To GEORGE MORDAUNT, Eſq

I AM indeed, my dear George, the moſt happy of human beings; happy in the paternal regard of the beſt of pa⯑rents, the ſincere eſteem of my worthy re⯑lations, lord and lady Belmont; and the friendſhip, the tender friendſhip of their [2] lovely daughter, the amiable lady Julia. An encreaſe of fortune, which you are kind enough to wiſh me, might perhaps add ſomething to my felicity, but is far from being neceſſary to conſtitute it, nor did it ever excite in my boſom an anxious wiſh. My father, though he educated me to be⯑come the moſt ſplendid ſituation, yet in⯑ſtructed me to be ſatisfied with my own moderate one; he taught me that inde⯑pendence was all a generous mind re⯑quired; and that virtue, adorned by that liberal education his unſparing bounty laviſhed on me, would command through life that heart-felt eſteem from the worthy of every rank, which the moſt exorbitant wealth alone could never procure its poſ⯑ſeſſors. Other parents hoard up riches for their children; mine with a more no⯑ble, more enlightened ſolicitude, expend⯑ed his in ſtoring my mind with generous ſentiments and uſeful knowledge, to which his [3] unbounded goodneſs added every out⯑ward accompliſhment that could give grace to virtue, and ſet her charms in the fair⯑eſt light.

Shall I then murmur becauſe I was not born to affluence? No, believe me, I would not be the ſon of any other than this moſt excellent of men, to inherit all the ſtores which avarice and ambition ſigh for: I am prouder of a father to whoſe diſcern⯑ing wiſdom, and generous expanded heart, I am ſo obliged, than I ſhould be of one whom I was to ſucceed in all the titles and poſſeſſions in the power of fortune to be⯑ſtow. From him I receive, and learn pro⯑perly to value, the moſt real of all trea⯑ſures, independence and content.

What a divine morning? how lovely is the face of nature! The blue ſerene of Italy, with the lively verdure of England. [4] But behold a more charming object than nature herſelf! the ſweet, the young, the blooming lady Julia, who is this inſtant ſtepping into her poſt chaiſe with lady Anne Wilmot. How unſpeakably lovely! ſhe looks up to the window, ſhe ſmiles; I underſtand that ſmile, ſhe permits me to have the honour of following her: I'll order my horſes, and whilſt they are getting ready, endeavour to deſcribe this moſt angelic of woman kind.

Lady Julia then, who wants only three months of nineteen, is exactly what a poet or painter would wiſh to copy who intend⯑ed to perſonify the idea of female ſoftneſs; her whole form is delicate and feminine to the utmoſt degree: her complexion is fair, enlivened by the bloom of youth, and of⯑ten diverſifyed by bluſhes more beautiful than thoſe of the morning: her features are regular, her mouth and teeth particu⯑larly [5] lovely; her hair light brown; her eyes blue, full of ſoftneſs, and ſtrongly ex⯑preſſive of the exquiſite ſenſibility of her ſoul. Her countenance, the beauteous abode of the loves and the ſmiles, has a mixture of ſweetneſs and ſpirit which gives life and expreſſion to her charms.

As her mind has been adorned, not warped, by education, it is juſt what her appearance promiſes; artleſs, gentle, ti⯑mid, ſoft, ſincere, compaſſionate; awake to all the finer impreſſions of tenderneſs, and melting with pity for every human⯑woe.

But my horſes are in the court, and even this ſubject cannot detain me a mo⯑ment longer. Adieu!

TO GEORGE MORDAUNT, Eſq

YOUR raillery, my dear Mordaunt, gives me pain; that I have the ten⯑dereſt attachment to lady Julia is certain, but it is an attachment which has not the leaſt reſemblance to love. I ſhould be the moſt ungrateful of mankind to make ſo ill a return to the friendſhip lord Bel⯑mont honours me with, and the moſt ſelf⯑iſh to entertain a wiſh ſo much to lady Julia's diſadvantage. My birth, it muſt be confeſſed, is not unworthy even her, ſince the ſame blood fills our veins, my father being deſcended from the eldeſt bro⯑ther of the firſt earl of Belmont, great grandfather of the preſent: but it would ill become a man whoſe whole expectations are limited to the inheritance of 700l. a year (long very long, may it be before the greateſt of all misfortunes makes even [7] that little mine) to aſpire to the heireſs of twice as many thouſands.

What I feel for this moſt charming of women is the tenderneſs of a relation, mixed with that ſoft and lively eſteem which it is impoſſible to refuſe to the fineſt underſtanding and nobleſt mind in the world, lodged in a form almoſt celeſtial.

Love, for I have taſted its poiſoned cup, is all tumult, diſorder, madneſs; but my friendſhip for lady Julia, warm and animated as it is, is calm, tranquil, gen⯑tle; productive of a thouſand innocent pleaſures, but a ſtranger to every kind of inquietude: it does not even diſturb my reſt, a certain conſequence of love, even in its earlieſt approaches.

Having thus vindicated myſelf from all ſuſpicion of a paſſion, which in the preſent [8] ſituation of my fortune I ſhould think al⯑moſt a criminal one, I proceed to obey you in in giving you the portraits of my noble friends, though, I aſſure you, my ſketches will be very imperfect ones.

Lord Belmont, who lives eight months of the year at this charming ſeat, with all the magnificence and hoſpitality of our ancient Engliſh nobility, is about ſixty years old; his perſon is tall, well made, graceful; his air commanding, and full of dignity: be has ſtrong ſenſe, with a competent ſhare of learning, and a juſt and delicate taſte for the fine arts; eſpecially muſick, which he ſtudyed in Italy under the beſt maſters that region of harmony afforded. His politeneſs is equally the reſult of a natural deſire of obliging, and an early and extenſive acquaintance with the great world.

[9] A liberality which ſcarce his ample poſ⯑ſeſſions can bound, a paternal care of all placed by Providence under his protection, a glowing zeal for the liberty, proſperity, and honour of his country, the nobleſt ſpirit of independence, with the moſt ani⯑mated attachment and firmeſt loyalty to his accompliſhed ſovereign, are traits too ſtrongly marked to eſcape the moſt care⯑leſs obſerver, but thoſe only who are ad⯑mitted to his neareſt intimacy are judges of his domeſtick virtues, or ſee in full light the tender, the polite, attentive huſband, the fond indulgent parent, the warm un⯑wearied friend.

If there is a ſhade in this picture, it is a prejudice, perhaps rather too ſtrong, in favour of birth, and a ſlowneſs to expect very exalted virtues in any man who can⯑not trace his anceſtors as far back, at leaſt, as the conqueſt.

[10] Lady Belmont, who is about ſix years younger than her lord, with all the ſtrength of reaſon and ſteadineſs of mind generally confined to the beſt of our ſex, has all the winning ſoftneſs becoming the moſt ami⯑able of her own; gentle, affable, ſocial, polite, ſhe joins the graces of a court to the ſimplicity of a cottage; and by an inexpreſſible eaſe and ſweetneſs in her ad⯑dreſs, makes all who approach her hap⯑py: impartial in her politeneſs, at her ge⯑nial board no invidious diſtinctions take place, no cold regards damp the heart of an inferior: by a peculiar delicacy of good breeding, and engaging attention to eve⯑ry individual, ſhe baniſhes reſerve, and diffuſes a ſpirit of convivial joy around her: encouraged by her notice the timid loſe their diffidence in her preſence, and often ſurprized exert talents of pleaſing they were before themſelves unconſcious of poſſeſſing.

[11] The beſt, and moſt beloved of wives, of mothers, of miſtreſſes, her domeſtick character is moſt lovely; indeed all her virtues are rendered doubly charming, by a certain grace, a delicate finiſhing, which it is much eaſier to feel than to deſcribe.

The oeconomy of her houſe, which ſhe does not diſdain herſelf to direct, is magnificent without profuſion, and regular without conſtraint: The effects of her cares appear, the cauſe is unobſerved; all wears the ſmiling eaſy air of chance, though conducted with the moſt admirable order.

Her form is perfectly elegant; and her countenance, without having ever been beautiful, has a benignity in it more en⯑gaging than beauty itſelf.

[12] Lady Anne Wilmot, my father, and myſelf, make up the preſent party at Bel⯑mont. Lady Anne, who without regularity of features has that animation which is the ſoul of beauty, is the widow of a very rich country gentleman; if it be juſt to proſ⯑titute the name of gentleman to beings of his order, only becauſe they have eſtates of which they are unworthy, and are de⯑ſcended from anceſtors whom they diſ⯑honour; who when riding poſt through Europe, happened to ſee her with her fa⯑ther at Turin; and as ſhe was the hand⯑ſomeſt Engliſh woman there, and the whim of being marryed juſt then ſeized him, aſked her of Lord —, who could not re⯑fuſe his daughter to a jointure of 3000l. a year. She returned ſoon to England with her huſband, where during four years ſhe enjoyed the happineſs of liſtening to the intereſting hiſtories of the chace, and entertaining the—ſhire hunt at dinner: her [13] ſlumbers broke by the noiſe of hounds in a morning, and the riotous mirth of leſs rational animals at night. Fortune however at length took pity on her ſufferings, and the good 'ſquire overheating himſelf at a fox chace, of which a fever was the conſe⯑quence, left her young and rich, at full li⯑berty to return to the chearful haunts of men, with no very high ideas of matri⯑monial felicity, and an abhorrence of a country life, which nothing but her friend⯑ſhip for Lady Belmont could have one moment ſuſpended.

A great flow of animal ſpirits, and a French education, have made her a Coquet, though intended by nature for a much ſu⯑perior character. She is elegant in her dreſs, equipage, and manner of living, and rather profuſe in her expences. I had firſt the honour of knowing her laſt winter at Paris, from whence ſhe has been returned [14] about ſix weeks, three of which ſhe has paſſed at Belmont.

Nothing can be more eaſy or agreeable than the manner of living here; it is per⯑fectly domeſtick, yet ſo diverſifyed with amuſements as to exclude that ſatiety from which the beſt and pureſt of ſublunary enjoyments are not ſecure, if continued in too uniform a courſe: we read, we walk, we ride, we converſe; we play, we dance, we ſing; join the company, or indulge in penſive ſolitude and meditation, juſt as fancy leads; liberty, reſtrained alone by virtue and politeneſs, is the law, and incli⯑nation the ſovereign guide, at this manſion of true hoſpitality. Free from all the ſhack⯑les of idle ceremony, the whole buſineſs of Lord Belmont's gueſts, and the higheſt ſatisfaction they can give their noble hoſt, is to be happy, and to conſult their own taſte entirely in their manner of being ſo.

[15] Reading, muſick, riding, and converſa⯑tion, are Lord Belmont's favourite plea⯑ſures, but none that are innocent are ex⯑cluded; balls, plays, concerts, cards, bowls, billiards, and parties of pleaſure round the neighboring country, relieve each other; and whilſt their variety pre⯑vents any of them from ſatiating, all con⯑ſpire to give a double poignancy to the ſweeter joys of domeſtick life, the calm and tender hours which this charming family devote to the endearing converſa⯑tion of each other, and of thoſe friends particularly honoured with their eſteem.

The houſe, which is the work of Inigo Jones, is magnificent to the utmoſt degree; it ſtands on the ſummit of a ſlowly riſing ſtill, facing the South; and beyond a ſpacious court, has in front an avenue of the talleſt trees, which lets in the proſpect of a fruitful valley, bounded at a diſtance [16] by a mountain, down the ſides of which ruſhes a foaming caſcade which ſpreads into a thouſand meandering ſtreams in the vale below.

The gardens and park, which are behind the houſe, are romantick beyond the wan⯑tonneſs of Imagination; and the whole ad⯑joining country diverſify'd with hills, valleys, woods, rivers, plains, and every charm of lovely unadorned nature.

Here Lord Belmont enjoys the moſt unmixed and lively of all human pleaſures, that of making others happy. His eſtate conveys the ſtrongeſt idea of the patriarchal government; he ſeems a beneficent father, ſurrounded by his children, over whom reverence, gratitude, and love, give him an abſolute authority, which he never exerts but for their good: Every eye ſhines with tranſport at his ſight; parents point him [17] out to their children; the firſt accents of prattling infancy are taught to liſp his ho⯑noured name; and age, ſupported by his bounteous hand, pours out the fervent prayer to heaven for its benefactor.

To a life like this, and to an ardent love of independence, Lord Belmont ſacrifices all the anxious and corroding cares of a⯑varice and ambition; and finds his account in health, freedom, chearfulneſs, and ‘"that ſweet peace which goodneſs boſoms ever."’ Adieu! I am going with Lord Belmont and my father to Acton-Grange, and ſhall not return till Thuſday.

TO GEORGE MORDAUNT, Eſq

WE returned yeſterday about ſix in the evening, and the moment we alighted, my Lord leading us into the [18] garden an unexpected ſcene opened on my view, which recalled the idea of the fabu⯑lous pleaſures of the golden age, and could not but be infinitely pleaſing to every mind uncorrupted by the falſe glare of tinſel pomp, and awake to the genuine charms of ſimplicity and nature.

On a ſpacious lawn, bounded on every ſide by a profuſion of the moſt odoriferous flowering ſhrubs, a joyous band of villagers were aſſembled: the young men dreſt in green, youth, health, and pleaſure in their air, led up their artleſs charmers in ſtraw hats adorned with the ſpoils of Flora, to the ruſtick ſound of the tabor and pipe; round the lawn, at equal intervals, were raiſed temporary arbors of branches of trees, in which refreſhments were prepared for the dancers: and between the arbors, ſeats of moſs for their parents, ſhaded from the ſun by green awnings on poles, round [19] which were twined wreaths of flowers, breathing the ſweets of the ſpring. The ſurprize, the gaiety of the ſcene, the flow of general joy, the ſight of ſo many happy people, the countenances of the enraptured parents, who ſeemed to live over again the ſprightly ſeaſon of youth in their children, with the benevolent pleaſure in the looks of the noble beſtowers of the feaſt, filled my eyes with tears, and my ſwelling heart with a ſenſation of pure yet lively tranſ⯑port, to which the joys of courtly balls are mean.

The ladies, who were ſitting in conver⯑ſation with ſome of the oldeſt of the villa⯑gers, roſe at our approach, and my Lord giving Lady Anne Wilmot's hand to my father, and honoring me with Lady Julia's, we mixed in the ruſtick ball. The love⯑lieſt of women had an elegant ſimplicity in her air and habit which became the ſcene, [20] and gave her a thouſand new charms: ſhe was dreſt in a ſtraw-coloured luſtring night gown, the lighteſt gauze linen, a hat with purple ribbons, and a ſprig of glowing purple amaranthus in her boſom: I know not how to convey an idea of the particular ſtyle of beauty in which ſhe then appeared.—Youth, health, ſprightlineſs and innocence, all ſtruck the imagination at once—paint to yourſelf the exquiſite pro⯑portion, the playful air, and eaſy movement of a Venus, with the vivid bloom of an Hebe.—However high you raiſe your ideas, they will fall infinitely ſhort of the divine original.

