LETTER I. To a Father, againſt putting a Youth of but moderate Parts to a Profeſſion that requires more extenſive Abilities.

YOU pay me a Compliment, tho' a very obliging one, when in the laſt Letter you favoured me with, you deſire my Advice, with reſpect to the Diſpoſition of your Son William; whom you are inclin'd to bring up to the Bar. If, in complying with your Requeſt, I ſhould ſay any thing you may not intirely approve, you will not have ſo much room to [2] blame me, as your own wrong Choice of a Counſellor.

I need not now tell you, I have a good Opi⯑nion of Will; and think him a modeſt, grave, ſober, Youth: But, for this very Reaſon, I hardly think him qualified for the Profeſſion you would chuſe for him; for, I doubt, he has neither Talents for the Law, nor ever will have the Preſence of Mind neceſſary to make a Figure at the Bar. In any ſmooth, eaſy Buſineſs, he will probably ſucceed, and be a uſeful Member of the Commonwealth. And as he is not your eldeſt Son, I ſhould, were it to me, put him to a Merchant; or, as we live in an Iſland, and Trade and Navigation are both our Riches and our Glory, I ſhould not even ſcruple to put a ſecond Son to a creditable wholeſale Dealer, rather than fail; if he himſelf is not averſe to ſuch a Calling. For I know not (you'll excuſe me, I'm ſure) whether Will's Genius is equal to that of an univerſal Merchant: For, the various Springs of Com⯑merce, the Seaſons for chuſing proper Commo⯑dities, and numberleſs Incidents that make a neceſſary Return of Gain precarious, are full Im⯑ployment for the ſtrongeſt Judgment; as a Man, by one ill-choſen Venture, often loſes more than he gains by ſeveral ſucceſsful ones.

But this Opinion of Will, ſhould you think it juſt, will be no Obſtacle to his ſucceeding in the World in ſome creditable eaſy Buſineſs. Tho' I think him unequal to the Part you ſeem inclinable to allot him; yet he is no Fool: And Experience teaches us, that, in ſome ſorts of Buſineſs, ample Advantage, may be made by very moderate Ta⯑lents, with much Reputation. Theſe are princi⯑pally ſuch Employments as merely conſiſt in Buy⯑ng with Prudence, and in Selling at a Market-profit: [3] Hence we ſee ſeveral Wholeſale Dealers gain large Fortunes with Eaſe and Credit, and without any other Secret than the plain Practice of Buying at the beſt Hand, paying for their Goods punctually, and vending them always for what they are. In Dealings of this Kind, the Fatigues are few, and clear well-kept Books are ſufficient to ſhew, at any time, a Man's Loſs or Gain; for which, generally ſpeaking, leſs than One Forenoon in a Week is ſufficient: And yet, by a conſtant Attention, in this eaſy manner, as good a Character, and, very often, more Money is to be gained than in Profeſſions that require an extraordinary Genius, a perpetual Attention, and a cloſe and intenſe Study; which very ſeldom ſuc⯑ceeds neither: For ſee you not of Hundreds of Lawyers, how very few of them make a Figure, or get genteel Bread? And how many, for want of Courage to appear at the Bar (who yet have good Parts and Knowledge in the Laws) are forced to confine themſelves to Chamber-practice, in which it is a long time before they grow noted enough to make a tolerable Livelihood.

As to what you hint, of placing him in the Phyſick Tribe; I like this no better than the other. Conſider only this one Thing, how long it is be⯑fore he will be capable of entering into Buſineſs, or Reputation, as a Phyſician, if he ever does it at all: For who chuſes to truſt his Health to a raw and unexperienced young Man? The Law requires a ſprightly Impudence, if I may ſo ſay, the Phyſick Line a ſolemn one, in the Perſon who would make a Figure in either. And do you think, tho' Will is grave enough of Conſcience, that he ever can come up to that important Deportment, that unbluſhing Parade, which is the very Eſſence of an Engliſh Phyſician? So he may, in either of the Pro⯑ſeſſions, [4] live over all his Days, and be quite un⯑known; for, as Practice in both Faculties is the beſt Teacher, and Theory a moſt uncertain Guide, he may live to be Forty of Fifty Years of Age, and not come into any Buſineſs that ſhall improve himſelf, or benefit his Conſulters.

Whereas in the Way I propoſe, no ſooner is he come of Age, and fit to be truſted with the Management of any Affairs at all, but his Seven Years will be expired; and if he has not been wanting to himſelf in it (and if he be, he would have been much more ſo in an abſtruſer Buſineſs) he will be enabled, with the Fortune you can beſtow upon him, to enter upon the Stage of the World with great Advantage, and become directly, a neceſſary and an uſeful Member of the Commu⯑nity. And, my good Friend, when you and I recollect, that moſt of the noble Families in the Kingdom, as well as the genteel ones, had the Foundations of their Grandeur laid in Trade, I expect not, in ſuch a Country as ours eſpecially, that any Objection to my Advice will be form'd, either by you or your good Lady, on this Score, if you have not more ſignificant Reaſons proceed⯑ing from the Boy's Turn of Mind and Inclination; which, I think, ſhould always be conſulted on theſe Occaſions. For, tho' I hope it never will be ſo in your Caſe, yet nothing has been more common, than that of Two Sons, the Eldeſt brought up to the Eſtate, the other to Trade, in the Revolution of Twenty or Thirty Years, the latter, thro' the Extravagance of the former, has made himſelf Eldeſt, as I may ſay; for, by ſaving while the other has been ſpending, he has found Means to keep the Eſtate in the Family, tho' it has been transferr'd upon the youngeſt, and, as it has then proved, the worthieſt Branch.

[5] This, I think, deſerves your Conſideration; and by viewing Will in the ſame Light I do; that of a well-inclined Lad, of moderate Paſſions, great natural Modeſty, and no ſoaring Genius; I believe you will think it beſt to diſpoſe of him in ſuch manner as may require no greater Talents than he is poſſeſſed of, and may, in due Time, make him appear in the Face of the World fully quali⯑fied for what he undertakes. I am, Sir,

LETTER II. From an UNCLE to a NEPHEW, on his keep⯑ing bad Company, bad Hours, &c. in his Apprenticeſhip.

I AM very much concerned to hear that you are of late fallen into bad Company; that you keep bad Hours, and give great Uneaſineſs to your Maſter, and break the Rules of his Family: That when he expoſtulates with you on this Occaſion, you return pert and bold Anſwers; and, inſtead of promiſing or endeavouring to amend, repeat the Offence; and have enter'd into Clubs and Societies of young Fellows, who ſet at naught all good Example, and make ſuch Perſons who would do their Duty, the Subject of their Ridicule, as Per⯑ſons of narrow Minds, and who want the Courage to do as they do.

Let me, on this Occaſion, expoſtulate with you, and ſet before you the Evil of the Way you are in.

