchangeable

LETTER CXXVI. CHARLES to CLEORA.

I Find that the baſe-minded Mrs. P. refuſes any longer to pro⯑vide for the child, and that ſhe who has pillaged all the father's effects, and the ſon's property, has the impudence to plead, poverty—what pangs Cleora are in ſtore for that woman! what a ſickneſs is ſhe preparing for her ſoul! as to the child, ſince no intreaties can prevail with you to truſt it into my arms, pray ſend for it directly into your's; and as my affairs are now likely [208] to mend a little, I ſhall be able to accommodate both you and your little companion.

LETTER CXXVII. Dr. MELBANK to H. T. Eſq

NOW Sir, indeed, my miſery is compleated—I have had ano⯑ther interview with Charlotte, in the preſence of Charles—a ſtranger was there—oh, Mr. Templeton, ſuch a ſtranger: upon his coming into the [209] room, I was greatly ſtruck with the reſemblance of features which I ſhall never forget. At dinner, Charles drank to his health, under the name of Mr. Reynolds—I no ſooner heard the ſound, than my heart ceaſed to beat — I felt a mixture of inex⯑preſſible miſery, and fell back in my chair. They officiouſly recovered me to greater miſery — whom do you think ſat oppoſite to me, Sir?—the only man in the world that I had in⯑jured—the nephew of that very Mr. Reynolds, who was the father of my Maria, and who, but for ſome petty offence—ſome partial miſrepreſenta⯑tions, was to have heired the for⯑tunes that were given to me. Rey⯑nolds, Sir, ſaid I—are thoſe features, [210] the exact image of Mr. Stokes, the property of Mr. Reynolds—of the very perſon who is now before me? Mr. Stokes, Sir, replied he, was my uncle, the brother of my mother— but I was, when very young, moſt falſely painted to him, and never ſaw him afterwards: he had a daughter then at a boarding ſchool.

He had ſo, Sir, ſaid I, almoſt ſob⯑bing, and that daughter's name was—

Maria Stokes, ſaid he—

And that Maria Stokes, rejoined I, was my wife—and ſhe is—

Where ſaid Mr. Reynolds?

[211]With the God that made her— but is it poſſible, reſumed I, that you ſhould be this very Mr. Reynolds, —where have you been: by what means have you eluded my moſt in⯑duſtrious enquiries—I have been bu⯑ried, Sir, he returned, amongſt the bookſellers—I have been condemned under fifty names, to conceal from the gripe of the creditor a wretched body not worth the fatigue of a ſingle ſearch —I have never ſhewn my face—or applied by letters to thoſe who baſely deſerted me—I have hid myſelf in the thickneſs of a thouſand diſguiſes —and, in ſhort Sir, my kind bene⯑factor who ſits next to me will explain the reſt.

[212]Upon this Mr. Templeton, Charles withdrew a moment with Charlotte, and on their return, put a packet of letters into my hand, containing— what do you think Sir?—nothing leſs than the hiſtory of Mr. Reynold's.— I have borrowed theſe letters, Sir, and now ſend them in franks for your reading—look into them Sir with an eye of compaſſion.—

When I had finiſhed this peruſal of them, I made uſe of the little ſtrength I had left, to fall upon my knee—I took Mr. Reynolds's hand; and ſo Sir, ſaid I—I have at laſt found out the unhappy gentleman, whoſe natural expectations I have deſpoiled—why did you not leave [213] ſome clue to your reſidence, before the death of your uncle, — I was only a ſervant in his family—I did not even know, at that time, that he had a nephew in being—I —I—in a word Sir, as this lady has furniſhed me with your narrative—ſhe will be ſo kind to give you a ſketch of mine— in the mean while let me retire into another room—I cannot ſupport it any longer without relief.

I went Mr. Templeton, into a ſmall book cloſet—flung myſelf on a ſo⯑pha which was there, and burſt into tears.

I muſt make a pauſe—

LETTER CXXVIII. The ſame to the ſame.

CHARLES and Charlotte, after an hour's abſence, (in which I will not attempt to deſcribe what I felt) came to me: each of them took a hand, and led me into the apart⯑ment again — Mr. Reynolds ad⯑vanced and began to addreſs me.

"We have both had our misfor⯑tunes, Sir, ſaid he—but I can ſee no trace of guilt in your conduct. As to my uncle, I had long buried my [215] expectations of receiving any benefit from him, nor did I ever ſee him but five times in my life: my mother turned his heart and his paſſions againſt me; and I am now rejoiced to hear ſhe has not been the better or the richer upon that account. My indulging friend Charles has, ſince you were out of the room, truſted to me a paper (ſent him by this lady) which relates all I could deſire to know—nay more than I could deſire —for I find my couſin is dead—you have loſt your wife—Alas! alas! Sir and I—I have loſt mine."