The approach of night putting an end to the rural aſſembly, the villagers retired to the hall, where they continued dancing, and our happy partie paſſed the reſt of the evening in that ſweet and lively converſa⯑tion which is never to be found but amongſt [21] thoſe of the firſt ſenſe and politeneſs, united by that perfect confidence which makes the moſt trifling ſubjects intereſting; none of us thought of ſeparating, or imagined it midnight, when my father opening a window, the riſing ſun broke in upon us, and convinced us on what ſwift and downy pinions the hours of happineſs flit away.

TO GEORGE MORDAUNT, Eſq

NO, my friend, I have not always been this hero: too ſenſible to the power of beauty, I have felt the keeneſt pangs of unſucceſsful love: but I deſerved to ſuffer; my paſſion was in the higheſt degree criminal, and I bluſh, though at this diſtance of time, to lay open my heart [22] even to the indulgent eyes of partial friend⯑ſhip.

When your father's death called you back to England, you may remember I continued my journey to Rome: where a letter from my father introduced me into the family of count Meleſpini, a nobleman of great wealth and uncommon accom⯑pliſhments: as my father, who has always been of opinion that nothing purifies the heart, refines the taſte, or poliſhes the manners, like the converſation of an amiable, well educated, virtuous woman, had par⯑tiularly entreated for me the honour of the counteſs's friendſhip, whom he had known almoſt a child, and to whom he had taught the Engliſh language; I was admit⯑ted to the diſtinction of partaking in all her amuſements, and attending her every where in the quality of Ceciſbeo. To the arts of [23] the libertine, however fair, my heart had always been ſteeled; but the counteſs joined the moſt piercing wit, the moſt winning politeneſs, the moſt engaging ſenſi⯑bility, the moſt exquiſite delicacy, to a form perfectly lovely. You will not there⯑fore wonder that the warmth and inexpe⯑rience of youth, hourly expoſed in ſo dan⯑gerous a ſituation, was unable to reſiſt ſuch variety of attractions. Charmed with the flattering preference ſhe ſeemed to give me, my vanity fed by the notice of ſo accom⯑pliſhed a creature, forgetting thoſe ſen⯑timents of honour which ought never to be one moment ſuſpended, I became paſ⯑ſionately in love with this charming wo⯑man: for ſome months I ſtruggled with my love, till on her obſerving that my health ſeemed impared, and I had loſt my uſual vivacity, I took courage to confeſs the cauſe, though in terms which ſuffici⯑ently ſpoke my deſpair of touching a heart which I feared was too ſenſible to virtue [24] for my happineſs: I implored her pity, and proteſted I had no hope of inſpiring a tenderer ſentiment Whilſt I was ſpeaking, which was in broken interrupted ſentences, the counteſs looked at me with the ſtrong⯑eſt ſorrow and compaſſion painted in her eyes; ſhe was for ſome moments ſilent, and ſeemed loſt in thought; but at laſt, with an air of dignifyed ſweetneſs, ‘"My dear Enrico,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"ſhall I own to you that I have for ſome time feared this confeſſion? I ought perhaps to re⯑ſent this declaration, which from another I could never have forgiven: but as I know and eſteem the goodneſs of your heart, as I reſpect your father infinitely, and love you with the innocent tender⯑neſs of a ſiſter, I will only entreat you to reflect how injurious this paſſion is to the count, who has the tendereſt eſteem for you, and would ſacrifice almoſt his life for your happineſs: be aſſured of my [25] eternal friendſhip unleſs you forfeit it by perſiſting in a purſuit equally deſtruc⯑tive to your own probity and my honor; receive the tendereſt aſſurances of it,"’ continued ſhe, giving me her hand to kiſs, ‘"but believe at the ſame time that the count deſerves and poſſeſſes all my love, I had almoſt ſaid, my adoration. The fondeſt affection united us, and time, inſtead of leſſening, every hour increaſes our mutual paſſion. Reſerve your heart, my good Enrico, for ſome amiable lady of your own nation, and believe that love has no true pleaſures but when it keeps within the bounds of honor."’

It is impoſſible, my dear Mordaunt, to expreſs to you the ſhame this diſcourſe filled me with: her gentle, her affection⯑ate reproofs, the generous concern ſhe ſhowed for my error, the mild dignity of her aſpect, plunged me into inexpreſſible confuſion, and ſhewd my fault in it's [26] blackeſt colours, at the ſame time that her behaviour, by increaſing my eſteem, added to the exceſs of my paſſion. I at⯑tempted to anſwer her, but it was im⯑poſſible; awed, abaſhed, humbled before her, I had not courage even to meet her eyes: like the fallen angel in Milton, I felt

The counteſs ſaw, and pityed, my confuſion, and generouſly relieved me from it by changing the ſubject: ſhe talked of my father, of his merit, his tenderneſs for me, and expectations of my conduct; which ſhe was ſure I ſhould never diſappoint; without hinting at what had paſt, ſhe with the moſt exquiſite delicacy gave me to underſtand it would be beſt I ſhould leave Rome, by ſaying ſhe knew how ardently my father wiſhed for my re⯑turn, [27] and that it would be the height of cruelty longer to deprive him of the pleaſure of ſeeing a ſon ſo worthy of his affection: ‘"The count and my ſelf,"’ pur⯑ſued ſhe, ‘"cannot loſe you without inex⯑preſſible regret, but you will alleviate it by letting us hear often of your wel⯑fare: when you are united to a lady worthy of you, my dear Enrico, we may perhaps make you a viſit in Eng⯑land: in the mean time be aſſured you have not two friends who love you with a ſincerer affection."’

At this moment the count entered, who ſeeing my eyes filled with tears of love, deſpair, and admiration, with the tendereſt anxiety enquired the cauſe. ‘"I ſhall tell you news which will afflict you, my lord,"’ ſaid the counteſs. ‘"Signor Enrico comes to bid us farewel; he is commanded by his father to return to England; to⯑morrow is the laſt day of his ſtay in [28] Rome: he promiſes to write to us, and to preſerve an eternal remembrance of our friendſhip, for which he is obliged only to his own merit: his tender heart, full of the moſt laudable, the moſt engag⯑ing ſenſibility, melts at the idea of a ſeparation which will not be leſs painful to us."’

The count, after expreſſing the moſt obliging concern at the thought of loſing me, and the warmeſt gratitude for theſe ſuppoſed marks of my friendſhip, inſiſted on my ſpending the reſt of the day with them: I conſented, but begged firſt to re⯑turn to my lodgings on pretence of giving ſome neceſſary orders, but in reality to give vent to my full heart, torn with a thouſand contrary emotions, amongſt which, I am ſhocked to own, hatred to the gene⯑rous count was not the weakeſt. I threw myſelf on the ground in an agony of deſ⯑pair; I wept, I called heaven to witneſs the purity of my love, I accuſed the count⯑eſs [29] of cruelty in thus forcing me from Rome; I roſe up, I begun a letter to her, in which I vowed an eternal ſilence and reſpect, but begged ſhe would allow me ſtill the innocent pleaſure of beholding her; ſwore I could not live without ſeeing her and that the day of my leaving Rome would be that of my death.—But why do I thus tear open wounds which are but juſt healed? let it ſuffice that a moment's reflexion convinced me of my madneſs, and ſhowed the charming counteſs in the light of a guardian angel ſnatching me from the edge of a precipice. My reaſon in ſome degree returning, I dreſt myſelf with the moſt ſtudious care, and returned to the Meleſpini palace, where I found the abbate Camilli, a near relation of the family, whoſe preſence ſaved me the con⯑fuſion of being the third with my injured friends, and whoſe lively converſation ſoon diſſipated the air of conſtraint I felt on [30] entering the room, and even diſpelled part of my melancholy.

The count, whoſe own probity and virtue ſet him far above ſuſpecting mine, preſſed me with all the earneſtneſs of a friendſhip I ſo little merited, to defer my journey a week: on which I raiſed my downcaſt eyes to madam Meleſpini; for ſuch influence had this lovely woman over my heart, I did not dare to conſent till certain of her permiſſion; and reading approbation in a ſmile of condeſcending ſweetneſs, I con⯑ſented with a tranſport which only thoſe who have loved like me can conceive: my chearfulneſs returning, and ſome of the moſt amiable people in Rome coming in, we paſt the evening in the utmoſt gaiety. At taking leave I was engaged to the ſame company in dif⯑ferent parties of amuſement for the whole time I had to ſtay, and had the joy of being every day with the counteſs, [31] though I never found an opportunity of ſpeaking to her without witneſſes, till the evening before I left Rome, when going to her houſe an hour ſooner than I was expected, I found her alone in her cloſet: when I approached her, my voice faltered, I trembled, I wanted power to addreſs her; and this moment, ſought with ſuch care, wiſhed with ſuch ardor, was the moſt painful of my life. Shame alone prevented my retiring; my eyes were involuntarily turned towards the door at which I entered, in a vain hope of that interruption I had before dreaded as the greateſt misfortune; and even the preſence of my happy envied rival would at that moment have been moſt welcome.

The Counteſs ſeemed little leſs diſcon⯑certed than myſelf; however recovering herſelf ſooner, ‘"Signor Enrico,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"your diſcretion charms me; it is abſo⯑lutely neceſſary you ſhould leave Rome; [32] it has already coſt me an artifice unwor⯑thy of my character to conceal from the Count a ſecret which would have wound⯑ed his nice honor, and deſtroyed his friendſhip for you. After this adored huſ⯑band be aſſured you ſtand firſt of all your ſex in my eſteem: the ſenſibility of your heart, though at preſent ſo unhappi⯑ly miſplaced, encreaſes my good opinion of you: may you, my dear Enrico, meet with an Engliſh Lady worthy of your tenderneſs, and be as happy in mar⯑riage as the friends you leave behind. Accept,"’ purſued ſhe, riſing and going to a cabinet, ‘"theſe miniatures of the Count and myſelf, which I give you by his command; and when you look on them believe they repreſent two faith⯑ful friends, whoſe eſteem for you neither time nor abſence can leſſen."’

I took the pictures eagerly, and kiſſed that of the Counteſs with a paſſion I could [33] not reſtrain, of which however ſhe took not the leaſt notice. I thanked her, with a confuſed air, for ſo invaluable a preſent; and intreated her to pity a friendſhip too tender for my peace, but as reſpectful and as pure as ſhe herſelf could wiſh it.

The abbate Camilli here joined us, and once more ſaved me a ſcene too intereſting for the preſent ſituation of my heart: the Count entered the room ſoon after, and our converſation turned on the other cities of Italy, which I intended viſiting; to moſt of which he gave me letters of recommen⯑dation to the nobleſt families, wrote in terms ſo polite and affectionate as ſtabbed me to the heart with a ſenſe of my own ingratitude: he did me the honor to ac⯑cept my picture, which I had not the cou⯑rage to offer the Counteſs. After protract⯑ing till morning a parting ſo exquiſitely painful, I tore myſelf from all I loved, and bathing with tears her hand which I preſſed [34] eagerly to my lips, threw myſelf into my chaiſe, and, without going to bed, took the road to Naples. But how difficult was this conqueſt! How often was I tempted to return to Rome, and throw myſelf at the Counteſs's feet, without conſidering the conſequences of ſo wild an action. You, my deareſt Mordaunt, whoſe diſcerning ſpirit knows all the windings, the ſtrange inconſiſtencies of the human heart, will pity rather than blame your friend, when he owns there were mo⯑ments in which he formed the infamous reſolution of carrying her off by force.

But when the miſt of paſſion a little diſ⯑perſed, I began to entertain more worthy ſentiments; I determined to drive this lovely woman from my heart, and conquer an inclination, which the Count's generous unſuſpecting friendſhip would have made criminal even in the eyes of the moſt aban⯑doned libertine; rather owing this reſolution [35] however to an abſolute deſpair of ſucceſs then either to reaſon or a ſenſe of honor, my cure was a work of time. I was ſo weak during ſome months as to confine my viſits to the families where the Count's letters introduced me, that I might indulge my paſſion by hearing the lovely Counteſs continually mentioned.

Convinced at length of the folly of thus feeding ſo hopeleſs a flame, I reſolved to a⯑void every place where I had a chance of hearing that adored name: I left Italy for France, where I hoped a life of diſſipation would drive her for ever from my remem⯑brance. I even profaned my paſſion for her by meeting the advances of a Coquette, but diſguſt ſucceeded my conqueſt, and I found it was from time alone I muſt hope a cure: I had been near a year at Paris, when in April laſt, I received a letter from my fa⯑ther, who preſſed my return, and appointed me to meet him immediately at the Hague, [36] from whence we returned together; and after a few days ſtay in London, came down to Belmont, where the charms of Lady Julia's converſation, and the eſteem ſhe honors me with, entirely compleated my cure, which, time abſence, and the Count's tender and affectionate letters, had very far advanced. There is a ſweetneſs in her friendſhip, my dear Mordaunt, to which love itſelf muſt yield the palm; the delicacy, yet vivacity of her ſentiments, the ſoft ſenſibility of her heart, which without fear liſtens to vows of eternal amity and eſteem.—O Mordaunt, I muſt not, I do not hope for, I do not indeed wiſh for, her love; but can it be poſſible there is a man on earth to whom heaven deſtines ſuch a bleſſing!

To Col. BELLVILLE.

OH! you have no notion what a refor⯑mation: Who but Lady Anne Wil⯑mot at chapel every Sunday? grave, devout, attentive; ſcarce ſtealing a look at the prettieſt fellow in the world, who ſits cloſe by me! Yes, you are undone, Bellville; Harry Mandeville, the young, the gay, the lovely Harry Mandeville, in the full bloom of conquering three and twenty, with all the fire and ſprightlineſs of youth, the exquiſite ſymmetry and eaſy grace of an Antinous; a countenance open, manly, animated; his hair the brighteſt cheſnut; his com⯑plexion brown, fluſhed with the roſe of health; his eyes dark, penetrating, and full of fire, but when he addreſſes our ſex ſoftened into a ſweetneſs which is almoſt irreſiſtible; his noſe inclining to the aqui⯑line; his lips full and red, and his teeth of the moſt pearly whiteneſs.

Fond of me too, but afraid to declare his paſſion; reſpectful—awed by the com⯑manding dignity of my manner—poor dear creature, I think I muſt unbend a little, hide half the rays of my divinity to encourage ſo timid a worſhipper.