[6] In the firſt Place: What can you mean by breaking the Rules of a Family you had bound your ſelf by Contract to obſerve? Do you think it is honeſt, to break thro' Engagements into which you have ſo ſolemnly entered; and which are no leſs the Rules of the Corporation you are to be one Day free of, than thoſe of a private Family?—Seven Years, ſeveral of which are elapſed, are not ſo long a Term, but that you may ſee it determined before you are over-fit to betruſted with your own Conduct: Twenty-one or Twenty-two Years of Age, is full early for a young Man to be his own Maſter, whatever you may think; and you may ſurely ſtay till then, at leaſt, to chuſe your own Hours, and your own Company; and, I fear, as you go on, if you do not mend your Ways, your Diſcretion will not then do Credit to your Choice. Remember, you have no Time you can call your own, during the Continuance of your Contract; and muſt you abuſe your Maſter in a double Senſe; rob him of his Time, eſpecially if any of it be Hours of Buſineſs; rob him of his Reſt; break the Peace of his Family, and give a bad Example to others? And all for what? Why to riot in the Company of a Set of Perſons, who contemn, as they teach you to do, all Order and Diſcipline; who, in all Likelihood, will lead you into into Gaming, Drinking, Swearing, and even more dangerous Vices, to the unhinging of your Mind from your Buſineſs, which muſt be your future Support.

Conſider, I exhort you, in time, to what theſe Courſes may lead you. Conſider the Affiction you will give to all your Friends, by your Con⯑tinuance in them. Lay together the Subſtance of the Converſation that paſſes in a whole Evening, with your frothy Companions, after you are come [7] from them, and reflect what ſolid Truth, what uſeful Leſſon, worthy of being inculcated in your future Life, that whole Evening has afforded you; and conſider, whether it is worth breaking thro' all Rule and Order for?—Whether your pre⯑ſent Conduct is ſuch as you would allow in a Ser⯑vant of your own? Whether you are ſo capable to purſue your Buſineſs with that Ardor and De⯑light next Morning, as if you had not drank, or kept bad Hours over Night? If not, whether your Maſter has not a double Loſs and Damage from your miſ-ſpent Evenings? Whether the taking of ſmall Liberties, as you may think them, leads you not on to greater; for, let me tell you, you will not find it in your Power to ſtop when you will: And then, whether any Reſtraint at all will not in time be irkſome to you?

I have gone thro' the like Servitude with Plea⯑ſure and Credit. I found myſelf my own Maſter full ſoon for my Diſcretion: What you think of your ſelf I know not; but I wiſh you may do as well for your own Intereſt, and Reputation too, as I have done for mine: And I'll aſſure you, I ſhould not have thought it either creditable or honeſt to do as you do. I could have ſtood the Laugh of an Hundred ſuch vain Companions as you chuſe, for being too narrow-minded to break thro' all moral Obligations to my Maſter, in order to ſhew the Bravery of a bad Heart, and what an abandon'd Mind dared to perpetrate. A bad Be⯑ginning ſeldom makes a good Ending, and if you was aſſured that you could ſtop when you came for your ſelf, which is very improbable, how will you anſwer it to Equity and good Conſcience, that you will not do ſo for your Maſter? There is, let me tell you, more true Bravery of Mind in for⯑bearing to do an Injury, than in giving Offence.

[8] You are now at an Age, when you ſhould ſtudy to improve not divert your Faculties. You ſhould now lay in a Fund of Knowledge, that in time, when ripened by Experience, may make you a worthy Member of the Commonwealth. Do you think you have nothing to learn, either as to your Buſineſs, or as to the forming of your Mind? Would it not be much better to chuſe the ſilent, the ſober Converſation of BOOKS, than of ſuch Companions as never read or think? An Author never commits any but his beſt Thoughts to Paper; but what can you expect from the laughing noiſy Company you keep, but frothy Prate, indigeſted Notions, and Thoughts ſo unwor⯑thy of being remember'd, that it is the greateſt Kindneſs to forget them.

Let me intreat you then, my dear Kinſman, for your Family's ſake, for your own ſake, before it be too late, to reflect as you ought upon the Courſe you are enter'd into. By applying yourſelf to Books, inſtead of ſuch vain Company, you will be quali⯑fied in time for the beſt of Company, and to be reſpected by all Ranks of Men. This will keep you out of unneceſſary Expences, will employ all your leiſure Time, will exclude a world of Temptations, and open and inlarge your Notions of M [...]n and Things, and, finally, ſet you above that wretched Company which now you ſeem ſo much delighted with. And one Thing let me recommend to you, That you keep a Liſt of the young Men of your Standing within the Com⯑paſs of your Knowledge, and for the next Seven Years obſerve what Fate will attend them: See, if thoſe who follow not the Courſe you are ſo lately enter'd into, will not appear in a very dif⯑ferent Light from thoſe who do; and from the Induſtry and Proſperity of the one, and the [9] Decay or Failure of the other, (if their vain Ways do not blaſt them before, or as ſoon as they begin the World) you'll find abundant Reaſon every Day to juſtify the Truth of the Obſervations I have thrown together. As nothing but my Af⯑fection for you could poſſibly influence me to theſe Expoſtulations, I hope for a proper Effect from them, if you would be thought well of by, or ex⯑pect any Favour from,

Your Maſter will, at my Requeſt, ſend me word of the Succeſs of my Remonſtrances.

LETTER III. A Widow-Mother's Letter, in Anſwer to her Son's complaining of Hardſhips in his Ap⯑prenticeſhip.

I AM very ſorry to hear of the Difference between your Maſter and you. I was always afraid you would expect the ſame Indulgences you had met with at home; and as you know, that in many Inſtances, I have endeavoured to make any ſeem⯑ing Hardſhip as eaſy to you as I could, if this cauſes you to be harder to be ſatisfied, it would be a great Trouble to me. Your Uncle tells me, I am afraid with too much Truth, that the Indul⯑gences you have received from me, have made your preſent Station more diſagreeable than it would otherwiſe have been. What I have always done for you was intended for your Good, and nothing could ſo deeply afflict me as to ſee my Tenderneſs [10] have a contrary Effect: Therefore, dear Child, to my conſtant Care for your Welfare, do not add the Sorrow of ſeeing it the Cauſe of your behaving worſe than if it had not been beſtow'd upon you; for as, before we put you to your Maſter, we had an extraordinary Character of him, from all his Neighbours, and thoſe who dealt with him; and as Mr. Joſeph, who is now out of his Time, gives him the beſt of Characters, and declares your Miſtreſs to be a Woman of great Prudence and good Conduct; I know not how to think they would uſe you ill in any reſpect. But con⯑ſider, my Dear, you muſt not, in any Woman beſide myſelf, expect to find a fond, and perhaps partial Mother; for, the little Failings which I could not ſee in you, will appear very plain to other Perſons. My Love for you would make me wiſh you always with me; but as that is what your future Welfare will no way permit; and as you muſt certainly be a Gainer by the Situation you are now in, let a Deſire to promote my Happineſs, as well as your own, make every ſeeming Difficulty light; which, I hope, will appear much lighter for being what I intreat you to diſpenſe with; who am,

I have deſir'd your Uncle to interpoſe in this Matter, and he writes to you on this Occa⯑ſion; and has promiſed to ſee Juſtice done you, in caſe your Complaints be reaſon⯑able.