He wept, Mr. Templeton, and I had but too many reaſons to ſympa⯑thize.

[216]The delicacy of Charles and Char⯑lotte during this ſurprizing interview is not to be imagined, their paſſion ſeemed to be now quite extinguiſhed, and they attended only to us.

I had a thouſand things to ſay, and yet I was obliged to go away, with a full heart, without ſaying any thing to the purpoſe.

LETTER CXXIX. CHARLOTTE to CHARLES.

WHAT a ſcene—what a party was yeſterday's! I have not heard from either Dr. Melbank, or Mr. Reynolds. Conſider my im⯑patience, and all that you know, communicate to

P. S. Your care of my ſiſter was noble, I receive her at your hands with many tender thanks.

LETTER CXXX.
Dr. MELBANK to CHARLES.

PRAY, my dear Charles, forward the incloſed to Mr. Reynolds, and let illneſs excuſe my making this letter to you ſo abrupt.

LETTER CXXXI. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.

I Have only time to fold up Dr. Melbank's note, and to ſcribble a haſty copy of his letter to Mr. Rey⯑nolds—that gentleman and I are this moment going to the houſe of that noble character.

LETTER CXXXII. CLEORA to CHARLOTTE.

I Have at length brought myſelf to be really ſorry, you and Charles, cannot be properly re-united. As I now ſee that the circumſtances which happened prior to, and ſince our ſe⯑paration, would render a re-union intolerably imperfect; and as you are evidently the woman of his choice, I am willing to enter into articles of mutual releaſe, and try how far it is poſſible for your return to Charles to [222] be put upon a moral footing—I thank you madam, for the papers that have paſt between you, giving an account of your whole intercourſe. I am at leaſt glad to ſee that Charles does not dwell on the vile report that was pro⯑mulgated againſt my reputation.

In regard to any difference in our tempers, and diſagreement in other reſpects, we have both ſmarted for them ſufficiently, without dragging in⯑to the account the moſt barbarous report that ever was invented to de⯑ſtroy the fame of a woman. I con⯑feſs to you the impoſſibility, (as things have fallen out) of my ever being happy with Charles—whatever he may think—I ſhould now ſcorn [223] as much the advances to ſo unprofit⯑able a reconciliation as himſelf—we were never comfortable—at leaſt we were never fond after the firſt month —I was dupe enough to liſten to a love-tale made by a man upon the bachelor's ramble, under a fictitious name—every ſtep we both took was romantic; and had I not been as much beſotted with a wild, mad-headed ſcheme as himſelf, I might have ſeen prudence, without going to ^* Scotland for repentance. But the deed is done, and I wiſh with all my heart it were undone. How can you madam, believe Charles a conſtant man?—can it be poſſible he ſhould [224] have ſuch a principle in his nature? ingenuity—wit—addreſs—elegance I am ready to grant him—but fideli⯑ty to any one favourite, whether wife or not, is ſurely out of the liſt of things practicable. You ſay, he will, after he has come to ſome terms with his creditors, contribute to my genteeler ſupport. He writes me word he will alſo aſſiſt me in a proper proviſion for the child.—

If he fulfills theſe promiſes, hea⯑ven knows, I never deſire a cloſer intercourſe with him, and I have reſolved in my mind to mark this as the laſt letter he ſhall ever ſee, or Charlotte ever receive on the ſubject: for, to tell you the truth I do not [225] ſee that I have divided you from him, to any good purpoſe. I do not pray for his death, or my own, but never did a matrimonial priſoner pray oft⯑ner, or more earneſtly for liberty, and an honourable eſcape from bon⯑dage.

P. S. I hear that Charles's, mother frets and laughs, alternately, at the receipt of his retaliating letter. She ſays ſhe will, perſecute him for it without mercy. I ſhould hope ſhe [226] would not put her threats in execu⯑tion, but I have friendſhip enough for his ſafety, to beg you will put him upon his guard.

LETTER CXXIII. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.