Some flattering tawdry coxcomb, I ſup⯑poſe; ſome fool with a tolerable outſide.

No, you never was more miſtaken, Bell⯑ville: his charms I aſſure you are not all external. His underſtanding is of the moſt exalted kind, and has been improved by a very extraordinary education, in pro⯑jecting which his father has employed much time and thought, and half ruined himſelf by carrying it into execution. Above all the Col. has cultivated in his ſon an ar⯑dent love of independence, not quite ſo well [39] ſuited to his fortune; and a generous, perhaps a romantic, contempt of riches, which moſt parents if they had found would have eradicated with the utmoſt care. His heart is warm, noble, liberal, benevolent: ſincere, and violent in his friendſhips, he is not leſs ſo, though ex⯑tremely placable, in his enmities; ſcorning diſguiſe, and laying his faults as well as his virtues open to every eye: raſh, ro⯑mantic, imprudent; haughty to the aſſuming ſons of wealth, but to thoſe below him,

But whither am I running? and where was I when this divine creature ſeduced me from my right path? O, I remember, at chapel: it muſt be acknowledged my digreſſions are a little Pindaric. True, as I was ſaying, I go conſtantly to chapel. [40] 'T is ſtrange, but this lady Belmont has the moſt unaccountable way in the world of making it one's choice to do whatever ſhe has an inclination one ſhould, with⯑out ſeeming to deſire it. One ſees ſo clear⯑ly that all ſhe does is right, religion ſits ſo eaſy upon her, her ſtile of goodneſs is ſo becoming, and graceful, that it ſeems want of taſte and elegance not to endea⯑vour to reſemble her. Then my lord too loves to worſhip in the beauty of holineſs; he makes the fine arts ſubſervient to the nobleſt purpoſe, and ſpends as much on ſerving his creator as ſome people of his rank do on a kennel of hounds. We have every external incitement to devotion; exquiſite paintings, an admirable organ, fine voices, and the moſt animated reader of prayers in the univerſe.

Col. Mandeville, whom I ſhould be ex⯑treamly in love with if his ſon was not five and twenty years younger, leaves us to⯑morrow [41] morning, to join his regiment, the —ſhire militia: he ſerved in the late war with honour, but meeting with ſome ill uſage from a miniſter on account of a vote in parliament, he reſigned his com⯑miſſion, and gave up his whole time to the education of my lovely Harry, whoſe tenderneſs and merit are a full reward for all his generous attention.

Adieu!

To Col. BELLVILLE.

IL divino Enrico is a little in the Penſeroſo. Poor Harry! I am charmed with his ſenſibility, he has ſcarce been him⯑ſelf ſince he parted with his father yeſter⯑day. He apologizes for his chagrin, but ſays no man on earth has ſuch ob⯑ligations to a parent. Entre nous, I fancy I know ſome few ſons who would be of a different way of thinking: the Col⯑has [42] literally governed his conduct by the old adage that, ‘"Learning is better than houſe and land;"’ for as his ſon's learning advanced, his houſes and lands melted away, or at leaſt would have done, had it not been for his mother's fortune, every ſhilling of which, with half the profits of his eſtate, he expended on Harry's educa⯑tion; who certainly wants only ten thou⯑ſand pounds a year to be the moſt charm⯑ing young fellow in the univerſe. Well he muſt e'en make the moſt of his per⯑fections, and endeavour to marry a for⯑tune, on which ſubject I have a kind of a glimpſe of a deſign, and fancy my friend Harry has not quite ſo great a contempt of money as I imagined.

You muſt know then, (a pretty phraſe that, but to proceed) you muſt know, that we accompanied Col. Mandeville fif⯑teen miles, and after dining together at an inn, he took the road to his regiment, [43] and we were returning penſive and ſilent to Belmont, when my lord, to remove the tender mel ancholy we had all caught from Harry, propoſed a viſit at Mr. Weſt⯑brook's, a plump, rich, civil, cit, whoſe houſe we muſt of neceſſity paſs. As my lord deſpiſes wealth, and Mr. Weſtbrooke's genealogy in the third generation loſes itſelf in a livery ſtable, he has always avoided an intimacy, which the other has as ſtudiouſly ſought; but as it is not in his nature to treat any body with ill-breeding, he has ſuffered their viſits, though he has been ſlow in returning them; and has ſometimes invited the daughter to a ball.

The lady wife, who is a woman of great erudition, and is at preſent intirely loſt to the world, all her faculties being on the rack compoſing a treatiſe againſt the immortality of the ſoul, ſent down an apology; and we were entertained by Mademoiſelle la Fille, who is little, lean, brown, with ſmall pert black eyes, quick⯑ened [44] by a large quantity of abominable bad rouge: ſhe talks inceſſantly, has a great deal of city vivacity, and a prodigious paſſion for people of a certain rank, a phraſe of which ſhe is peculiarly fond. Her mother being above the little vulgar cares of a family, or ſo unimportant a taſk as the education of an only child, ſhe was early entruſted to a French chamber-maid, who having left her own country on account of a Faux Pas which had viſible conſe⯑quences, was appointed to inſtill the principles of virtue and politeneſs into the flexible mind of this illuſtrious heireſs of the houſe of Weſtbrook, under the title of governeſs. My information of this morning further ſays, that by the cares of this accompliſhed perſon, ſhe accquired a competent, though incorrect, knowledge of the French language; with cunning, diſſimulation, aſſurance, and a taſte for gallantry; to which if you add a ſervile paſſion for quality, and an oppreſſive in⯑ſolence to all, however worthy, who want [45] that wealth which ſhe owes to her father's ſkill in Change alley, you will have an idea of the bride I intend for Harry Man⯑deville. Methinks, I hear you exclaim. ‘"Heavens! what a conjunction"!’ 'Tis migh⯑ty well, but people muſt live, and there is 80,000l. attached to this animal; and if the girl likes him, I dont ſee what he can do better, with birth, and a habit of profuſe expence, which he has ſo little to ſupport. She ſung, for the creature ſings, a tender Italian air, which ſhe ad⯑dreſſed to Harry in a manner and with a look, that convinces me her ſtile is l'amoroſe, and that Harry is the preſent object. After the ſong I ſurpriſed him talking low to her, and preſſing her hard, whilſt we were all admiring an India cabinet, and on ſeeing he was obſerved, he left her with an air of conſcious guilt which convinces me he intends to follow the purſuit, and is at the ſame time aſhamed of his purpoſe: poor fellow! I pity him; but marriage is his [46] only card. I'll put the matter forward, and make my lord invite her to the next ball. Don't you think I am a generous creature, to ſacrifice the man I love to his own good? When ſhall I ſee one of your ſelfiſh ſex ſo diſintereſted? no, you men have abſolutely no idea of ſentiment.

TO GEORGE MORDAUNT, Eſq

IT is the cuſtom here for every body to ſpend their mornings as they pleaſe, which does not however hinder our ſome times making parties all together when our inclinations happen all to take the ſame turn. My lord this morning pro⯑poſed an airing to the ladies, and that we ſhould, inſtead of returning to dinner, ſtop at the firſt neat farm houſe where we could hope for decent accommodations. Love of variety made the propoſal agreea⯑ble to us all; and a ſervant being ordered [47] before to make ſome little proviſion, we ſtopped, after the pleaſanteſt airing ima⯑ginable, at the entrance of a wood, where leaving our equipages to be ſent to the neighbouring village, we walked up a winding path to a ruſtic building, em⯑boſomed in the grove, the architecture of which was in the moſt elegant ſtile of ſim⯑plicity: the trees around this lovely re⯑treat were covered with wood-bines and jeſſamines, from which a gale of perfume met our approach: the gentleſt breath of Zephyr juſt moved the leaves, the birds ſung in the branches, a ſpring of the cleareſt water broke from the riſing ground on the left, and murmuring along a tranſ⯑parent pebbly bottom, ſeemed to loſe it⯑ſelf in a thicket of roſes: no rude ſound diſturbed the ſweet harmony of nature; all breathed the ſoul of innocence and tran⯑quillity, but a tranquillity raiſed above itſelf. My heart danced with pleaſure, and the lovely lady Julia happening to be next [48] me, I kiſſed her hand with an involuntary fer⯑vor, which called up into her cheeks a bluſh ‘"celeſtial roſy red."’ When we entered the houſe, we were ſtruck with the propriety, the beauty, the ſimplicity of all around us; the apartments were few, but airy and commodious; the furniture plain, but new and in the moſt beautiful taſte; no ornaments but vaſes of flowers, no at⯑tendants but country girls, blooming as the morn, and dreſt with a neatneſs inex⯑preſſible.

After an elegant cold dinner, and a de⯑ſert of cream and the beſt fruits in ſeaſon, we walked into the wood with which the houſe was ſurrounded, the romantic var⯑riety of which it is impoſſible to deſcribe; all was nature, but nature in her moſt plea⯑ſing form: We wandered over the ſweet⯑ly varyed ſcene, reſting at intervals in ar⯑bours of intermingled roſes and jeſſamines, till we reached a beautiful moſſy grotto, [49] wildly lovely, whoſe entrance was almoſt hid by the vines which ſlaunted over its top. Here we found tea and coffee pre⯑pared as if by inviſible hands; Lady Anne exclaimed that all was enchantment, and Lord Belmont's eyes ſparkled with that lively joy, which a benevolent mind feels in communicating happineſs to others.

Lady Julia alone ſeemed not to taſte the pleaſures of the day: Her charming eyes had a melancholy langour I never ſaw in them before; ſhe was reſerved, ſilent, abſent, and would not have eſcaped Lady Anne's raillery, had not the latter been too much taken up with the lovely ſcene to attend to any thing but joy.

As friendſhip has a thouſand groundleſs fears, I tremble leſt I ſhould have been ſo unhappy as to offend her: I remember ſhe ſeemed diſpleaſed with my kiſſing her [50] hand, and ſcarce ſpoke to me the whole day: I will beg of Lady Anne to aſk the cauſe, for I cannot ſupport the apprehen⯑ſion of having offended her.

It was with difficulty Lord Belmont forced us at night from this enchanting re⯑tirement, which he calls his hermitage, and which is the ſcene of his moſt pleaſing hours. To Lady Anne and me it had a charm it did not want, the powerful charm of novelty: it is about four miles from Belmont houſe, not far diſtant from the extremities of the park. To this place I am told Lord Belmont often retires with his amiable family, and thoſe particularly happy in his eſteem, to avoid the hurry of company, and give himſelf up entirely to the uninterrupted ſweets of domeſtic enjoyment. Sure no man but Lord Bel⯑mont knows how to live!

To Col. BELLVILLE.

LORD, theſe prudes—no, don't let me injure her—theſe people of high ſentiment, are ſo tremblingly alive all o'er—there is poor Harry in terrible diſgrace with Lady Julia for only kiſſing her hand: and amidſt ſo bewitching a ſcene too, that I am really ſurprized at his moderation; all breathed the ſoul of pleaſure;—roſy bowers and moſſy pillows, cooing doves and whiſ⯑pering Zephyrs—I think my Lord has a ſtrange confidence in his daughter's inſen⯑ſibility to truſt her in theſe ſeducing groves, and with ſo divine a fellow in compa⯑ny—But as I was ſaying, ſhe takes the affair quite ſeriouſly, and makes it an of⯑fence of the blackeſt die—Well, I thank my ſtars I am not one of theſe ſenſitive plants; he might have kiſſed my hand twenty times without my being more a⯑larmed [52] than if a fly had ſettled there; nay a thouſand to one whether I had even been conſcious of it at all.

I have laughed her out of her reſent⯑ment, for it is really abſurd; the poor fellow was abſolutely miſerable about it, and begged my interceſſion, as if it had been a matter of the higheſt importance. When I ſaw her begin to be aſhamed of the thing, Really, my dear, ſays I, I am glad you are convinced how ridiculous your anger was, for illnatured people might have put ſtrange conſtructions.—I know but one way of accounting rationally—if I was Harry I ſhould be extremely flattered—one would almoſt ſuppoſe.—This anſwered,—I carry⯑ed my point, and transfered the pretty thing's anger to me; it bluſhed with indig⯑nation, drew up, and if mamma had not happened to enter the room at that inſtant, an agreeable ſcene of altercation would pro⯑bably have enſued: ſhe took that op⯑portunity [53] of retiring to her apartment, and we ſaw no more of her till dinner, when ſhe was gracious to Harry, and ex⯑ceedingly ſtately to me.

O mon Dieu! I had almoſt forgot: we are to have a little concert this evening; and ſee, my dear Lord appears to ſummon me. Adio! Caro!

To HENRY MANDEVILLE, Eſq

YES, my dear ſon, you do me juſtice: I am never ſo happy as when I know you are ſo. I perfectly agree with you as to the charms of Lord Belmont's hermit⯑age, and admire that genuine taſte for ele⯑gant nature which gives ſuch a ſpirited variety to the life of the wiſeſt and moſt amiable of men.

But does it not, my dear Harry, give you at the ſame time a very contemptible [54] idea of the power of greatneſs to make its poſſeſſors happy, to ſee it thus flying as it were from itſelf, and ſeeking pleaſure not in the fruition, but in the temporary ſuſ⯑penſion, of thoſe ſuppoſed advantages it has above other conditions of life? Believe me it is not in the coſtly dome, but in the rural cott, that the impartial Lord of all has fixed the chearful ſeat of happineſs. Health, peace, content, and ſoft domeſtic tenderneſs, the only real ſweets of life, driven from the gilded palace, ſmile on the humble roof of virtuous induſtry.

The poor complain not of the tediouſ⯑neſs of life: their daily toil makes ſhort the flying hours, and every moment of reſt from labor is to them a moment of enjoyment. Not ſo the great: Surrounded from earlieſt youth by pleaſures which court their acceptance, their taſte palled by habit, and the too great facility of ſatia⯑ting every wiſh, laſſitude and diſguſt creep [55] on their languid hours; and wanting the doubtful gale of hope to keep the mind in gentle agitation, it ſinks into a dead calm more deſtructive to every enjoyment than the rudeſt ſtorm of adverſity. The haughty Dutcheſs, oppreſſed with taſteleſs pomp, and ſinking under the weight of her own importance, is much leſs to be envyed than ‘"the milk-maid ſinging blithe,"’ who is in her eyes the object only of pity and contempt.