LETTER IV. An Uncle's Letter to the Youth, on the ſame Occaſion.

I AM ſorry you ſhould have any Miſunderſtand⯑ing with your Maſter: I have a good Opinion of him, and am unwilling to entertain a bad one of you. It is ſo much a Maſter's Intereſt to uſe his Apprentices well, that I am inclinable to think that when they are badly treated, it is oftener the Effect of Provocation than Choice. Wherefore, before I give myſelf the Trouble of interpoſing in your Behalf, I deſire you will ſtrictly inquire of your⯑ſelf, whether you have not, by ſome Miſconduct or other, provoked that Alteration in your Maſter's Be⯑haviour of which you ſo much complain. If, after having diligently complied with this Requeſt, you aſſure me that you are not ſenſible of having given Cauſe of Diſguſt on your Side, I will readily uſe my beſt Endeavours to reconcile you to your Maſter, or procure you another. But if you find yourſelf blame⯑ble, it will be better for you to remove, by your own Amendment, the Occaſion of your Maſter's Diſ⯑pleaſure, than to have me, or any other Friend, offer to plead your Excuſe, where you know it would be unjuſt to defend you. If this ſhould be your Caſe, all your Friends together could promiſe your better Behaviour, indeed; but as the Performance muſt even then be your own, it will add much more to your Character to paſs thro' your whole Term without any Interpoſition between you. Weigh well what I have here ſaid; and remember, that your future Welfare depends greatly on your preſent Behaviour. I am,

LETTER V. An Apprentice to an Uncle, about a Fraud committed by his Fellow-Apprentice to their Maſter.

I AM under greater Uneaſineſs than I am able to expreſs: My Fellow-'prentice, for whom I had a great Regard, and from whom I have received many Civilities, has involved me in the deepeſt Affliction. I am unwilling to tell you, and yet I muſt not conceal it, that he has forfeited the Confidence repoſed in him by a Breach of Truſt, to which he ungenerouſly gain'd my Conſent, by a Pretence I did not in the leaſt ſuſpect. What muſt I do? My Maſter is defrauded: If I diſcover the Injury, I am ſure to ruin a young Man I wou'd fain think poſſeſſed of ſome Merit; if I conceal the Injuſtice, I muſt at preſent ſhare the Guilt, and hereafter be Partaker in the Puniſhment. I am in the greateſt Agony of Mind, and beg your inſtant Advice, as you value the Peace of

LETTER VI. The Uncle's Anſwer.

YOUR Letter, which I juſt now received, gives me great Uneaſineſs: And as any Delay in the Diſcovery may be attended with Conſe⯑quences which will probably be dangerous to your⯑ſelf, and diſagreeable to all who belong to you; I [13] charge you, if you value your own Happineſs, and my Peace, to acquaint your Maſter inſtantly with the Injuſtice that has been done him; which is the only Means of vindicating your own Innocence, and prevent your being looked upon as an Accom⯑plice in a Fact, to which I wiſh you may not be found to have been too far conſenting. As to the unhappy young Man who has been guilty of ſo fatal an Indiſcretion, I wiſh, if the known Cle⯑mency and Good-nature of your Maſter may par⯑don this Offence, he may let his Forgiveneſs teach him the Ingratitude and Inhumanity of injuring a Man, who is not only the proper Guardian of his Youth, but whoſe Goodneſs deſerves the beſt Be⯑haviour, tho' he be generous enough to excuſe the worſt. Let not a Minute paſs after you receive this, before you reveal the Matter to your Maſter: For, I am in Hopes that your Application to me, and your following my Advice, will greatly plead in your Behalf. I will very ſpeedily call on your Maſter, and am, as far as an honeſt Regard for you can make me,

LETTER VII. Advice from a Father to a young Beginner, what Company to chuſe, and how to behave in it.

AS you are now entering into the World, and will probably have conſiderable Dealings in your Buſineſs, the frequent Occaſions you will have for Advice from others, will make you de⯑ſirous [14] of ſingling out among your moſt intimate Acquaintance, one or two, whom you would view in the Light of Friends.

In the Choice of theſe, your utmoſt Care and Caution will be neceſſary: for, by a Miſtake here, you can ſcarcely conceive the fatal Effects you may hereafter experience: Wherefore, it will be proper for you to make a Judgment of thoſe who are fit to be your Adviſers, by the Conduct they have obſerved in their own Affairs, and the Reputation they bear in the World. For he who has by his own Indiſcretions undone himſelf, is much fitter to be ſet up as a Land-mark for a pru⯑dent Mariner to ſhun his Courſes, than an Example to follow.

Old Age is generally ſlow and heavy, Youth headſtrong and precipitate; but there are old Men who are full of Vivacity, and young Men reple⯑niſh'd with Diſcretion; which makes me rather point out the Conduct than the Age of the Perſons with whom you ſhould chuſe to aſſociate; tho' after all, it is a never-failing good Sign to me of Prudence and Virtue in a young Man, when his Seniors chuſe his Company, and he delights in theirs.

Let your Endeavour therefore be, at all Adven⯑tures, to conſort yourſelf with Men of Sobriety, good Senſe and Virtue; for the Proverb is an un⯑erring one, that ſays, A Man is known by the Com⯑pany he keeps. If ſuch Men you can ſingle out, while you improve by their Converſation, you will benefit by their Advice; and be ſure remember one thing, that tho' you muſt be frank and unreſerved in delivering your Sentiments, when Occaſions offer, yet that you be much readier to hear than ſpeak; for to this Purpoſe it has been ſignificantly obſerved, that Nature has given a Man two Ears, [15] and but one Tongue. Lay in therefore by Obſer⯑vation, and a modeſt Silence, ſuch a Store of Ideas, that you may at their Time of Life, make no worſe Figure than they do; and endeavour to bene⯑fit yourſelf rather by other Peoples Ills than your own. How muſt thoſe young Men expoſe them⯑ſelves to the Contempt and Ridicule of their Seniors, who having ſeen little or nothing of the World, are continually ſhutting out by open Mouths and cloſed Ears, all Poſſibility of Inſtruction, and making vain the principal End of Converſation, which is Improvement. A ſilent young Man makes generally a wiſe old one, and never fails of being reſpected by the beſt and moſt prudent Men. When therefore you come among Strangers, hear every one ſpeak before you deliver your own Sen⯑timents; by this means you will judge of the Merit and Capacities of your Company, and avoid expoſing yourſelf, as I have known many do, by ſhooting out haſty and inconſiderate Bolts, which they would have been glad to recal, when perhaps a ſilent Genius in Company has burſt out upon them with ſuch Obſervations, as have ſtruck Con⯑ſciouſneſs and Shame in the forward Speaker, if he has not been quite inſenſible of inward Reproach.