ALAS Charlotte, I have been witneſs to another ſcene more tender, even than the firſt: Rey⯑nolds and Melbank were an hour together, without the intruſions of a third perſon; and when I joined [227] them, they were tenderly locked in embraces: the poor doctor is ex⯑ceedingly ill, and we both ſat by his bed-ſide all night. About twelve o'clock this morning he fell into a ſhort ſlumber, and Reynolds went to bed. I begin, indeed, now Char⯑lotte, to conſider our pangs of ſepa⯑ration as trifling, in oppoſition to what I have lately heard, and lately ſeen. Dr. M—mentioned you ſeveral times in the courſe of the night with the greateſt marks of re⯑ſpect—kiſſed the picture of the de⯑ceaſed Maria—wept again over the fate of Lucia—pitied Charles—and bathed the hands of Mr. Reynolds in tears.—I ſhall return to him again, as ſoon as I have put a wafer under [228] this, for the ſatisfaction of the ſympa⯑thizing Charlotte.

LETTER CXXIV. Dr. MELBANK to H. T. ESQ;

I Am held up in my bed—and I have paſt the night in a fever— do not think me ſuperſtitious if I ſay —if I prophecy—that this will be the laſt time you will receive a letter from me. Poor Reynolds's ſituation teras me one way, and my affection [229] for Charlotte another—I love her yet Sir—yes Mr. Templeton, guilty as I know myſelf—God knows I love her yet—I have the killing cir⯑cumſtances too, of having Charles conſtantly before me, and exerting himſelf more indefatigably than my nurſe—his hand is often in mine— he ſmoothes my bed-cloaths—he of⯑fers me medicines—he keeps a death-like ſilence in the room—he moſt tenderly avoids ſpeaking of Charlotte —I am afraid he ſtill ſuſpects my lurking paſſion. What can poſſibly have made me thus weak! I am a child—I am a child Mr. Templeton —may God bleſs you.

LETTER CXXV. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE. Twelve o'Clock at Night.

THE doctor is quite delirious, Charlotte—he cries out by fits —and enquires for Mr. Reynolds— Mr. Reynolds appears, and he bids him avoid his preſence. Before his fever had reduced him to this ſtate, he ſat up in his night gown, and or⯑dered the lawyer to come to his bed-ſide—he waved us out of the room ſmilingly—the ſervants were called as witneſſes—a will was made—we [231] re-entered, and he placed us both on different ſides of his bed. "I am afraid, dear friends, ſaid he, I have ſuffered from viſiting lately a poor woman in the Fleet priſon—I have reaſon to think the fever ſhe has ſince idied of is of the contagious kind— [...]ll as I was, I viſited her on the very evening after I had found the long loſt Mr. Reynolds—my ſpirits were then very bad.—"

"I deſire you will take the bare poſ⯑ſibility of it for granted—I muſt not ſuffer you to enter my chamber again my friends, till I am better—when I am certain as to the nature of my diſ⯑order, you ſhall be again with joy ad⯑mitted: till then—farewell—farewell."

[232]The doctor preſſed our hands very ſoftly—deſired us to waſh the fingers in hungary water—and then threw the ſheet over his face. Touched at the ſolemnly affecting manner, in which he ſpoke, Reynolds and I withdrew, and have not dared to enter againſt his expreſs inhibitions ſince.

LETTER CXXVI. JAMES SPEDMAN to CHARLES.

MY poor dear maſter orders me to tell you that his phyſician has pronounced his diſorder to be [135] catching, and requeſts you will on no account come near the houſe, and that you will not ſuffer Mr. Reynolds to leave London.

LETTER CXXVII. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.

AFFECTION has I fear hurried me into danger—I paſt the beſt part of the laſt night in the bed-chamber of Dr. Melbank—no fear of his diſcovering me—he knows no one.

[234]His ſituation cannot poſſibly be de⯑ſcribed—ſtill does he lie, Charlotte, in the ſtruggles of death—his lips ſilent his eye cloſed—and the ſigh breaking laboriouſly from his boſom—I kiſſed his hand—I could not help it Char⯑lotte—it was the hand that ſaved me from deſtruction.—He loves Char⯑lotte too—ſome veneration is due to him for that.—

A looſe paper lay on his pillow— I have pillaged it—and the theft has been repaid by an almoſt brokn heart.

Read it Charlotte—what a charac⯑ter is this to the laſt. Pray aſſiduouſly for his recovery.—

LETTER CXXVIII. CHARLOTTE to CHARLES.

DEEPLY as I am affected for the amiable Dr. Melbank, I can⯑not excuſe your raſhneſs in going to him, after interdiction—and running the hazard of loſing another valuable life. Take ſome advice upon the matter, I conjure you, and let me know by conſtant meſſages, how the good doctor, and my beſt friend go on. Surely — ſurely ſuch eſteemed characters, will be yet reſtored, in pity to their admirers, and for the ſervice of mankind.

LETTER CXXIX. CHARLES to CHARLOTTE.