Your acquaintance with the great world, my dear Harry, has ſhown you the ſplendid miſery of ſuperior life: you have ſeen thoſe moſt wretched to whom heaven has granted the ampleſt external means of happineſs. Miſerable ſlaves to pride, the moſt corroding of human paſſions, ſtrang⯑ers to ſocial pleaſure, incapable of love or friendſhip, living to others not to them⯑ſelves, ever in purſuit of the ſhadow of happineſs, whilſt the ſubſtance glides [56] paſt them unobſerved, they drag on an inſipid joyleſs being: unloved and un⯑connected, ſcorning the tender ties which give life all its ſweetneſs, they ſink unwept and unlamented to the grave. They know not the converſation of a friend, that con⯑verſation which ‘"brightens the eyes:"’ their pride, an invaſion on the natural rights of mankind, meets with perpetual mortification; and their rage for diſſipa⯑tion, like the burning thirſt of a fever, is at once boundleſs and unquenchable.

Yet tho' happineſs loves the vale, it would be unjuſt to confine her to thoſe humble ſcenes; nor is her preſence, as our times afford a ſhining and amiable example, unattainable to royalty itſelf: the wiſe and good, whate'er their rank, led by the hand of ſimple unerring nature, are ſel⯑dom known to miſs their way to her de⯑lightful abode.

[57] You have ſeen Lord Belmont (bleſt with wiſdom to chuſe, and fortune to pur⯑ſue his choice, convinced that wealth and titles, the portion of few, are not only foreign to, but often inconſiſtent with, true happineſs) ſeek the lovely goddeſs, not in the pride of ſhow, the pomp of courts, or the madneſs of diſſipation; but in the calm of retirement, in the boſom of friendſhip, in the ſweets of dear domeſ⯑tick life, in the tender pleaſing duties of huſband and of father, in the practice of beneficence, and every gentler virtue. Others may be like him convinced, but few like him have ſpirit and reſolution to burſt the magic fetters of example and faſhion, and nobly dare to be happy.

What pleaſure does it give me to find you in ſo juſt a way of thinking in regard to fortune! Yes, my dear Harry, all that in reality deſerves the name of good, ſo far as it centers in ourſelves, is within [58] the reach, not only of our moderate in⯑come, but of one much below it. Great wealth is only deſirable for the power it gives us of making others happy, and when one ſees how very few make this only laudable uſe of extreme affluence, one acquieſces chearfully in the will of heaven, ſatisfied with not having the temptation of miſapplying thoſe gifts of the ſupreme being, for which we ſhall un⯑doubtedly be accountable.

Nothing can, as you obſerve, be more worthy a reaſonable creature than Lord Belmont's plan of life: he has enlarged his own circle of happineſs, by taking into it that of all mankind, and parti⯑cularly of all around him: his bounty glides unobſerved, like the deep ſilent ſtream, nor is it by relieving ſo much as by preventing want, that his generous ſpirit acts: its his glory and his pleaſure [59] that he muſt go beyond the limits of his own eſtate to find objects of real diſtreſs.

He encourages induſtry, and keeps up the ſoul of chearfulneſs amongſt his ten⯑ants, by maintaining as much as poſſible the natural equality of mankind on his eſtate: His farms are not large, but moderately rented; all are at eaſe, and can provide happily for their families, none riſe to ex⯑orbitant wealth. The very cottagers are ſtrangers to all that even approaches want: when the buſier ſeaſons of the year are paſt, he gives them employment in his woods or gardens; and finds double beauties in every improvement there, when he reflects that from thence

Plenty, the child of induſtry, ſmiles on their humble abodes, and if any un⯑foreſeen [60] misfortune nips the bloſſoms of their proſperity, his bounty, deſcending ſilent and refreſhing as the dews of hea⯑ven, renews their blooming ſtate, and reſtores joy to their happy dwellings.

To ſay all in one word, the maxims by which he governs all the actions of his life are manly, benevolent, enlarged, liberal; and his generous paſſion for the good of others is rewarded by his creator, whoſe approbation is his firſt point of view, with as much happineſs to him⯑ſelf as this ſublunary ſtate is capable of. Adieu!

To Col. BELLVILLE.

YES, I am indeed fond of your Ita⯑liano; it is the language of Love and the Muſes: has a certain ſoftneſs and all that;—and by no means difficult to underſtand—at leaſt it is tolerably eaſy to underſtand as much of it as I do, as much [61] as enables one to be conceited, and give one's ſelf airs amongſt thoſe who are total⯑ly ignorant: when this happens, I look aſtoniſhed at the Gothic creatures.—‘"Hea⯑vens! my dear Madam, not know Italian? how I pity your ſavage igno⯑rance! not know Italian! La Lingua D'Amore? Oh! Mirtillo! Mirtillo! Anima mia!"’—The dear creatures ſtare, and hate one ſo cordially, it is really charm⯑ing.—And if one now and then unlucki⯑ly blunders upon ſomebody who is more in the ſecret than one's ſelf, a downcaſt look, and Ho vergogna Signora, ſaves all, and does credit at once to one's learning and one's modeſtry. Flattered too by ſo plain a confeſſion of their ſuperiority, they give you credit for whatever degree of know⯑ledge you deſire, and go away ſo ſatisfied—and exclaim in all companies, ‘"upon my word Lady Anne Wilmot is abſolutely an exquiſite miſtreſs of Italian, only a little too diffident."’

[62] I am juſt come from playing at ball in the garden, Lord Belmont of the party: this ſweet old man! I am half in love with him, though I have no kind of hopes, for he told me yeſterday, that lovely as I was, Lady Belmont was in his eyes a thou⯑ſand times more ſo. How amiable is age like his! ſo condeſcending to the pleaſures of the young! ſo charmed to ſee them hap⯑py! he gains infinitely in point of love by this eaſy goodneſs, and as to reſpect, his virtues cannot fail to command it.

Oh! a propos to age, my Lord ſays he he is ſure I ſhall be a moſt agreeable old woman, and I am almoſt of his opinion. Adieu! creature! I can no more.

By the way, do you know that Harry's Cittadina has taken a prodigious Penchant for me, and vows no woman on earth has ſo much wit or ſpirit, or politeſſe, as Lady Anne Wilmot. Something like a glim⯑mering [63] of taſte this: I proteſt I begin to think the girl not quite ſo intolerable.

To the Earl of BELMONT.

AN unforeſeen inevitable misfortune having happened to me, for which a too careleſs oeconomy had left me total⯑ly unprovided, I find it neceſſary to ſell my eſtate and quit the country.

I could find a ready purchaſer in Mr. Weſtbrook, who with, the mercileſs ra⯑pacity of an exchange broker, watches like a harpy the decline of every gentle⯑man's fortune in his neighbourhood, in order to ſeize on his poſſeſſions: but the tender affection I bear my tenants, makes me ſolicitous to conſult their good as much as poſſible in the ſale, ſince my hard fate [64] will not allow me longer to contribute to it myſelf: I will not here ſay more than that I cannot provide more effectually for their happineſs than by ſelling to your lordſhip.

TO JAMES BARKER, Eſq

I Am extremely concerned any accident ſhould have happened which makes it poſſible I ſhould loſe from my neigh⯑borhood a gentleman of family, of ſo very worthy a character, and one I ſo greatly eſteem: but I hope means may be found to prevent what would be ſo extremely [65] regretted by all who have the pleaſure of knowing you.

As I have always regarded the indepen⯑dent country gentlemen as the ſtrength and glory of this kingdom, and the beſt ſupports of our excellent conſtitution, no increaſe of power or property to myſelf ſhall ever tempt me to leſſen the number of them, where it can poſſibly be avoided. If you have reſolution to enter on ſo exact a ſyſtem of oeconomy as will enable you to repay any ſum you may wantin ſeven years, whatever that ſum is, I ſhall be moſt hap⯑py in advancing it and will take it back in the manner moſt eaſy to you. I think I could trace out a plan by which you might retrench conſiderably in a manner ſcarce perceptible. I will to-morrow morning call upon you when I am riding out, when we will talk further on this ſub⯑ject; be aſſured none of the greedy Le⯑viathans of our days can feel half the [66] pleaſure in compleating a purchaſe that I ſhall do in declining this, if I can be ſo happy as to keep you amongſt us. Your accepting this without heſitation, will be a proof of your eſteem which I can never forget, as it will ſhew you think too high⯑ly of me to fear my making an ill uſe hereafter of having had the happineſs of doing for you what, if we were to change preſent ſituations, I know you would re⯑joice in doing for me. I have a fund which I call the bank of friendſhip, on which it is my rule to take no intereſt, which you may command to its utmoſt extent.

To Col. BELLVILLE.

TO GEORGE MORDAUNT, Eſq

I Have juſt received a letter which makes me the moſt unhappy of mankind: 't is from a lady whoſe fortune is greatly above my moſt fanguine hopes, and whoſe merit and tenderneſs deſerve that heart which I feel it is not in my power to give her. The general complacency of my behaviour to the lovely ſex, and my hav⯑ing been accidentally her partner at two or three balls, has deceived her into an opi⯑nion that ſhe is beloved by me; and ſhe imagines ſhe is only returning a paſſion which her ſuperiority of fortune has pre⯑vented my declaring. How much is ſhe to be pitied! my heart knows too well the pangs of diſappointed love not to feel moſt tenderly for the ſufferings of another, without the additional motive to compaſſion of being the undeſigned [77] cauſe of thoſe ſufferings, the ſevereſt of which human nature is capable. I am embarraſſed to the greateſt degree, not what reſolution to take, that required not a moment's deliberation, but how to ſoften the ſtroke, and in what manner, without wounding her delicacy, to decline an offer, which ſhe has not the leaſt doubt of my accepting with all the eager tranſport of timid love, ſurpriſed by unexpected ſuc⯑ceſs.

I have wrote to her, and think I ſhall ſend this anſwer; I encloſe you a copy of it: her letter is already deſtroyed: her name I conceal: the honor of a lady is too ſacred to be truſted, even to the faith⯑ful breaſt of a friend.

I ought perhaps to be more explicit in my refuſal of her, but I cannot bring myſelf to ſhock her ſenſibility, by an ap⯑pearance of total indifference. Surely this is ſufficiently clear, and as much as can be ſaid by a man ſenſible of, and grateful for, ſo infinite an obligation.

You will ſmile when I own, that, in the midſt of my concern for this lady, I feel a ſecret, and, I fear, an ungenerous, pleaſure, in ſacrificing her to lady Julia's friendſhip, tho' the latter will never be ſenſible of the ſacrifice.

[80] Yes, my friend, every idea of an eſta⯑bliſhment in the world, however remote or however advantageous, dies away be⯑fore the joy of being eſteemed by her, and at liberty to cultivate that eſteem; deter⯑mined againſt marriage, I have no wiſh, no hope, but that of being for ever uncon⯑nected, for ever bleſt in her converſation, for ever allowed uninterrupted, unreſ⯑trained by nearer ties, to hear that en⯑chanting voice, to ſwear on that ſnowy hand eternal amity, to liſten to the un⯑reſerved ſentiments of the moſt beautiful mind in the creation, uttered with the me⯑lody of angels. Had I worlds, I would give them to inſpire her with the ſame wiſhes!

To Col. BELLVILLE.

TO HENRY MANDEVILLE, Eſq

YOU can have no idea, my dear Mr. Mandeville, how weary I am of being theſe few days only in town: that any one, who is happy enough to have a houſe, a cottage, in the country, ſhould continue here at this ſeaſon, is to me incon⯑ceivable: but that gentlemen of large property, that noblemen ſhould impriſon themſelves in this ſmoking furnace, when the whole land is a blooming garden, a wil⯑derneſs of ſweets; when pleaſure courts [86] them in her faireſt form; nay, when the ſordid god of modern days, when intereſt joins his potent voice; when power, the beſt power, that of doing good, ſolicits their preſence, can only be accounted for, by ſuppoſing them under the dominion of faſcination, ſpell-caught by ſome mali⯑cious demon, an enemy to human hap⯑pineſs.

I cannot reſiſt addreſſing them in a ſtan⯑za or two of a poem, which deſerves to be wrote in letters of gold.

Can a nobleman of ſpirit prefer the rude inſults of a licentious London rabble, the refuſe of every land, to the warm and faith⯑ful attachment of a brave, a generous, a free, and loyal yeomanry in the country. Does not intereſt, as well as virtue and hu⯑manity, prompt them, by living on their eſtates, to imitate the heavens, which re⯑turn the moiſture they draw from the earth, in grateful dews and ſhowers?

When I firſt came to Belmont, having been ſome years abroad, I found my te⯑nants poor and dejected, ſcarce able to gain a hard penurious living. The neigh⯑bouring gentlemen ſpending two thirds of [89] the year in London, and the town, which was the market for my eſtate, filled only with people in trade, who could ſcarce live by each other: I ſtruck at the root of this evil, and, by living almoſt altoge⯑ther in the country myſelf, brought the whole neighbourhood to do the ſame. I promoted every kind of diverſion, which ſoon filled my town with gentlemen's fa⯑milies, which raiſed the markets, and of conſequence the value of my eſtate: my tenants grew rich at the ſame rents which before they were unable to pay, population encreaſed, my villages were full of inha⯑bitants, and all around me was gay and flouriſhing; ſo ſimple, my dear Mr. Man⯑deville are the maxims of true policy: but it muſt be ſo; that machine which has the feweſt wheels is certainly moſt eaſy to keep in order.

Have you had my old men to dine? at ſixty I admit them to my table, where they are always once a fortnight my gueſts. [90] I love to converſe with thoſe, ‘"whom age and long experience render wiſe";’ and, in my idea of things, it is time to ſlacken the reins of pride, and to wave all ſublunary diſtinctions, when they are ſo near being at an end between us. Beſides I know, by my own feelings, that age wants the comforts of life: a plentiful table generous wines, chearful converſe, and the notice of thoſe they have been ac⯑cuſtomed to revere, renews in ſome degree the fire of youth, gives a ſpring to declin⯑ing nature, and perhaps prolongs as well as enliven the evening of their days. Nor is it a ſmall addition to my ſatisfaction, to ſee the reſpect paid them by the young of their own rank, from the obſervation of their being thus diſtinguiſhed by me: as an old man, I have a kind of intereſt in making age an object of reverence; but, were I ever ſo young, I would continue a cuſtom, which appears to me not leſs juſt than humane.

[91] Adieu! my eſteemed, my amiable friend! how I envy you your larks and nightingales!

To Col. BELLVILLE.

POSITIVELY, Bellville, I can an⯑ſwer for nothing: theſe ſylvan ſcenes are ſo very bewitching, the vernal grove, and balmy Zephyr, are ſo favourable to a lover's prayer, that if Fondville was any thing but a pretty man about town, my ſituation would be extremely critical.