I have thrown together, as they occurr'd, a few Thoughts, which may ſuffice for the preſent to ſhew my Care and Concern for your Welfare. I hope you will conſtantly from time to time, com⯑municate to me whatever you ſhall think worthy of my Notice, or in which my Advice may be of Uſe to you. For I have no Pleaſure in this Life equal to that which the Happineſs of my Children gives me. And of this you may be aſſured; for I am, and ever muſt be,

LETTER VIII. General Rules for agreeable Converſation in a young Man. From a Father to a Son.

AS I had not an Opportunity of ſaying ſo much to you as I wiſhed when you were laſt here; I ſend this to inform you of ſome things in your general Converſation, which I think would be proper for you to obſerve, and amend; particularly your exceſſive Itch for Talking, which diſcovers itſelf alike on all Occaſions. I have always flatter'd my⯑ſelf that you do not want Senſe, and am willing to hope I have not been deceived: But the dangerous Self-ſufficiency of moſt young Men, ſeems violently to have ſeized you, which, I hope, a little Re⯑flection will remove.

The Art of rendering yourſelf agreeable in Con⯑verſation is worth your ſerious Study: 'Tis an Ad⯑vantage few can boaſt, tho' ſought after by all; and nothing is ſo conſtant an Enemy to Succeſs in thoſe who would excel in this Art, as the harbour⯑ing an Opinion of their own Proficiency, before they have attained to any tolerable Degree of Knowledge in what they imagine themſelves poſ⯑ſeſſed of. Converſation, where it is rightly ma⯑naged, muſt be ſo conducted, as to let each Mem⯑ber of the Company have a Share in the Pleaſure and Applauſe it affords: If you are Six in Number, after you have told a Story, or made any Remark which gives a general Satisfaction; you muſt con⯑ſider it the Right of another to call your Attention in his Turn; and, unleſs particularly requeſted, it betrays a great Weakneſs to follow yourſelf. No doubt but you love to be admired: And have not [17] others the ſame Paſſion? You believe your Wit more brilliant than theirs? Are you ſure that they are not of the ſame Opinion as to their own? If a Man ſpeaks little, you muſt not from thence con⯑clude him willing to give up every Claim to con⯑verſible Merit: Perhaps he cannot ſing: But to be ſure he is as deſirous of having his peculiar Humour, or his dry Joke applauded, as you are to be intreat⯑ed another Song. If he is no Mathematician, per⯑haps he is verſed in religious Diſputation; if he deſpiſes Plays, he may admire Hiſtory; tho' he underſtands not Geography, he may yet know how to deſcribe the Humours of Mankind: And tho' he pretends not to Politicks, he may have a Turn for ſome more uſeful Science. When theſe are conſidered, if his Modeſty is great, you cannot ob⯑lige him more than by throwing an Opportunity in his way to diſplay his Capacity on the Subject he believes himſelf moſt able to handle with Ad⯑vantage: For, in order to ſupport a thorough good Humour, a Man muſt be pleaſed with him⯑ſelf as well as with others. When this is pro⯑perly taken Care of, Converſation ſeldom fails to prove entertaining: And to the Neglect of this, are owing many of the yawning Hours ſpent in Companies compoſed of Men not incapable of be⯑having agreeably.

The Manner of telling a Story, is alſo worth your Notice: You have known the Pleaſure of hearing a long one well told: Mr. Trotter has an admirable Talent in this way: But then you muſt obſerve, that half the Pleaſure he gives, ariſes from his happily avoiding any of the ſilly Digreſſions, which are the great Cauſe of a Story's ſeeming tedious: You never hear him mingle his Relation with, I remember very well it was the ſame Day that 'Squire Trumbul's Son came of Age.—I bought [18] my bay Nag the very Day before, at ſuch a Fair, being a Friday that Year;—or, I can ſcarce think of it without Laughing;—But, however, as I was ſaying:—And a hundred more ſuch Dead-weights to Attention. Nor does he ever praiſe a Story be⯑fore he relates it; a fatal Rock to many a good Relation: For when any Story wants a preparatory Recommendation, it ought not to be told; and even when the Relation is poſſible, the Generality of Auditors are apt to perſuade themſelves,‘The Mountain labours, and a Mouſe is born.’

Theſe are looſe and general Hints; but by a due Improvement of them, you will find yourſelf very ſenſibly grow more and more agreeable where-ever you converſe. An Eaſe and becoming Freedom you already have, and by the Addition of Diſcre⯑tion in your Uſe of them, and Complaiſance to others, you will probably ſucceed in the Deſire ſo predominant in you, of being admired by Men of Senſe and Judgment. Which will be no ſmall Pleaſure to

LETTER IX. An elder to a younger Brother, who is in Love with a young Lady of great Gaiety, &c.

I AM more concerned for your Welfare than you imagine. You are younger than myſelf: My Duty, in ſome Degree, requires my Care for your Good, and particularly in a Point that may [19] be ſo material to your whole Life, as is that of Love.

Beauty has as great a Force upon my Senſes, as it can have upon yours. I am near Thirty Years of Age; you are not more than Twenty. Your Paſſions are ſtrong; mine, Brother, are far from ſubſiding: I admire, I love, with as much Force of Nature as you can do. My Reaſon ought to be ſtronger, and 'tis well if my Paſſion is not ſo likewiſe. Miſs Rooke is amiable on many Ac⯑counts; her Features are regular, her Wit ſprightly, her Deportment genteel; and Voice,—I had al⯑moſt ſaid, raviſhing. Her Dreſs is eaſy and un⯑affected; and her Manner of Converſation, has a Freedom that captivates more Hearts, than yours: Yet, I greatly fear, with all theſe Endow⯑ments, ſhe will not make the Wife you ought to wiſh for. Her airy Flights, and gay Behaviour, are pleaſing, as a Partner in Converſation, but will they be equally agreeable in a Partner for Life? What now charms you, charms alſo others: You are now content with thinking yourſelf one among many that admire her, and are admitted to ſhare the Brilliancy of her Converſation; but will a Share of her Wit and Humour, her Freedom and Gaiety, pleaſe hereafter as a Wife? And tho' ſhe is delight⯑ful in Company, are you ſatisfied ſhe will be as agreeable when alone with you; or when ſhe has not an Opportunity of ſhewing-away in a Company that perhaps you may not approve? She now ſees nobody but whom ſhe chuſes to ſee: If ſhe ſhould be a Wife, it is more than probable ſhe may diſlike Reſtraints: and can you approve of a diffuſe Converſation in one you deſire to your⯑ſelf?