OUR beſt friend is no more. I have power only to write the ſentence, and wrap up into a cover the letter that brought the news. How will the tears ſtream from your dear eyes at the tidings.

LETTER CXXX. CHARLES to H. T. Eſq

THE large packet of letters that I ſend you, will at once apologize and account for my long ſilence. Neither, Charlotte, Mr. Rey⯑nolds, or your friend, have of late been able to take up the pen. It was this day month, that the body of our moſt worthy benefactor was committed to the earth—I do moſt truly aſſure you, that the affluence in which his unequalled generoſity has left me, by no means compenſate [243] the pleaſure I had in his ſociety, and the ſatisfaction I received from his life.

He has divided the bulk of his fortunes amongſt three perſons, my Templeton, who certainly could form no poſſible expectation of his bounty. Here follows a faithful extract from his will.

—"Item, To my beloved friend Charles, I bequeath my dwel⯑ling-houſe in St. James's-ſtreet, with all its furniture, plate, &c. &c."

"Item, I bequeath to Charlotte, in teſtimony of my eſteem for her vir⯑tue, and reverence for her misfor⯑tunes, [244] the ſum of two thouſand five hundred pounds, to be paid imme⯑diately on my deceaſe, or as ſoon afterwards as the ſaid ſum can be conveniently drawn from the funds, where lie certain monies mentioned in other parts of this my laſt teſti⯑ment."

"Item, I give and bequeath, to my ſervant James Spedman one hundred pounds ſterling."

"Item, To Charles, Eſq I be⯑queath one thouſand pounds, for the uſe of Cleora, to be paid out of my caſh, now lying, and being in the funds."

[245]"Item, I bequeath to the ſaid Charles, Eſq my Suſſex eſtate, ſub⯑jected to the yearly rent of two hun-pounds, to be paid into the hands of J. Reynolds, Eſq which is a debt due to the ſaid J. Reynolds, Eſq for many years."

"Item, To the aforeſaid J. Rey⯑nolds, Eſq in conſideration of in⯑tereſt on the ſaid debt, my houſes, lands, and properties, whatſoever, and whereſoever, lying and being in the iſland of Jamaica."

"Item, I bequeath to Charlotte all my pictures in my library, with all my books, paintings, and the miniature of my dear wife Maria, [246] hanging over the library chimney piece."

"Item, I charge the ſaid Suſſex eſtate, given to Charles, Eſq with the annual deduction of one hundred pounds, to be paid to Charlotte during her natural life, on every eighteenth day of Auguſt, being the anniverſary of that lady's birth."

"Item, I give and bequeath to H. Templeton, Eſq one hundred gui⯑neas for a mourning ring, and any other teſtimonies of friendſhip that he may chooſe to employ it in."

"Item, I give and bequeath, to Charlotte, the watch, and ſome [247] trinkets lying in a little gold box in my front parlour drawers, alſo my old and favourite dog Pompey, with an annuity of five pounds during his natural life, to be paid out of the Suſſex eſtate, over and above the annuity of one hundred pounds."

Can any words, oh my dear Tem⯑pleton, be adequate to ſuch circum⯑ſtances—and yet there is not a ſingle perſon concerned who would not ra⯑ther enjoy the dear company of the teſtator, than the ſplendid evidences of his tenderneſs and attention.

And then to die, as he did, in the meridian of life—in a ſituation ſo pathetic, at a time ſo delicately criti⯑cal! [248] Bleſſed, for ever bleſſed be his memory upon earth — Rich and abundant be his rewards in Heaven. Never did I ſee ſuch genuine, un⯑affected grief and gratitude that mix themſelves in the ſympathy of Char⯑lotte and Mr. Reynolds.—

Cleora's letter alſo upon the ſub⯑ject, does her honour.—

Reynolds and I, live at preſent in the good doctor's houſe; and we are ſo often reminded of his image, and his goodneſs, in every thing about us, that it is not in the power of gold to charm our grief—

[249]That I have ſtill a ſigh for Char⯑lotte, is but too certain, and I would moſt willingly reject all that I am now worth, and, after all deductions, that will, I find, be a conſiderable fortune—Yes, Templeton, I would yield up every ſhilling—be again in⯑volved —again a priſoner — again liable to all the inſults of an unfor⯑tunate man—and depend for the re⯑mainder of my days upon the pre⯑carious efforts of my own hands— had I this minute the privilege of of leading her by the hand to the foot of the altar—

I conjure you to come to town, and let us, in the firſt place do juſtice to [250] our benefactor, by erecting to his memory a ſuitable monument; and let us inſcribe on it ſuch ſentiments, as expreſs our grief and our grati⯑tude in the moſt lively manner.