This wicked Harry too has certainly ſome evil deſign; he forms nothing but enchanting rural parties, either a quarrée, or with others of the young and gay: not a maiden aunt has appeared at Belmont ſince his reign commenced; he ſuffers no ideas to enter our imaginations but thoſe [92] of youth, beauty, love, and the ſeducing pleaſures of the golden age. We dance on the green, dine at the Hermitage, and wander in the woods by moonlight, liſten⯑ing to the ſong of the nightingale, or the ſweeter notes of that little ſyren lady Julia, whoſe impaſſioned ſounds would ſoften the marble heart of a virgin of eighty⯑five.

I really tremble for my fair friend; young, artleſs, full of ſenſibility, expoſed hourly to the charms of the prettieſt fellow upon earth, with a manner ſo ſoft, ſo tender, ſo much in her own romantic way—

A rap at my door—Fondville is ſent for away—company at his houſe—ſets out immediately—I muſt bid the dear crea⯑ture adieu—

I am returned: pity me, Bellville.

Yes, the dear man is gone; Harry is retired to write letters, and Lady Julia and I are going to take a walk, Tete à Tete, in the wood. Jeſu Maria! a female Tete à Tete!—I ſhall never go through the operation—if we were en confidence in⯑deed it might be bearable: but the little innocent fool has not even a ſecret.

Adio!

TO GEORGE MORDAUNT, Eſq

O Mordaunt! I am indeed undone: I was too confident of my own ſtrength: I depended on the power of gra⯑titude and honor over my heart, but find them too weak to defend me againſt ſuch inexpreſſible lovelineſs: I could have re⯑ſiſted her beauty only, but the mind which irradiates thoſe ſpeaking eyes—the melt⯑ing muſic of thoſe gentle accents, ‘"ſoft as the fleeces of deſcending ſnows,"’ the delicacy, yet lively tenderneſs of her ſen⯑timents—that angel innocence—that win⯑ning ſweetneſs—the abſence of her pa⯑rents, and lady Anne's coquetry with lord Fondville, have given me opportunities of converſing with her, which have for ever deſtroyed my peace—I muſt tear myſelf from her—I will leave Belmont the moment my lord returns—I am for ever loſt—doomed to wretchedneſs—but [95] I will be wretched alone—I tremble leſt my eyes ſhould have diſcovered—leſt pity ſhould involve her in my miſery.

Great heavens! was I not ſufficiently unhappy! to ſtab me to the heart I have juſt received the following letter from lord Belmont.

Can I, after this letter, my dear Mor⯑daunt, entertain a wiſh for lady Julia, with⯑out the blackeſt ingratitude? no, tho' I will not accept his generous offer, I can never forget he has made it. I will leave Belmont—I will forget her—what have I ſaid? forget her? I muſt firſt loſe all ſenſe of my own being.

[103] Am I born to know every ſpecies of mi⯑ſery? I have this moment received a ſe⯑cond letter from the lady I once mention'd to you, filled with the ſofteſt and moſt af⯑fecting expreſſions of diſintereſted tender⯑neſs: indiſcreet from exceſs of affection, ſhe adjures me to meet her one moment in the ruſtic temple, where ſhe is waiting for me; her meſſenger is gone, and as I will not hazard expoſing her by ſending my ſer⯑vant, I have no choice left but to go: Heaven knows how unwillingly! ſhould we be ſeen, what an appearance would ſuch a meeting have! I left Lady Julia to write letters, and on that account excus'd myſelf from attending her: yet can I leave her whom love alone has made imprudent, to the conſequence of her indiſcretion, and the wild ſallies of a mind torn by diſap⯑pointment and deſpair! I will go: but how ſhall I behold her! how tell her, pity is all I can return to ſo generous a paſſion? Theſe trials are too great for a heart like mine, [104] tender, ſympathetic, compaſſionate; and ſoften'd by the ſenſe of it's own ſufferings: I ſhall expire with regret and confuſion at her ſight.

To Col. BELLVILLE.

TO GEORGE MORDAUNT, Eſq

To Col. BELLVILLE.

To Col. BELLVILLE.

TO GEORGE MORDAUNT, Eſq

THEY are come; the impatient villagers crowd the hall, eager to behold them, tranſport in every eye, whilſt the noble pair ſcarce retain the tender tear of glowing benevolence. How lovely a picture was the audience they come from giving! how ſweet the intercourſe of warm beneficence and ardent gratitude! my heart melted at the ſight. This evening is devoted to joy—I alone—O Mor⯑daunt! have I known this paradiſe only to be driven for ever from it?

I cannot to night mention leaving Bel⯑mont; to morrow I will propoſe it; I am in doubt where to go; my father is abſent from camp on a viſit of a fortnight, to the Duke of —, his Colonel. I [134] have ſome thoughts of going to Lord T—'s, till his return: perhaps I may come to town; all places but this are equal to me yet: I muſt leave it; I am every moment more ſenſible of my danger: yes, Mordaunt, I love her, I can no longer deceive myſelf; I love her with the fondeſt paſſion; friendſhip is too cold a name for what I feel, too cold for charms like hers to inſpire: yet, heaven is my witneſs, I am incapable of a wiſh to her diſadvantage; her happineſs is my firſt, my only object—I know not what I would ſay,—why does fortune for ever oppoſe the tender union of hearts!

To Col. BELLVILLE.

MY Lord has brought us a thouſand preſents, a thouſand books, a thou⯑ſand trinkets, all in ſo exquiſite a taſte—He is the ſweeteſt man in the world cer⯑tainly—Such delight in obliging—'Tis happy for you he is not thirty years younger and diſengaged; I ſhould infallibly have a paſſion—He has brought Harry the di⯑vineſt horſe; we have been ſeeing him ride, ‘"ſpring from the ground like fea⯑ther'd Mercury"’—you can have no con⯑ception how handſome he looks on horſe⯑back—poor Lady Julia's little innocent heart—I can't ſay I was abſolutely inſenſi⯑ble myſelf—you know I am infinitely fond of beauty, and vaſtly above diſſembling it: indeed it ſeems immenſely abſurd that one is allowed to be charm'd with living per⯑fection in every ſpecies but our own, and [136] that there one muſt admire only dead co⯑lours: one may talk in raptures of a life⯑leſs Adonis, and not of a breathing Harry Mandeville. Is not this a deſpicable kind of prudery? For my part, I think nature's coloring vaſtly preferable to the nobleſt attempts of art, and am not the leſs ſenſi⯑ble to the graces of a fine form becauſe it is animated. Adieu! we are going to dine at the hermitage; Lord Belmont is to be my Ceciſbeo.

TO GEORGE MORDAUNT, Eſq

HOW inconſiſtent is the human mind! I cannot leave Belmont, I cannot give up the delight of beholding her: I fancy a ſoftneſs in her manner which raiſes the moſt flattering ideas; ſhe bluſhes when her eyes meet mine—Tho' I ſee the mad⯑neſs of hope, I indulge it in ſpite of my⯑ſelf. No one can deſerve her; yet, as Lord [137] Belmont honors me with his eſteem, I would perſuade myſelf fortune alone for⯑bids—I will ſtruggle with impoſſibilities; I have many and powerful friends; we have a prince in the early prime of life, the ſeaſon of generous virtue; a prince to whom the patriot glow, and that diſintereſted loyalty, which is almoſt my whole inheri⯑tance, cannot but be the ſtrongeſt recom⯑mendations; to him it may be merit to have ſuffered when the baſeſt of the peo⯑ple roſe on the ruins of their country: thoſe ample poſſeſſions, which would have deſcended to me, and might have raiſed my hopes to the moſt angelic of woman⯑kind, were gloriouſly ſpent in endeavour⯑ing to ſupport the throne, when ſhook by the rage of faction and narrow-minded bigotted enthuſiaſm; the younger branch of our family eſcaped the ſtorm by having a minor at it's head: to this accident, the partiality of an anceſtor, and the military talents of his father, lord Belmont owes [138] the affluence he ſo nobly enjoys, and which I only, of all mankind, have cauſe to regret.

Theſe circumſtances raiſe a flattering hope—my views are confuſed, but I will purſue the track. If I ſucceed, I may openly avow my paſſion; if not, the ſecret of my love ſhall die with me: never, my friend, will I attempt her heart by unwor⯑thy means: let me endeavour to deſerve, and leave to heaven to determine whether I ſhall poſſeſs, the nobleſt gift it has to beſtow.

Farewel.

TO GEORGE MORDAUNT, Eſq

I Have heard from my father on the ſub⯑ject of Lady Mary's intended ſettle⯑ment, who extremely diſapproves my in⯑tention of entirely declining it, which he thinks cannot be founded on any motives [139] worthy of me, but on a falſe pride of diſ⯑daining to be obliged, which is in this caſe unjuſt, and greatly below my character: that I might as well object to receiving a part of his eſtate, which he intends to ſet⯑tle on me at the ſame time: he ſays Lord Belmont acts properly, and conſiſtently with himſelf, and does not at all mean to break in on that independence which can never be too highly valued: that Lady Julia would ſcarce perceive ſuch an additi⯑on to her already ſplendid fortune, whilſt this ſettlement fixes in ſome degree of af⯑fluence the elder branch of the family, which loſt its ſuperiority, by the injuſtice of an anceſtor, and that heroic loyalty which has ever characterized our houſe. That he will talk further with me on this ſubject when we meet, but in the mean time ad⯑viſes me, as a friend zealous for my inte⯑reſt, yet not the leſs attentive to my ho⯑nor, and the propriety of my conduct, to accept the immediate ſettlement of 500l. [140] a year, which will enable me to be ſervice⯑able to my country; but to poſtpone to ſome diſtant time ſettling the whole, and to inſiſt that Lady Mary be convinced I deſerve her friendſhip before ſhe laviſhes it ſo profuſely on me.

This advice gives me pleaſure, as it coin⯑cides with my own preſent ſentiments; eager to purſue my ſcheme of riſing to ſuch conſequence as may juſtify my hopes of the only event deſirable to me in this world, I am happy in the thought of appearing in every light in which I can attract the notice of my prince; and by ſteadily ſerv⯑ing him and my country, whoſe true in⯑tereſt muſt ever be the ſame, deſerve that favor on which all my deſigns are founded.

The time not being yet arrived when I can ſerve the nobleſt cauſe in the ſenate, I will go to Germany, and endeavour firſt to ſignalize myſelf in the manner moſt ſuited [141] to my period of life, the ſeaſon of action, not of counſel: it is ſhameful at my age, to recline in the flowery bower of indolence, when the whole world is in arms; I have not yet begun to live; my time has hither⯑to been leſs paſs'd in acting, than in pre⯑paring to act, my part on the great theatre of human life.

O Mordaunt! ſhould I ſucceed in my views! ſhould the hour come when I may openly avow my paſſion for the moſt love⯑ly of womankind! this is the ſweet hope which fires my ſoul, and animates me to the glorious purſuit. Why do cloſeted moraliſts, ſtrangers to the human heart, rail indiſcriminately at love? when inſpir⯑ed by a worthy object, it leads to every thing that is great and noble; warmed by by the deſire of being approved by her, there is nothing I would not attempt. I will to-day write to my father for his con⯑ſent, [142] and embark immediately for the army.

I have juſt received your letter: you call my deſign madneſs, the light in which every animated purpoſe will appear to minds in⯑active, unimpaſſioned, and ſunk in the lethargic calm of lifeleſs tranquillity.—Mor⯑daunt, you ſpeak the cold language of a heart at reſt: talk not of impoſſibilities; nothing is impoſſible to a ſoul impelled by the moſt lively of all paſſions, and ardent in a purſuit on which its whole happineſs depends; nothing is impoſſible to him who aſpires to pleaſe the moſt lovely, the moſt amiable, the moſt exalted of her ſex.

I feel, I know I ſhall be ſucceſsful; I aſk not advice, but declare my ſettled pur⯑poſe: I am already determined, and if your friendſhip be warm as mine, you will not torture me by further oppoſition. My fa⯑ther alone has power to change my reſolu⯑tion, [143] but it is a power he will not exert: I ſhall aſk his permiſſion, but inform him at the ſame time, that, by refuſing, he cuts off all the hope of my future days, and chains me down to a life of taſteleſs inſenſibility.

I know him well; he will adviſe, he will remonſtrate, if he diſapproves; but he will leave me that freedom of choice which is the inherent right of every rational being, and which he never, in one inſtance, in⯑vaded, when I was much leſs capable of judging for myſelf.

Fearful however leſt he ſhould diſapprove my paſſion for Lady Julia, I ſhall not de⯑clare it to him at preſent; but, as I never will even tacitly deceive him, I ſhall tell him I have a motive to this deſign, which I beg his leave to conceal from him till I have a proſpect of ſucceſs.

[144] I this morning mentioned leaving Bel⯑mont, but my Lord inſiſts on my ſtaying a few days longer, which are devoted to do⯑meſtic happineſs. I cannot refuſe without making him ſuſpect ſome latent cauſe; nor will it make any difference in my plan, ſince I muſt wait ſomewhere an anſwer from my father, which will reach Belmont about the time I ſhall now leave it. Tomorrow ſe'n⯑night expect me in town: I ſhall ſtay but two nights: I need little preparation: my equipage and attendance are already greatly beyond my fortune, and rather ſuited to what you call the madneſs of my expectations: my father, the moſt generous of mankind, has always proportioned my expences more to my birth than his moderate income: as my companions have ever been of the firſt rank, he has ſupported me greatly above myſelf, and on a full equality with them, leſt I ſhould be dazzled to mean compli⯑ances with their faults, by the falſe ſplendor [145] they might receive from a ſuperiority in theſe outward diſtinctions.

Did I tell you Lord Belmont had pre⯑ſented me with a beautiful Arabian horſe, which he bought when in town? What delight has he in giving pleaſure to others! what addition, if that can admit addition, to the happineſs of the man who is bleſt with Lady Julia, will it be to be ſo nearly allied to worth like Lord Belmont's!

O Mordaunt! were it poſſible!—it is, it muſt—I will not give room to the fainteſt idea of diſappointment.

Adieu! I have this moment a letter from my father, which I muſt anſwer to night.

TO HENRY MANDEVILLE, Eſq

IT gives me the warmeſt pleaſure, my dear ſon, to find you are pleaſed with the expenſive education I have given you, though it reduces your fortune conſidera⯑bly below what it might otherwiſe have been: I conſidered that wealth, if neceſ⯑ſary to happineſs, which I do not believe, might be acquired; but that the flying hours of youth, the ſeaſon of inſtruction, are never to be recalled.