Think not, Brother, that I have any intereſted Motive for this Advice. I aſſure you I have not. [20] I am not your Rival: I deſire not the Lady you ſeem too fond of. All I mean (for I ſay nothing at preſent, with regard to your own Youth, which ought not, however, to be wholly forgotten, as very few prudent Matches are made by young Gentle⯑men at your Age) is, to caution you againſt thinking of a Gentlewoman who may, and I am willing to believe will, be a ſuitable Companion to a Gentleman whoſe Station and Choice leads him into much Company, and gay Life; but to Men whoſe Circumſtances, if not their Inclinations, require a more retired way of Life, it is obvious, a Woman, whoſe Talents lie principally in Converſation, can never, for that Reaſon only, juſtify a young Gentleman for chuſing her for a Wife.

I hope this will come time enough to put you upon guarding againſt the Inconveniencies that threaten the Indulgence of your preſent Paſſion. Shut not your Ears to Reaſon; forget not your⯑ſelf; and be ſure to remember, that the Pleaſure of an Hour or Two, and of Twenty, Thirty, or Forty Years, or a whole Life, muſt ariſe from very different Sources. I am,

LETTER X. An elder to an extravagant younger Brother.

YOU may be certain that your Misfortunes are to me a moſt melancholy Subject: You are my only Brother: I own it: And your Miſ⯑fortunes [21] affect me next to my own: But there is this Difference in what I feel for you, and for my⯑ſelf: I am ſure, every Misfortune I have met with, has been occaſioned by unavoidable Acci⯑dents. This Conſideration has ſupported me under the many Afflictions I have myſelf endured: But for thoſe I have ſhared with you, I cannot boaſt the ſame Alleviation. While our Father lived, he was your conſtant and unwearied Support, even after your Patrimony was ſquander'd away. While our Mother remained, ſhe was every Week aſſiſt⯑ing your Neceſſities, but what might more pro⯑perly be called your Levity and Extravagance. She is now, by the Divine Will, taken from us both; her Jointure, as well as the Eſtate my Father independently left, has devolved upon me. Of this both Nature and Providence re⯑quire I ſhould make the beſt Uſe: And to ſerve you, I readily confeſs, is my greateſt Care. But, my dear Brother, how is this to be done? The generous and bountiful Aſſiſtance of our Parents, procured you no ſubſtantial Good. What then am I to do to ſcreen you from Want and Miſery?—That you are not already happy, is not owing to the Backwardneſs of your Friends to ſerve you; but, allow me to ſpeak plainly, to your own In⯑diſcretion. Your own Fortune maintained you not for three Years: Were I able to give you as much more, what Reaſon have you given me to ſuppoſe you will be a better Oeconomiſt than you have been? My whole Eſtate, let me tell you, Brother, at your Rate of Expence, would ſcarcely maintain you for Seven Years: And, think you as you will, I muſt believe it my Duty to leave enough to ſupport my Off-ſpring, with pru⯑dent Conduct, to the End of Time. If I ſend you, as you deſire, Fifty Guineas, What good will [22] that Sum procure you? It will but ſerve to lengthen your Credit, and make you run deeper into Debt. I have aſſiſted you before; and has not this always been the Caſe? And have not People given you Credit, becauſe they think I will ſupport you? 'Tis Time then, my dear Brother, to hold my Hand. But yet, be aſſured, that when I am co [...] ⯑vinced you have thoroughly abandon'd your preſe [...] Courſes, you ſhall find in me,

LETTER XI. To a young Man too ſoon keeping a Horſe.

I Always take great Pleaſure in hearing of your Welfare, and of every thing that makes for your Satisfaction and Comfort: But give me Leave to ſay, That I am ſorry to hear you have ſo early begun to keep a Horſe, eſpecially as your Buſineſs is altogether in your Shop, and you have no End to ſerve in riding out; and are, beſides, young and healthy,, and ſo cannot require it, as Exerciſe. And is it worth while, think you, to keep a Horſe the whole Week, that you may have him at hand on a Sunday Morning, if the Day proves fair, and you have nothing to keep you in Town?

You muſt conſider, that tho' here, in the Country, many common Tradeſmen keep Horſes, the Expence is but ſmall to them, and the Diſtance of one Cuſtomer from another, in a manner obliges them to it. But this can be no Plea for you: And if you do not want a Horſe [23] for Exerciſe, you can only alledge the worſt Rea⯑ſon in the World for your maintaining one; that your Neighbours all round you do the ſame: For, look who they are, and what their Motives, and you'll ſoon ſee the Difference, and that their Example will not juſtify you. Mr. Thompſon, for Inſtance, who lives next Door to you, is near Sixty Years of Age, of a pretty groſs Con⯑ſtitution, and capable of no other Exerciſe; and moreover he had acquired, by Length of Time, and Induſtry, an ample Fortune, before he gave himſelf this Diverſion. Mr. Jenkins has an Eſtate fallen to him, that ſets him above the Want of Trade; and his continuing in it, is rather an Amuſement than an Employment. Mr. Jackſon, Mr. Weſt, Mr. Trozier, and Mr. Kent, are all Men of eſtabliſhed Fortunes; and when you are as old as the youngeſt of them, and can as well afford it, I would be far from diſſuading you from keeping a Horſe. But at preſent, you may de⯑pend upon it, you rather incur their Contempt, than gain their Eſteem, by offering to appear their Equal, when they and you well know, in what relates to Expences, you ought not to be ſo, nor have you had a Time for it. The lower Part of the World may, perhaps, ſhew you more Reſpect for thoſe Marks of Subſtance; but ſhould a Time come (and who is exempt from Misfor⯑tunes?) when they muſt know they were the Effects of unthinking Levity; how deſpicable muſt you then appear in their Eyes? And, let me tell you, that the Eſteem of Perſons of Credit and Underſtanding, muſt be gained by very dif⯑ferent Means, from Shew or Equipage; for with theſe, Modeſty, Prudence, and good Senſe only, will ever prevail.

[24] Beſides, the Expence of the Horſe is not the leaſt thing to be conſidered: It will in time, very probably, lead you into a more dangerous one, that of beſtowing too much of your Time in the Uſe of it. It will unhinge your Mind, as I may ſay, from Buſineſs, and give your Servants Oppor⯑tunity to be remiſs in your Abſence. And as you are a young Man, it is fit that you ſhould lay up, by your Induſtry, againſt a more advanced Age, when the Exerciſe a Horſe affords, will ſeem not only more ſuitable, but perhaps abſolutely ne⯑ceſſary to your Health; whereas now, it may rather paſs for Wantonneſs and Affectation.

You are not without a tolerable Share of Rea⯑ſon; let me prevail with you to uſe it: Sell your Horſe, and fear not being laugh'd at on that Ac⯑count; for it will be a Credit to you more Ways than one, to ſay, That your Buſineſs would not allow you Time to uſe it. And it would argue beſides, great Perverſeneſs, to continue in an Er⯑ror, for no other Reaſon than to ſupport a wrong Judgment at firſt ſetting out: And your reducing an unneceſſary Expence in good time, will more than recover any good Opinion you may have loſt by running into it.