I have the happineſs to ſee you reward and juſtify my cares by a generous freedom of thinking, and nobleneſs of ſentiment, which the common methods of education might have crampt, or perhaps totally de⯑ſtroy'd. It has always appeared to me, that [147] our underſtandings are fettered by ſyſtems, and our hearts corrupted by example: and that there needs no more to minds well diſpoſed than to recover their native free⯑dom, and think and act from themſelves. Full of this idea, I have inſtructed you how, but never what to think; I have pointed out the road which leads to truth, but have left you to diſcover her abode by your own ſtrength of mind: even on the moſt im⯑portant of all ſubjects, I have ſaid no more, than that conviction muſt be on the ſide of that religion, which teaches the pureſt and moſt benevolent morality, is moſt con⯑ducive to the general happineſs of man⯑kind, and gives the moſt ſublime idea of the Deity.

Convinced that the ſeeds of virtue are innate, I have only watched to cheriſh the riſing ſhoots, and prune, but with a trem⯑bling hand, the too luxuriant branches.

[148] By virtue I would here be underſtood to mean, not a partial attention to any one duty of life, but that rectitude of heart, which leads us to fulfil all, as far as the frailty of human nature will permit, and which is a conſtant monitor of our faults. Confu⯑cius has well obſerved, that virtue does not conſiſt in never erring, which is impoſſible, but in recovering as faſt as we can from our errors.

With what joy, my deareſt Harry, did I early ſee in you that warmth oftemper, which is alone productive of every extraordinary exertion of the human mind, the proper ſoil of genius and the virtues; that heat from which light is inſeparable!

I have only one fear for you; inured to a habit of profuſe expence, I dread your being unable to practice that frugality, which will now be indiſpenſable. To lady Mary's intended ſettlement, I will add a [149] third of my eſtate, but even that is below your birth, and the manner of life to which you are habituated. But why do I doubt you! I know your generoſity of ſpirit, and ſcorn of every ſpecies of ſlavery; that you will not deſcend to be indebted, to with-hold a moment the price of labo⯑rious induſtry, or leſſen the honeſt pro⯑fit of the trader, by a delay yet more de⯑ſtructive to yourſelf than to him.

Intended to become a part of the legiſlative power, you are doubly bound to keep your⯑ſelf from all temptation of corruption or de⯑pendence, by living within your income; the ampleſt eſtate is wretched penury, if ex⯑ceeded by the expences of its poſſeſſor.

Need I ſay more to recommend oecono⯑my to a ſpirit like yours, than that it is the fountain of liberality, and the parent of independence?

You enquire after the place where I am: it is, except Belmont, the ſweeteſt ſpot I [150] ever beheld, but in a different ſtyle: the ſituation is rather beautiful than magnifi⯑cent. There is a mild elegance, a refined ſimplicity in the air of all around, ſtrongly expreſſive of the mind of its amiable poſ⯑ſeſſor; a poetic wildneſs, a luxuriant glow, like that of primeval nature, adorned by the hand of the Graces.

The ſame ſpirit of liberty breathes here as with you: we are all perfectly at home; our time is ſubject to no reſtraint but that which our deſire of obliging each other makes a voluntary impoſition.

I am now alone, ſitting in an arbour, attentive to the lively chant of the birds, who ſwell their little throats with a morn⯑ing hymn of gratitude to their creator: whilſt I liſten, I think of thoſe ſweet lines of Cowley:

'Tis yet early day: the flocks and herds are ſpreading over the diſtant meadows, and joining the univerſal ſong of praiſe to the beneficent Lord of nature.

Rejoicing in the general joy, I adore the God who has expanded ſo wide the circle of happineſs, and endeavour to regulate my own deſires by attending to the ſimpli⯑city of theirs.

When I ſee the dumb creation, my dear Harry, purſuing ſteadily the purpoſes of their being, their own private happineſs, and the good of their peculiar ſpecies, I am aſtoniſhed at the folly and degeneracy of man, who acts in general ſo directly con⯑trary to both; for both are invariably united.

The wiſe and benevolent creator has placed the ſupreme felicity of every indi⯑vidual [152] in thoſe kind domeſtic ſocial affec⯑tions, which tend to the well-being of the whole. Whoever preſumes to deviate from this plan, the plan of God and nature, ſhall find ſatiety, regret, or diſappointment his reward.

I this moment receive your letter: you judge perfectly well in ſaying, there is an activity and reſtleſsneſs in the mind of man, which makes it impoſſible for him to be happy in a ſtate of abſolute inaction: ſome point of view, ſome favourite purſuit is ne⯑ceſſary to keep the mind awake. 'Tis on this principle alone one can account for what ſeems ſo extraordinary to the eyes of impartial reaſon, that avarice and ambition ſhould be the vices of age, that men ſhould moſt ardently purſue riches and honours at the time when they have the leaſt proſpect of enjoying them; the lively paſſions of youth ſubſiding, ſome active principle muſt be found to replace them; and where that warm benevolence of heart is wanting, [153] which is a perpetual ſource of ever new de⯑light, I do not wonder they engage in the chaſe of wealth and power, though ſure ſo ſoon to melt from their graſp.

The firſt purpoſe of my heart, next to that ſuperior and general one of making myſelf acceptable to my creator, was to render the moſt angelic of women, your lovely mother, happy, in that heaven was pleaſed to diſappoint my hopes, by taking her to itſelf; my ſecond has been to make you the moſt amiable of men, in which, I am not afraid to ſay to yourſelf, I have been ſucceſsful, beyond my moſt ſanguine wiſhes.

Adieu, my dear ſon! may you ſucceed in every purpoſe of your ſoul as fully as I have done in this, and be as happy as your virtues have made your father!

To Col. BELLVILLE.

TO GEORGE MORDAUNT, Eſq

I Have been riding alone with Lord Bel⯑mont this morning, a pleaſure I very often enjoy, and on which I ſet infinite value: in thoſe hours of perfect confi⯑dence, I am certain of being inſtructed and amuſed, by a train of ideas uncom⯑mon, enlarged, noble, benevolent; and adapted to inſpire me with a love of virtue, by ſhowing her in her native charms: I ſhall be all my life the wiſer and worthier man, for the hours I have paſſed at Bel⯑mont.

[165] But, O Mordaunt! ſhall I be the hap⯑pieſt! that is in the boſom of futurity: a thouſand times have I been tempted, in theſe hours of indulgent friendſhip, to open all my heart to Lord Belmont.

I know his contempt of wealth, and how little he thinks it conducive to hap⯑pineſs. ‘"Heaven,"’ ſaid he to me this very morning, ‘"has bleſt me with afflu⯑ence: I am thankful, and endeavor to de⯑ſerve, by applying an ample portion of it to the purpoſes of beneficence. But for myſelf, my pleaſures are of ſo unexpenſive and ſimple a kind, that a diminution of fortune would take very little from my private felicity: Health, content, the ſweets of ſocial and domeſtick life, the only en⯑joyments ſuited to the nature of man, are and ought to be within the reach of all the ſpecies: yes, my dear Mr. Mandeville; it gives a double reliſh to all my pleaſures, [166] to reflect that they are ſuch as every man may enjoy if he will."’

Can this man, my dear Mordaunt, ſa⯑crifice the real happineſs of his child, the calm delight of domeſtic friendſhip on which he ſets ſuch value himſelf, to the gaudy trappings of taſteleſs grandeur? Did ſhe approve my paſſion, I ſhould hope every thing from the moſt indulgent of fathers.

He has refuſed Lord Fondville for Lady Julia, whoſe fortune is as large as avarice itſelf could deſire: Good heaven, that ſuch a man, without one other recommen⯑dation, without a ſoul to taſte even the charms of her perſon, can aſpire to all that can be imagined of perfection?

To Col. BELLVILLE.

O Ciel! I faint! what a world do we live in! How many unavoidable enemies to enjoyment! It is ſometimes too cold, ſometimes too hot to be happy! One is never pleaſed a week together. I ſhall abſolutely grow a ſnarling philoſopher, and find fault with every thing.

Theſe unconſcionable lovers have dragged me croſs an open meadow, expo⯑ſed to the ſun's burning rays—no mercy on my complexion—Lady Julia, ſure for her own ſake,—yet ſhe is laughing at my diſtreſs. I am too languid to ſay more.—O for a cooling breeze!

[168] We are going to have an addition to our group of friends: Emily Howard, daughter to the late dean of —, a diſtant relation and rector of the pariſh, being expected to-morrow at Belmont: ſhe is Lady Julia's friend in the moſt emphatical ſenſe of the word. Do you know I feel extremely inclined to be jealous of her? and am angry with myſelf for ſuch mean⯑neſs?

To Col. BELLVILLE.

To Col. BELLVILLE.

TO GEORGE MORDAUNT, Eſq

To Col. BELLVILLE.

OUR ramble yeſterday was infinitely agreeable; there is ſomething very charming in changing the ſcene; my Lord underſtands the art of making life pleaſur⯑able by making it various.

We have been to the pariſh church, to hear Dr. H. preach; he has that ſpirit in [179] his manner without which the moſt ſenſi⯑ble ſermon has very little effect on the hearers. The organ, which my Lord gave, is excellent. You know I think muſick an eſſential part of public worſhip, uſed as ſuch by the wiſeſt nations, and com⯑manded by God himſelf to the Jews; it has indeed ſo admirable an effect in diſpo⯑ſing the mind to devotion, that I think it ſhould never be omitted.

Our Sundays here are extremely plea⯑ſant: we have, after evening ſervice, a moving rural picture from the windows of the ſaloon, in the villagers, for whoſe a⯑muſement the gardens are that day thrown open.

Our ruſtic Mall is full from five till eight, and there is an inexpreſſible pleaſure in contemplating ſo many groups of neat, healthy, happy-looking people, enjoying the diverſion of walking in theſe lovely [180] ſhades, by the kindneſs of their beneficent Lord, who not only provides for their wants, but their pleaſures.

My Lord is of opinion that Sunday was intended as a day of rejoicing not of mor⯑tification; and meant not only to render our praiſes to our benevolent Creator, but to give reſt and chearful relaxation to the induſtrious part of mankind, from the la⯑bors of the week.

On this principle, tho he will never ſuf⯑fer the leaſt breach of the laws in being, he wiſhes the ſeverity of them ſoftened, by allowing ſome innocent amuſements after the duties of the day are paſt: he thinks this would prevent thoſe fumes of enthu⯑ſiaſm which have had here ſuch fatal ef⯑fects, and could not be offenſive to that gracious power who delights in the happi⯑neſs of his creatures, and who by the royal poet has commanded them to praiſe him in the cymbals and dances.

[181] For my own part, having ſeen the good effect of this liberty in catholic countries, I cannot help wiſhing, though a zealous proteſtant, that we were to imitate them in this particular.

It is worth obſerving, that the book of ſports was put forth by the pious, the reli⯑gious, the ſober Charles the 1ſt, and the law for the more ſtrict obſervation of Sun⯑day paſſed in the reign of the libertine Charles the 2d.

Love of pleaſure is natural to the hu⯑man heart, and the beſt preſervative a⯑gainſt criminal ones, is a proper indulgence in ſuch as are innocent.

Theſe are my ſentiments, and I am happy in finding Lord Belmont of the ſame opinion. Adio!

TO GEORGE MORDAUNT, Eſquire.

TO HENRY MANDEVILLE, Eſq

HAPPY in ſeeing in my ſon that heroic ſpirit, which has ever di⯑ſtinguiſhed our houſe, I ſhould with plea⯑ſure conſent to his deſign, were this a pro⯑per time to execute it, provided he went a volunteer, and determined to accept no com⯑mand but as a reward of real ſervices, and with a reſolution it ſhould never interfere with that independence to which I would have him ſacrifice every other conſideration; but when there is ſo ſtrong a probability of peace, his going would appear like making a parade of that courage which he did not expect would be tried.

Yes, my ſon, I am well aſſured we ſhall have peace; that the moſt amiable of [195] princes, the friend of humankind, pitying the miſeries of his ſpecies, and melting with compaſſion at the wide extended ſcene of deſolation, meditates ſuch a peace as equally provides for the intereſt and honor of Britain, and the future quiet of man⯑kind. The terms talked of are ſuch as give us an immenſe addition of empire, and ſtrengthen that ſuperiority of naval force on which our very being depends, whilſt they protect our former poſſeſſions, and remove the ſource of future wars, by ſecuring all, and much more than all, for which this was undertaken; yet, by their juſt moderation, convince the world a Britiſh monarch is governed only by the laws of honor and equity, not by that im⯑pious thirſt of falſe glory, which actuates the laurel'd ſcourges of mankind.

After ſo long, ſo extenſive and bloody a war, a war which had depopulated our [196] country, and loaded us with a burden of debt, from which nothing can extricate us but the noble ſpirit of public frugality, which, if ſteadily and uniformly purſued, will rank the name of our Prince with thoſe of Elizabeth, and Henry the great, all ardently wiſh for peace, but thoſe who gain by the continuance of war; the clamors of theſe are inconceivable; clamors which can be founded only in private intereſt, becauſe begun before they could even gueſs at the terms intended, and continued when ſuch are mentioned as reaſon herſelf would dictate: but ſuch ever will be the conduct of thoſe in whom love of wealth is the pri⯑mary paſſion.

Heaven and earth! can men wearing the form, and profeſſing the ſentiments of hu⯑manity, deaf to the cries of the widow and the orphan, labor to perpetuate the dread⯑ful carnage, which has deluged the world [197] with the blood of their fellow creatures, only to add to the maſs of their already unweildy wealth, and prey longer on the diſtreſſes of their country!

Theſe clamors are as illegal as they are indecent: peace and war are the preroga⯑tive of the crown, ſacred as the liberties of the people, nor will ever be invaded by thoſe who underſtand and love our happy conſtitution: let us ſtrengthen the hands of our ſovereign by our warm approbation during the courſe of this arduous work, and if his miniſters abuſe their truſt, let them anſwer it, not to the noiſe of unthinking faction, or the unfeeling boſom of private intereſt, but to the impartial laws of their country.

Heaven forbid I ſhould ever ſee a Britiſh King independent on his people collective⯑ly; but I would have him raiſed above [198] private cabals, or the influence of any par⯑tial body of men, however wealthy or re⯑ſpectable.

If the generous views of our Prince do not meet with the ſucceſs they merit, if France refuſes ſuch a peace as ſecures the ſafety of our colonies, and that ſuperiority, as a naval power, ſo neceſſary to the liber⯑ties of Europe, as well as our own inde⯑pendence, you ſhall join the army in a man⯑ner becoming your birth, and the ſtyle of life in which you have been educated: till then reſtrain within juſt bounds that noble ardor ſo becoming a Briton, and ſtudy to ſerve that country with your counſels in peace, which will not, I hope, have occa⯑ſion for your ſword in war. Adieu.

To Miſs HOWARD.

MY Emily, your friend, your un⯑happy Julia, is undone. He knows the tenderneſs which I have ſo long en⯑deavored to conceal. The trial was too great for the ſoftneſs of a heart like mine; I had almoſt conquered my own paſſion, when I became a victim to his: I could not ſee his love, his deſpair, without emotions which diſcovered all my ſoul: I am not formed for deceit: artleſs as the village maid, every ſentiment of my ſoul is in my eyes; I have not learnt, I will never learn to diſguiſe their expreſſive language. With what pain did I affect a coldneſs to [200] which I was indeed a ſtranger! But why do I wrong my own heart? I did not af⯑fect it. The native modeſty of my ſex gave a reſerve to my behavior, on the firſt diſcovery of his paſſion, which his fears magnified into hate. O, Emily! Do I in⯑deed hate him! you to whoſe dear boſom your Julia confides her every thought, tell me if I hate this moſt amiable of man⯑kind? You know by what imperceptible ſteps my inexperienced heart has been ſeduced to love: you know how deceived by the ſacred name of friendſhip—But why do I ſeek to excuſe my ſenſibility? Is he not worthy all my tenderneſs? are we not equal in all but wealth, a con⯑ſideration below my care? is not his merit above titles and riches? How ſhall I paint his delicacy, his reſpectful fondneſs? Too plainly convinced of his power over my heart, he diſdains to uſe that power to my diſadvantage; he declares he will never receive me but from my father, he con⯑ſents [201] to leave me till a happier fortune enables him to avow his love to all the world; he goes without aſking the leaſt promiſe in his favor. Heaven ſure will proſper his deſigns, will reward a heart like his. O, my Emily, did my father ſee with my eyes! what is fortune in the ballance with ſuch virtue! Had I worlds in my own power, I ſhould value them only as they enabled me to ſhow more ſtrongly the diſintereſtedneſs of my affec⯑tion.

Born with a too tender heart, which never before found an object worthy its attach⯑ment, the exceſs of my affection is un⯑ſpeakable. Delicate in my choice even of friends, it was not eaſy to find a lover equal to that idea of perfection my imagination had formed; he alone of all mankind riſes up to it; the ſpeaking grace, the eaſy dignity of his air, are the natural conſe⯑quences of the ſuperiority of his ſoul. He [202] looks as if born to command the world. I am interrupted. Adieu.

To Col. BELLVILLE.

YOU never were more miſtaken: you will not have the honor of ſee⯑ing me yet in town. My Lord thinks it infinitely more reſpectful to his royal Maſ⯑ter to celebrate this happy event in the country.

‘"My congratulations, ſays he, would be loſt in the crowd of a drawing room, but here I can diffuſe a ſpirit of loyalty and joy through half a country, and impreſs all around me with the ſame veneration and love for the moſt amiable of Princes which burns in my own boſom."’

[203] Our entertainment yeſterday was mag⯑nifique, and in the Guſto Belmonto: there is a beautiful lake in the park, on the bor⯑ders of which, on one ſide, interſperſed amongſt the trees, which form a woody theatre round it, at a diſtance of about three hundred yards, tents were fixed for the company to dine in, which conſiſted of all the gentlemen's families twenty miles round. Weſtbrook and his daughter were there, as my Lord would not ſhock them by leaving them only out when the whole neighbourhood were invited; though he obſerved ſmiling, this was a favor, for theſe kind of people were only gentlemen by the courteſy of England. Streamers of the gayeſt colors waved on the tops of the tents, and glittered in the dancing ſunbeams: the tables were ſpread with every delicacy in ſeaſon, at which we placed ourſelves in parties, without ceremony or diſtinction, juſt as choice or accident directed. On a little iſland in the midſt of [204] the lake, an excellent band of muſick was placed, which played ſome of the fineſt compoſitions of Handel during our re⯑paſt; which ended, we ſpread ourſelves on the borders of the lake, where we danced on the verdant green, till tea and coffee again ſummoned us to the tents; and when evening ‘"had in her ſober livery all things clad,"’ a ſuperb ſupper, and grand ball in the ſaloon finiſhed our feſtival.

Nor were the villagers forgot: Tables were ſpread for them on the oppoſite ſide of the lake, under the ſhade of the talleſt trees, and ſo diſpoſed as to form the moſt agreeable points of view to us, as our en⯑campment muſt do to them.

I am ill at deſcribing, but the feaſt had a thouſand unſpeakable charms.

Poor Harry! How I pity him, his whole ſoul was abſorbed in the contem⯑plation [205] of Lady Julia with whom he danced. His eyes perpetually followed her; and if I miſtake not, his will not be the only heart which aches at parting on Tueſday, for ſo long is Harry's going poſtponed. He may go, but, like the wounded deer, he carries the arrow in his breaſt. Adio!

To Miſs HOWARD.

HOW, my ſweet Emily, ſhall I bear his abſence? an abſence embittered by the remembrance of thoſe lively im⯑paſſioned hours which love alone can give: What joy have I found in owning the ſenti⯑ments of my ſoul to one ſo worthy of all my tenderneſs? Yes, Emily, I love him—words can but ill paint what I feel—he, he alone,—yet he leaves Belmont—leaves it by my command, leaves it this very hour, leaves it perhaps for ever—great Heaven! can I ſupport that thought?

If you love, if you pity your unhappy friend, return immediately to Belmont, let me repoſe my ſorrows in that faithful breaſt: Lady Anne is tenderly my friend, but the ſprightlineſs of her character in⯑timidates me: I do not hope to find in her [207] that ſweet indulgence to all my faults, as in the gentle ſoul of my Emily.

I have entreated him to take no leave of me; I ſhall only ſee him with the fami⯑ly: The moment draws near—my flut⯑tering heart—How ſhall I hide my con⯑cern!—Lady Anne is coming to my a⯑partment: I muſt go with her to the ſa⯑loon, where he only waits to bid us adieu: his chaiſe is in the court. O Emily! my emotion will betray me.—

He is gone, the whole houſe is in tears: never was man ſo adored, never man ſo infinitely deſerved it. He preſſed my hand to his lips, his eyes ſpoke unutter⯑able love. I leaned almoſt fainting on Lady Anne, and hid my tears in her boſom: ſhe hurried me to my apartment, and left me to give vent to my full heart! She ſees my weakneſs, and kindly ſtrives [208] to hide it from others, whilſt her delicacy prevents her mentioning it to myſelf: ſhe has a tender and compaſſionate heart, and my reſerve is an injury to her friendſhip.

Lady Anne has ſent to aſk me to air; I ſhall be glad to avoid all eyes but hers; perhaps I may have courage to tell her—ſhe merits all my confidence, nor is it diſ⯑truſt but timidity which prevents—ſhe is here—I am aſhamd to ſee her. Adieu! my deareſt, my beloved friend!

To Colonel BELLVILLE.

WE have loſt our lovely Harry; he left us this morning for Lord T—s. Poor Lady Julia! how I adore her amiable ſincerity! ſhe has owned her paſſion to me as we aired, and mentioned hopes which are founded in madneſs: I ven⯑tured gently to remonſtrate, but there is no reaſoning with a heart in love. Time and abſence may effect a cure: I am the con⯑fidente of both: I am perplexed how to proceed: I muſt either betray the truſt re⯑poſed in me, or abuſe Lord Belmont's friendſhip and hoſpitality.

In what a falſe light do we ſee every thing through the medium of paſſion! Lady Julia is heireſs to 14,000l. a year, yet [210] thinks Harry's merit may raiſe him to a ſituation which will juſtify his pretending to her, and that this ſtupendous riſe may be brought about in a twelvemonth: he too thinks it poſſible, nay the ſcheme is his. Heaven and earth! yet they are not fools, and Harry has ſome knowledge of mankind.

At preſent there is no talking reaſon⯑ably to either of them: I muſt ſoothe them, to bring them off this ruinous incli⯑nation by degrees.

As idleneſs is the nurſe of love, I will endeavor to keep Lady Julia continually amuſed: a new lover might do much, but there is nobody near us that is tolerable: indeed the woman who has loved Harry Mandeville, will be ſomewhat hard to pleaſe.

[211] Chance favors my deſigns, my Lord has propoſed a viſit of a fortnight to a neighbouring nobleman, Lord Rochdale, whoſe houſe is generally full of gay peo⯑ple; his ſon too, Lord Melvin, with whom I was acquainted abroad, and who is only inferior to Harry Mandeville, is hourly expected from his travels.

Since I wrote the laſt paragraph an idea has ſtruck me; from a very particular ex⯑preſſion in a letter I once received from Lady Belmont, in France, I have a ſtrong ſuſpicion Lord Melvin is intended for Lady Julia; I wiſh he might be agreeable to her, for her preſent paſſion is abſolute diſ⯑traction.

We go to-morrow: when we come back you ſhall hear from me: or, perhaps, for I am ſomething variable in my determina⯑tions, as ſoon as I get thither. Expect nothing however: if I do you the honor, [212] you muſt ſet an immenſe value on my condeſcenſion, for I know we ſhall not have a moment to ſpare from amuſements. Adieu!

TO GEORGE MORDAUNT, Eſq

I Have at length left Belmont, and left it certain of Lady Julia's tenderneſs: I am the happieſt of mankind; ſhe loves me, ſhe confeſſes it, I have every thing to hope from time, fortune, perſeverance, and the conſtancy of the moſt amiable of her ſex.

All cold reſerve is baniſhed from that charming boſom; above the meanneſs of ſuſpicion, ſhe believes my paſſion noble and diſintereſted as her own; ſhe hears my vows with a pleaſure which ſhe cannot, [213] nay which ſhe does not wiſh to conceal; ſhe ſuffers me to ſwear eternal tenderneſs—We dined on Wedneſday at the hermit⯑age. The company diſperſed, the moſt delicate of women, not from coquetry, but that ſweet impulſive modeſty, not ob⯑vious not obtruſive, which gives to beauty its lovelieſt charm, avoided an oppor⯑tunity, which eager watchful love at laſt obtained: alone with her in thoſe ſweet ſhades,—O Mordaunt! let not the groſs unloving libertine talk of pleaſure: how taſteleſs are the falſe endearments, the treacherous arts of the venal wanton, to the ſweet unaffected downcaſt eye of virgin innocence, the vivid glow of artleſs tenderneſs, the native vermilion of bluſh⯑ing ſenſibility, the genuine ſmile of un⯑diſſembled love!

I write this on the road to Lord T—'s, where I ſhall be to night, I ſhall expect to hear from you immediately. Adieu!

TO HENRY MANDEVILLE, Eſquire.

I Never ſo ſtrongly reliſh the happineſs of my own manner of living, as when I compare it with that of others. I hear perpetual complaints abroad of the tediouſ⯑neſs of life, and ſee in every face a certain wearineſs of themſelves, from which I am ſo happy as to be perfectly free. I carry about me an innate diſpoſition to be pleaſ⯑ed, which is the ſource of continual plea⯑ſure.

That I have eſcaped what is in general the fate of people of my rank, is chiefly owing to my fortunate choice in marriage: our mutual paſſion, the only foundation on which ſenſible ſouls can build happineſs, has been kept alive by a delicacy of beha⯑viour, an angel purity, in Lady Belmont, [215] to which words cannot do juſtice. The tranſports of youthful paſſion yield its ſweetneſs to the delight of that refined, yet animated ſenſation which my heart feels for her at this moment. I never leave her without regret, nor meet her without rap⯑ture, the lively rapture of love,

We have been married thirty years: there are people who think ſhe was never handſome; yet to me ſhe is all lovelineſs. I think no woman beautiful but as ſhe re⯑ſembles her; and even Julia's greateſt charm, in my eye, is the likeneſs ſhe has to her amiable mother.

This tender, this exquiſite affection, has diffuſed a ſpirit through our whole lives, and given a charm to the moſt common occurrences; a charm to which the dulneſs [216] of apathy, and the fever of guilty paſſion, are equally ſtrangers.

The family where we are furniſh a ſtrik⯑ing example of the impoſſibility of being happy without the ſoft union of hearts: though both worthy people, having been joined by their parents, without that affec⯑tion which can alone make ſo near a con⯑nexion ſupportable, their lives paſs on in a tedious and inſipid round: without taſte for each other's converſation, they engage in a perpetual ſeries of diverſions, not to give reliſh to, but to exclude, thoſe retired domeſtic hours, which are the moſt ſpright⯑ly, and animated of my life; they ſeek, by crowds and amuſements, to fly from each other and from themſelves.

The great ſecret of human happineſs, my dear Mr. Mandeville, conſiſts in finding ſuch conſtant employment for the mind, as, [217] without over-fatiguing, may prevent its languiſhing in a painful inactivity. To this end I would recommend to every man to have not only ſome important point in view, but many ſubordinate ones, to fill up thoſe vacant hours, when our great pur⯑poſe, whatever it is, muſt be ſuſpended: our very pleaſures, even the beſt, will fa⯑tigue, if not relieved by variety: the mind cannot always be on the ſtretch, nor at⯑tentive to the ſame object, however pleaſ⯑ing: Relaxation is as neceſſary as activity, to keep the ſoul in its due equipoiſe. No innocent amuſement, however trifling it may ſeem to the rigid or the proud, is be⯑low the regard of a rational creature, which keeps the mind in play, and unbends it from more ſerious purſuits.

I often regard at once with pity and aſto⯑niſhment, perſons of my own rank and age, dragged about in unwieldy ſtate, forg⯑ing for themſelves the galling fetters of [218] eternal ceremony, or the ſtill heavier chains of ambition; their bodies bending under the weight of dreſs, their minds for ever filled with the idea of their own dignity and importance; to the fear of leſſening which, they ſacrifice all the genuine plea⯑ſures of life.

Heaven grant, my dear friend, I may never be too wiſe, or too proud, to be happy!

To you, my amiable friend, who are juſt entering on the ſtage of life, I would recommend ſuch active purſuits as may make you an uſeful member of ſociety, and contribute to raiſe your own fortune and conſequence in the world, as well as ſe⯑cure the eſteem of your fellow citizens, and the approbation of your Prince.

For my own part, like the Roman ve⯑terans, I may now be excuſed, if I aſk [219] my diſcharge from thoſe anxious purſuits, which are only becoming in the vigor of our days, and from thoſe ceremonial atten⯑tions, which are ſcarce bearable even then. My duty as a ſenator, and my reſpect to my king, nothing but real inability ſhall ever ſuſpend; but for the reſt, I think it time at ſixty to be free, to live to one's ſelf, and in one's own way; and endeavour to be, rather than to ſeem happy.