Your prudent Uſe of this Advice, will, as it muſt tend to your Good, be a great Satisfaction to

LETTER XII. Againſt a ſudden Intimacy, or Friendſhip, with one of a ſhort Acquaintance.

I AM juſt ſetting out for Windſor, and have not time to ſay ſo much as I would on the Occa⯑ſion upon which I now write to you. I hear that Mr. Douglas and you have lately contracted ſuch an Intimacy, that you are hardly ever aſunder; and as I know his Morals are not the beſt, nor his Circumſtances the moſt happy, I fear he will, if he has not already done it, let you ſee, that he better knows what he does in ſeeking your Ac⯑quaintance, than you do in cultivating his.

I am far from deſiring to abridge you in any neceſſary or innocent Liberty, or to preſcribe too much to your Choice of a Friend: Nor am I againſt your being complaiſant to Sirangers; for this Gentleman's Acquaintance is not yet a Month old with you; but you muſt not think every Man whoſe Converſation is agreeable, fit to be imme⯑diately treated as a Friend: Of all Sorts, haſtily⯑contracted Friendſhips promiſe the leaſt Duration or Satisfaction; as they moſt commonly ariſe from Deſign on one Side, and Weakneſs on the other. True Friendſhip muſt be the Effect of long and mutual Eſteem and Knowledge: It ought to have for its Cement, an Equality of Years, a Similitude of Manners, and, pretty much, a Parity in Circumſtance and Degree. But, generally ſpeaking, an Openneſs to a Stranger carries with it ſtrong Marks of Indiſcretion, and not ſeldom ends in Repentance.

[26] For theſe Reaſons, I would be glad you would be upon your Guard, and proceed cautiouſly in this new Alliance. Mr. Douglas has Vivacity and Humour enough to pleaſe any Man of a light Turn; but where I to give my Judgment of him, I ſhould pronounce him fitter for the Tea-table, than the Cabinet. He is ſmart, but very ſuper⯑ficial; and treats all ſerious Subjects with a Con⯑tempt too natural to bad Minds; and I know more young Men than one, of whoſe good Opinion he has taken Advantage, and has made them wiſer, though at their own Expence, than he found them.

The Caution I here give you, is the pure Effect of my Experience in Life, ſome Knowledge of your new Aſſociate, and my Affection for you. The Uſe you make of it will determine, whether you merit this Concern from

LETTER XIII. A young Man in Buſineſs, to a Father, deſiring Leave to addreſs his Daughter.

I HOPE the Juſtneſs of my Intentions will excuſe the Freedom of theſe few Lines, where⯑by I am to acquaint you of the great Affection and Eſteem I have for your Daughter. I would not, Sir, offer at any indirect Addreſs, that ſhould have the leaſt Appearance of Inconſiſtency with her Duty to you, and my honourable Views to her; chuſing, by your Influence, if I may ap⯑prove myſelf to you worthy of that Honour, to [27] commend myſelf to her Approbation. You are not inſenſible, Sir, by the Credit I have hitherto preſerved in the World, of my Ability, by God's Bleſſing, to make her happy: And this the rather imboldens me to requeſt the Favour of an Even⯑ing's Converſation with you, at your firſt Con⯑venience, when I will more fully explain myſelf, as I earneſtly hope, to your Satisfaction, and take my Encouragement or Diſcouragement from your own Mouth. I am, Sir, mean time, with great Reſpect,

LETTER XIV. To the Daughter (on the Father's Allowance) appriſing her of his intended Viſit.

I HAVE ventured to make known to your honoured Father, the great Deſire I have to be thought worthy of a Relation to him by your Means. And, as he has not diſcouraged me in the Hopes I have entertained, that I may poſſibly be not unacceptable to him, and to all your worthy Family, I propoſe to do myſelf the Honour of a Viſit to you next Monday. Tho' he has been ſo good as to promiſe to intro⯑duce me, and I make no doubt has acquainted you with it; I give you, nevertheleſs, the Trouble of theſe Lines, that I might not appear wanting in any outward Demonſtration of that inviolable Reſpect, with which I am, dear Madam,

LETTER XV. From a young Lady to her Father, acquainting him with a Propoſal of Marriage made to her.

I THINK it my Duty to acquaint you, that a Gentleman of this Town, by Name Derham, and by Buſineſs a Linen-draper, has made ſome Overtures to my Couſin Morgan, in the way of Courtſhip to me. My Couſin has brought him once or twice into my Company, which he could not well decline doing, becauſe he has Dealings with him; and has an high Opinion of him, and his Circumſtances. He has been ſet up Three Years, and has very good Buſineſs, and lives in Credit and Faſhion. He is about Twenty-ſeven Years old, and a likely Man enough: He ſeems not to want Senſe or Manners; and is come of a good Family. He has broke his Mind to me, and boaſts how well he can maintain me: But, I aſſure you, Sir, I have given him no Encouragement; and told him, that I had no Thoughts of changing my Condition, yet a while; and ſhould never think of it but in Obedience to my Parents; and I de⯑ſired him to talk no more on that Subject to me. Yet he reſolves to perſevere, and pretends extra⯑ordinary Affection and Eſteem. I would not, Sir, by any means, omit to acquaint you with the Be⯑ginnings of an Affair, that would be want of Duty in me to conceal from you, and ſhew a Guilt and Diſobedience unworthy of the kind Indulgence and Affection you have always ſhewn to, Sir,

My humble Duty to my honour'd Mother, Love to my Brother and Siſter; and Reſpects to all Friends. Couſin Morgan, and his Wife and Siſter deſire their kind Reſpects. I can⯑not ſpeak enough of their Civility to me.

LETTER XVI. The Father's Anſwer, on a Suppoſition that he approves not of the young Man's Addreſſes.

I HAVE received your Letter dated the 4th Inſtant, wherein you acquaint me of the Pro⯑poſals made to you, thro' your Couſin Morgan's Recommendation, by one Mr. Derham. I hope, as you aſſure me, that you have given no Encou⯑ragement to him: For I by no means approve of him for your Huſband. I have inquired of one of his Townſmen, who knows him and his Cir⯑cumſtances very well; and I am neither pleaſed with them, nor with his Character; and wonder my Couſin would ſo inconſiderately recommend him to you. Indeed, I doubt not Mr. Morgan's good Intentions; but I inſiſt upon it, that you think nothing of the Matter, if you would oblige

Your Mother gives her Bleſſing to you, and joins with me in the above Advice. Your Brother and Siſter, and all Friends, ſend their Love and Reſpects to you.

LETTER XVII. The Father's Anſwer, on a Suppoſition that he does not diſapprove of the young Man's Ad⯑dreſſes.

IN Anſwer to yours of the 4th Inſtant, relating to the Addreſſes of Mr. Derham, I would have you neither wholly encourage nor diſcourage his Suit; for if, on Inquiry into his Character and Circumſtances, I ſhall find that they are anſwer⯑able to your Couſin's good Opinion of them, and his own Aſſurances, I know not but his Suit may be worthy of Attention. But, my Dear, conſider, that Men are deceitful, and always put the beſt Side outwards; and it may poſſibly, on the ſtrict Inquiry, which the Nature and Impor⯑tance of the Caſe demands, come out far other⯑wiſe than it at preſent appears. Let me adviſe you therefore, to act in this Matter with great Pru⯑dence, and that you make not yourſelf too cheap; for Men are apt to ſlight what is too eaſily obtain⯑ed. Your Couſin will give him Hope enough, while you don't abſolutely deny him; and in the mean time, he may be told, that you are not at your own Diſpoſal; but intirely reſolved to abide by my Determination and Direction, in an Affair of this great Importance: And this will put him upon applying to me, who, you need not doubt, will in this Caſe, as in all others, ſtudy your Good; as becomes

Your Mother gives her Bleſſing to you, and joins with me in the above Advice. Your Brother and Siſter, and all Friends, ſend their Love and Reſpects to you.

LETTER XVIII. The young Gentleman's Letter to the Father, appriſing him of his Affection for his Daugh⯑ter.

I TAKE the Liberty, tho' perſonally unknown to you, to declare the great Value and Affection I have for your worthy Daughter, whom I have had the Honour to ſee at my good Friend Mr. Morgan's. I ſhould think myſelf intirely un⯑worthy of her Favour, and of your Approbation, if I could have a Thought of influencing her Re⯑ſolution but in Obedience to your Pleaſure; as I ſhould, on ſuch a Suppoſition, offer an Injury like⯑wiſe to that Prudence in herſelf, which I flatter myſelf, is not the leaſt of her amiable Perfections. If I might have the Honour of your Countenance, Sir, on this Occaſion, I would open myſelf and Circumſtances to you, in that frank and honeſt manner which ſhould convince you of the Sincerity of my Affection for your Daughter, and at the ſame time of the Honourableneſs of my Intentions. In the mean time, I will in general ſay, That I have been ſet up in my Buſineſs in the Linen⯑drapery way, upwards of Three Years; that I have a very good Trade for the Time: That I had 1000 l. to begin with, which I have improved to 1500 l. as I am ready to make appear to your Satiſ⯑faction: That I am deſcended of a creditable Fa⯑mily; have done nothing to ſtain my Character; and that my Trade is ſtill further improveable, as I ſhall, I hope, inlarge my Bottom. This, Sir, I thought but honeſt and fair to acquaint you with, [32] that you might know ſomething of a Perſon, who ſues to you for your Countenance, and that of your good Lady, in an Affair that I hope may prove one Day the greateſt Happineſs of my Life; as it muſt be, if I can be bleſſed with that, and your dear Daughter's Approbation. In Hope of which, and the Favour of a Line, I take the Li⯑berty to ſubſcribe myſelf, Good Sir,

LETTER XIX. From the Couſin to the Father and Mother, in Commendation of the young Gentleman.

I GIVE you both Thanks for ſo long continu⯑ing with us the Pleaſure of Couſin Polly's Com⯑pany. She has intirely captivated a worthy Friend of mine, Mr. Derham, a Linen-draper of this Town. And I would have acquainted you with it myſelf, but that I knew and adviſed Couſin Polly to write to you about it; for I would not for the world any thing of this ſort ſhould be carried on unknown to you, at my Houſe, eſpecially. Mr. Derham has ſhewn me his Letter to you; and I believe every Tittle of it to be true; and really, if you and my Couſin approve it, as alſo Couſin Polly, I don't know where ſhe can do better. I am ſure I ſhould think ſo, if I had a Daughter he could love.

Thus much I thought myſelf obliged to ſay; and with my kind Love to your other Self, and all my Couſins, as alſo my Wife's, and Siſter's, I remain

LETTER XX. From the Father, in Anſwer to the young Gen⯑tleman.

I HAVE received yours of the 12th, and am obliged to you for the good Opinion you expreſs of my Daughter. But I think ſhe is yet full young to alter her Condition, and imbark in the Cares of a Family. I cannot but ſay, that the Account you give of yourſelf, and your Application to me, ra⯑ther than firſt to try to engage the Affections of my Daughter, carry a very honourable Appearance, and ſuch as muſt be to the Advantage of your Cha⯑racter. As to your Beginning, Sir, that is not to be ſo much looked upon, as the Improvement; and I doubt not, that you can make good Proof of what you aſſert on this Occaſion. But ſtill I muſt needs ſay, that I think, and ſo does her Mo⯑ther, that it is too early to incumber her with the Cares of the World; and as I am ſure ſhe will do nothing in ſo important an Affair without our Ad⯑vice, ſo I would not, for the world, in a Caſe ſo nearly concerning her, and her future Welfare, con⯑ſtrain her in the leaſt. I intend ſhortly to ſend for her home; for ſhe has been longer abſent from us, than we intended; and then I ſhall conſult her Inclinations; and you will excuſe me to ſay, for ſhe is my Daughter, and a very good Child, tho' I ſay it, that I ſhall then determine myſelf by that, and by what ſhall appear to offer moſt for her Good. In the mean time, Sir, I thank you for the Civility and commendable Openneſs of yours; and am,

LETTER XXI. From the young Gentleman to his Miſtreſs on her Arrival at her Father's.

I HAVE underſtood with great Pleaſure your ſafe Arrival at your Father's Houſe; of which I take the Liberty to congratulate your good Parents, as well as your dear Self. I will not, Madam, fill this Letter with the Regret I had to part with you, becauſe I have no Reaſon nor Merit, at preſent, to expect that you ſhould be concerned for me on this Score. Yet, Madam, I am not without Hope, from the Sincerity of my Affection for you, and the Honeſty of my Intentions, to deſerve in time, thoſe Regards which I cannot at preſent flatter my⯑ſelf with. As your good Father, in his kind Let⯑ter to me, aſſured me, that he ſhould conſult your Inclinations, and determine by them, and by what ſhould offer moſt for your Good; how happy ſhould I be, if I could find my humble Suit not quite indifferent to your dear Self, and not rejected by Him! If what I have already opened to him as to my Circumſtances, be not unacceptable, I ſhould humbly hope for Leave to pay you and him a Viſit at Nottingham; or if this be too great a Favour, till he has made further Enquiry, that he would be pleaſed to give himſelf that Trouble, and put it in my Power, as ſoon as poſſible, to con⯑vince him of the Truth of my Allegations, upon which I deſire to ſtand or fall in my Hopes of your Favour and his. For I think, far different from many in the World, that a Deception in an Affair of this weighty Nature, ſhould be leſs forgiven than in any other. Since then, deareſt Madam, I build [36] my Hopes more on the Truth of my Affection for you, and the Honour of my Intentions, than any other Merit, or Pretenſions, I hope you will con⯑deſcend, if not to become an Advocate for me, which would be too great a Preſumption to expect, yet to let your good Parents know, that you have no Averſion to the Perſon or Addreſs of, deareſt Madam,

My beſt Reſpects attend your good Father and Mother, and whole Family.