The reſt of my days, except thoſe I owe to my country and my prince, ſhall be de⯑voted to the ſweets of conjugal and pater⯑nal affection, to the lively joys of friend⯑ſhip. I have only one wiſh as to this world, to ſee Julia married to a man who deſerves her, who has ſenſibility to make her happy, and whoſe rank and fortune are ſuch as may juſtify us to the world, above which the moſt philoſophic mind cannot entirely riſe; let me but ſee this, and have a hope that they will purſue my [220] plan of life, let me ſee them bleſt in each other, and bleſſing all around them, and my meaſure of earthly felicity will be com⯑plete.

You know not, my dear Mr. Mande⯑ville, how much my happineſs in this world has been owing alſo to the lively hope of another: this idea has given me a con⯑ſtant ſerenity, which may not improperly be called the health of the mind, and which has diffuſed a brightneſs over all my hours.

Your account of Lord T— made me ſmile; his fear of being diſmiſſed at ſeven⯑ty from the toilſome drudgery of buſineſs, is truly ridiculous: rich, childiſh, infirm, ought not eaſe and retirement to be the firſt objects of his wiſhes? But ſuch is the wretched ſlavery of all who are under the abſolute dominion of any paſſion, unguid⯑ed by the hand of reaſon.

[221] The paſſions of every kind, under pro⯑per reſtraints, are the gentle breezes which keep life from ſtagnation; but, let looſe, they are the ſtorms and whirlwinds which tear up all before them, and ſcatter ruin and deſtruction around.

Adieu. I ought to apologize for the length of this; but age is the ſeaſon of garrulity.

To the Earl of BELMONT.

HOW happy would it be for mankind, if every perſon of your Lordſhip's rank and fortune governed themſelves by the ſame generous maxims!

It is with infinite pain I ſee Lord T— purſuing a plan, which has drawn on him the curſe of thouſands, and made his eſtate a ſcene of deſolation: his farms are in the hands of a few men, to whom the ſons of the old tenants are either forced to be ſer⯑vants, or to leave the country to get their bread elſewhere. The village, large, and once populous, is reduced to about eight families; a dreary ſilence reigns over their deſerted fields; the farm houſes, once the ſeats of chearful ſmiling induſtry, now uſe⯑leſs, [223] are falling in ruins around him; his tenants are merchants and engroſſers, proud, lazy, luxurious, inſolent, and ſpurning the hand which feeds them.

Yeſterday one of them went off largely in his debt: I took that occaſion of preſſing him on his moſt vulnerable ſide, and remon⯑ſtrating the danger of truſting ſo much of his property in one hand: but I am afraid all I can ſay will have no effect, as he has, by this narrow ſelfiſh plan, a little encreaſ⯑ed his rents at preſent, which is all he has in view, without extending his thoughts to that future time, when this wretched policy, by depopulating the country, will lower the price of all the fruits of the earth, and leſſen, in conſequence, the value of his eſtate.

With all my friendſhip for Lord T—, I cannot help obſerving in him another fault greatly below his rank and underſtand⯑ing, [224] I mean a deſpicable kind of pride, which meaſures worth by the gifts of for⯑tune, of which the largeſt portion is too often in the hands of the leaſt deſerving.

His treatment of ſome gentlemen, whoſe fortunes were unequal to their birth and me⯑rit, yeſterday, at his table, almoſt determin⯑ed me to leave his houſe: I expoſtulated warmly, tho' not impolitely with him on the ſubject, and almoſt got him to confeſs his error. My friendſhip for him, makes me feel ſenſibly what muſt leſſen his character in the eyes of all whoſe eſteem is deſireable. I wiſh him to paſs a month at Belmont, that he may ſee dignity without pride, and con⯑deſcenſion without meanneſs; that he may ſee virtue in her lovelieſt form, and acknow⯑ledge her genuine beauty.

To GEORGE MORDAUNT, Eſq

I Have paſt a tedious fortnight at Lord T—'s, without taſting any pleaſure, but that of talking of Lady Julia, with ſome ladies in the neighbourhood who know her: I eſtimate the merit of thoſe I converſe with, by the diſtinction of being known to her: thoſe who are ſo happy as to be of her acquaintance, have in my eye, every charm that poliſhed wit, or elegant knowledge can give; thoſe who want that advantage ſcarce deſerve the name of hu⯑man beings: all converſation of which ſhe is not the ſubject, is lifeleſs and inſipid; all of which ſhe is, brilliant and divine.

My Lord rallies me on my frequent viſits to theſe Ladies, and, as one of them is extremely handſome, ſuppoſes it a be⯑ginning [...]ſſion: the Lady herſelf, I am [226] afraid, is deceived, for as ſhe is particularly warm in her praiſes of Lady Julia, my eyes ſparkle with pleaſure at her approach, I ſingle her out in every company, and dance with her at all our little parties; I have even an attention to her ſuperior to that of common lovers, and feel for her a tenderneſs for which I want a name.

Lady Anne has had the goodneſs to write twice to me, from Lord Rochdale's, whither my Lord went with his amiable family, two days after I left Belmont: Lady Julia is well, ſhe loves me, ſhe hears of me with pleaſure. Ought I at preſent to wiſh more!

I have hinted to Lord T—, my purpoſe, though not the dear motive which inſpired it; he is warmly my friend, if there is truth in man. I will be more explicit the firſt time I ſee him alone: ſhall I own to you one weakneſs of my heart? I would be [227] ſerved by any intereſt but Lord Belmont's: how can I pretend to his daughter, if all I have is, in a manner, his gift? I would be rich independently of his friendſhip.

Lord T— is walking in the garden alone, I will go to him, and explain all my deſigns: his knowledge of mankind will guide me to the beſt road to wealth and honor, his friendſhip will aſſiſt me to the ample extent of his power. Adieu!

To HENRY MANDEVILLE, Eſquire.

OH, do you know I have a little re⯑queſt to make you? but firſt, by way of preface, I muſt inform you Lady Belmont, has been reading me a ſerious lecture about the Caro Bellville, who has wrote to her to beg her interceſſion in his favor.

I find fools have been impertinent in re⯑gard to our friendſhip: there are ſo few pleaſures in this world, I think it extreme⯑ly hard to give up one ſo lively, yet in⯑nocent, as that of indulging a tender eſteem for an amiable man. But to our conver⯑ſation:

‘"My dear Lady Anne, I am con⯑vinced you love Colonel Bellville."’

Love him, Madam? no, I rather think not; I am not ſure: The man is not ſhocking, and dies for me: I pity him poor creature, [229] and pity, your Ladyſhip knows, is a kin to love.

Will you be grave one moment?

A thouſand, if your Ladyſhip deſires it: nothing ſo eaſy to me; the graveſt creature in the world naturally.

You allow Colonel Bellville merit?

Certainement.

That he loves you?

To diſtraction.

And you return it?

Why as to that—he flatters agreeably, and I am fond of his converſation on that account: and let me tell you, my dear Lady Belmont, it is not every man that can flatter; it requires more genius than one would ſuppoſe.

[230] You intend ſome time or other to marry him?

Marry? O heavens! How did ſuch a thought enter your Ladyſhip's imagina⯑tion? Have not I been married already? And is not once enough in conſcience, for any reaſonable woman!

Will you pardon me if I then aſk, with what view you allow his addreſs?

I allow? Heavens, Lady Belmont! I allow the addreſſes of an odious male ani⯑mal? if fellows will follow one, how is to be avoided! it is ones misfortune to be handſome, and one muſt bear the con⯑ſequences.

But, my dear Lady Anne, an unconect⯑ed life,—Is the pleaſanteſt life in the world. Have not I 3000l. a year? am not I a widow? miſtreſs of my own ac⯑tions? with youth, health, a tolerable un⯑derſtanding, [231] an air of the world, and a per⯑ſon not very diſagreeable?

All this I own.

All this? yes, and twenty times more, or you do nothing. Have not theſe un⯑happy eyes, carryed deſtruction from one climate to another? Have not the ſpright⯑ly French, the haughty Romans, confeſt themſelves my ſlaves? Have not—But it would take up a life to tell you all my conqueſts.

But what is all this to the purpoſe, my dear?

Now I proteſt I think it is vaſtly to the purpoſe. And all this you adviſe me to give up to become a tame domeſtic, in⯑animate—really my dear Madam, I did not think it was in your nature to be ſo unreaſonable.

It is with infinite pain, my deareſt Lady Anne, I bring myſelf to ſay any thing [232] which can give you a moment's uneaſineſs. But it is the taſk of true friendſhip—

To tell diſagreeable truths: I know that is what your Ladyſhip would ſay: and, to ſpare you what your delicacy ſtarts at mentioning, you have heard aſperſions on my character, which are the conſe⯑quences of my friendſhip for Col. Bellville.

I know and admire the innocent chear⯑fulneſs of your heart, but I grieve to ſay, the opinion of the world—

As to the opinion of the world, by which is meant the malice of a few ſpite⯑ful old cats, I am perfectly unconcerned about it; but your Ladyſhip's eſteem is neceſſary to my happineſs: I will there⯑fore to you vindicate my conduct: which, though indiſcreet, has been really irre⯑proachable. Though a widow, and ac⯑countable to nobody, I have ever lived [233] with Colonel Bellville, with the reſerve of bluſhing apprehenſive fifteen, whilſt the warmth of my friendſhip for him, and the pleaſure I found in his converſation, have let looſe the baleful tongue of envy, and ſubjected my reſolution to the malice of an ill-judging world, a world I deſpiſe for his ſake, a world, whoſe applauſe is too often beſtowed on the cold, the ſelfiſh, and the artful, and denied to that generous unſuſpecting openneſs and warmth of heart, which are the ſtrongeſt characteriſticks of true virtue. My friendſhip, or if you pleaſe my love, for Colonel Bellville, is the firſt pleaſure of my life; the happieſt hours of which have been paſt in his converſation; nor is there any thing I would not ſacrifice to my paſſion for him, but his happineſs; which, for reaſons unknown to your Lady⯑ſhip, is incompatible with his marrying me.

[234] But is it not poſſible to remove thoſe reaſons?

I am afraid not.

Would it not then, my dear Madam, be moſt prudent tobreak off a connexion, which can anſwer no purpoſe but making both unhappy?

I own it would, but prudence was never a part of my character. Will you forgive and pity me Lady Belmont, when I ſay, that though I ſee in the ſtrongeſt light my own indiſcretion, I am not enough miſtreſs of my heart to break with the man to whom I have only a very precarious and diſtant hope of being united? There is an enchantment in his friendſhip, which I have not force of mind to break through, he is my guide, my guardian, protector, friend; the only man I ever loved, the man to whom the laſt receſſes of my heart are open: muſt I give up the tender ex⯑quiſite refined delight of his converſation, [235] to the falſe opinion of a world, governed by prejudice judging by the exterior, which is generally fallacious, and condemning, without diſtinction, thoſe ſoft affections without which life is ſcarcely above vege⯑tation?

Do not imagine, my dear Lady Belmont, I have really the levity I affect: or, had my prejudices againſt marriage been ever ſo ſtrong, the time I have paſſed here would have removed them: I ſee my Lord and you, after an union of thirty years, with as keen a reliſh for each other's con⯑verſation as you could have felt at the mo⯑ment which firſt joined you: I ſee in you all the attention, the tender ſolicitude of beginning love, with the calm delight and perfect confidence of habitual friendſhip. I am therefore convinced marriage is ca⯑pable of happineſs, to which an uncon⯑nected ſtate is lifeleſs and inſipid; and from obſerving the lovely delicacy of your [236] Ladyſhip's conduct, I am inſtructed how that happineſs is to be ſecured; I am in⯑ſtructed how to avoid that taſteleſs, languid, unimpaſſioned hour, ſo fatal to love and friendſhip.

With the man to whom I was a victim, my life was one continued ſcene of miſery; to a ſenſible mind, there is no cold me⯑dium in marriage; its ſorrows, like its pleaſures, are exquiſite. Relieved from thoſe galling chains, I have met with a heart ſuited to my own; born with the ſame ſenſibility, the ſame peculiar turn of thinking: pleaſed with the ſame plea⯑ſures and exactly formed to make me happy: I will belive this ſimilarity was not given to condemn us both to wretch⯑edneſs: as it is impoſſible either of us can be happy but with the other, I will hope the bar, which at preſent ſeems invinci⯑ble, may be removed: till then indulge me, my dear Lady Belmont, in the inno⯑cent [237] pleaſure of loving him, and truſt to his honor for the ſafety of mine.

The moſt candid and amiable of women, after a gentle remonſtrance on the impor⯑tance of reputation to happineſs, left me, ſo perfectly ſatisfied, that ſhe intends to invite Bellville down. I ſend you this converſati⯑on as an introduction to a requeſt I have to make you, which I muſt poſtpone to my next. Heavens! how perverſe! interrupted by one of the verieſt cats in nature, who will not leave us till ages after the poſt is gone. Adieu! for the preſent! it is preti⯑ly enough contrived, and one of the great advantages of ſociety, that ones time, the moſt precious of all poſſeſſions, is to be ſacrifiſed, from a falſe politeneſs to every idle creature who knows not what elſe to do. Every body complains of this, but nobody attempts to remedy it.

[238] Am not I the moſt inhuman of women, to write two ſheets without naming Lady Julia? She is well, and beautiful as an angel: we have a ball to-night on Lord Melvin's return, againſt which ſhe is put⯑ting on all her charms. We ſhall be at Belmont to-morrow, which is two or three days ſooner than my Lord intended.

Lady Julia dances with Lord Melvin, who is, except two, the moſt amiable man I know: ſhe came up juſt as I ſat down to write, and looked as if ſhe had ſomething to ſay: ſhe is gone, however, without a word; her childiſh baſhfulneſs about you is intolerable.

The ball waits for us. I am interrupt⯑ed by extreme pretty fellow, Sir Charles Mellifont, who has to-night the honor of my hand. Adio!

To Lady ANNE WILMOT.

‘"WE have a ball to-night on Lord Melvin's return, againſt which ſhe is putting on all her charms."’

O Lady Anne! can you indeed know what it is to love, yet play with the anxie⯑ty of a tender heart? I can ſcarce bear the thought of her looking lovely in my ab⯑ſence, or in any eyes but mine; how then can I ſupport the idea of her endeavoring to pleaſe another, of her putting on all her charms to grace the return of a man, young, amiable, rich, noble, and the ſon of her father's friend? a thouſand fears, a thouſand conjectures torment me: ſhould ſhe love another—the poſſibility diſtracts [240] me.—Go to her, and aſk her if the tender⯑eſt, moſt exalted paſſion, if the man who adores her—I know not what I would ſay—You have ſet me on the rack—If you have pity, my deareſt Lady Anne, loſe not a mo⯑ment to make me eaſy.