LETTER XXII. From a Brother to his Siſter in the Country, up⯑braiding her for being negligent in Writing.

I WRITE to you to acquaint you how un⯑kindly we all take it here, that you do not write oftener to us, in relation to your Health, Diverſions, and Employment in the Country. [37] You cannot be inſenſible how much you are beloved by us all; judge then if you do right to omit giving us the only Satisfaction Abſence affords to true Friends, which is often to hear from one another. My Mother is highly diſobliged with you, and ſays you are a very idle Girl; my Aunt is of the ſame Opinion; and I would fain, like a loving Brother, excuſe you, if I could. Pray, for the future, take Care to deſerve a better Character, and by writing ſoon, and often, put it in my Power to ſay what a good Siſter I have: For you ſhall always find me

Due Reſpects of every one here to my Aunt, and all Friends in the Country.

LETTER XXIII. In Anſwer to the preceding.

MOST kindly, and too juſtly, do you up⯑braid me. I own my Fault, and never will be guilty of the like again. I write to beg my Mother's Pardon, and that ſhe will procure for me that of my good Aunt, on Promiſe of Amend⯑ment. Continue, my dear Brother, to be an Ad⯑vocate for me in all my unintended Imperfections, and I will never err voluntarily for the future: That ſo I may be as worthy as poſſible of your kind Conſtructions, and ſhew myſelf, what I truly am, and ever will be,

LETTER XXIV. From the Daughter to her Mother, in Excuſe for her Neglect.

I AM aſhamed I ſtaid to be reminded of my Duty by my Brother's kind Letter. I will offer no Ex⯑cuſe for myſelf, for not writing oftener, tho' I have been ſtrangely taken up by the Kindneſs and Fa⯑vour of your good Friends here, particularly my Aunt Windus: For well do I know, that my Duty to my honoured Mother, ought to take place of all other Conſiderations. All I beg therefore is, that you will be ſo good to forgive me, on Promiſe of Amendment, and to procure Forgiveneſs alſo of my Aunt Talbot, and all Friends. Believe me, Madam, when I ſay, that no Diverſions here or elſewhere ſhall make me forget the Duty I owe to ſo good a Mother, and ſuch kind Relations; and that I ſhall ever be

My Aunt and Couſins deſire their kind Love to you, and due Reſpects to all Friends. Brother John has great Reputation with every one for his kind Letter to me.

LETTER XXV. From a Son-in-Law to his Wife's Father, ac⯑quainting him with his Wife's Illneſs.

I AM ſorry to acquaint you with the Indiſpo⯑ſition of your dear Daughter. She was taken ill laſt Monday of a Fever, and has all the Aſſiſt⯑ance [39] that we can procure in theſe Parts. I hope ſhe is not in Danger. However, I thought it my Duty to let you know it in time, that you may ſatisfy yourſelf, that no Care is wanting; and that you may favour us with a perſonal Viſit; which will be a great Conſolation to her, who craves, mean time, your Bleſſing and Prayers; and alſo to, Sir,

LETTER XXVI. From a Country Chapman beginning Trade, to a City Dealer, offering his Correſpondence.

THE Time of my Apprenticeſhip, with Mr. Dobbins of this Town, being expired, I am juſt going to begin for myſelf in Cheſterfield, having taken a Shop there for that Purpoſe. And as I know the Satisfaction you always gave to my Maſter in your Dealings, I make an Offer to you of my Correſpondence, in Expectation that you will uſe me as well as you have done him, in whatever I may write to you for. And this I the rather ex⯑pect, as you cannot diſoblige Mr. Dobbins by it, be⯑cauſe of the Diſtance I ſhall be from him; and I ſhall endeavour to give you equal Content with regard to my Payments, &c. Your ſpeedy Anſwer, whether or no you are diſpoſed to accept of my Offer, will oblige,

LETTER XXVII. In Anſwer to the foregoing.

I HAVE received yours of October 20. and very chearfully accept the Favour you offer me. I will take Care to ſerve you in the beſt manner I am able, and on the ſame foot with Mr. Dobbins; not doubting you will make as punctual Returns as he does; which intitles him to a more favour⯑able Uſage, than could otherwiſe be afforded. I wiſh you Succeſs with all my Heart, and am

LETTER XXVIII. From a Maid-ſervant in Town, acquainting her Father and Mother in the Country, with a Pro⯑poſal of Marriage, and aſking their Conſents.

I Think it my Duty to acquaint you, that I am addreſſed to for a Change of Condition, by one Mr. John Tanner, who is a Glazier, and lives in the Neighbourhood by us. He is a young Man of a ſober Character, and has been ſet up about two Years, has good Buſineſs for his Time, and is well beloved and ſpoken of by every one. My Friends here think well of it, particularly my Maſter and Miſtreſs; and, he ſays, he doubts not, by God's Bleſſing on his Induſtry, to main⯑tain a Family very prettily: And I have fairly told him, how little he has to expect with me. [41] But I would not conclude on any thing, how⯑ever, till I had acquainted you with his Propoſals, and aſked your Bleſſings and Conſents. For I am, and ever will be,

LETTER XXIX. From the Parents, in Anſwer to the preceding.

WE have received your dutiful Letter. We can only pray to God to direct and bleſs you in all your Engagements. Our Diſtance from you, muſt make us leave every thing to your own Diſ⯑cretion; and as you are ſo well ſatisfied in Mr. Tanner's Character, as well as all Friends, and your Maſter and Miſtreſs, we give our Bleſſings and Conſents with all our Hearts: We are only ſorry we can do no more for you. But let us know when it is done, and we will do ſome little Matters, as far as we are able, towards Houſe⯑keeping. Our Reſpects to Mr. Tanner. Every body joins with us in Wiſhes for your Happineſs; and may God bleſs you, is all that can be ſaid, by

LETTER XXX. From the ſame, acquainting her Parents with her Marriage.

I Write to acquaint you, that laſt Thurſday I was married to Mr. Tanner, and am to go home to him in a Fortnight. My Maſter and [42] Miſtreſs have been very kind, and have made me a Preſent towards Houſekeeping of Three Guineas. I had ſaved Twenty Pounds in Service, and that is all. I told him the naked Truth of every thing. And indeed did not intend to marry ſo ſoon; but when I had your Letter, and ſhew'd it him, he would not let me reſt till it was done. Pray don't ſtraiten your ſelves out of Love to me. He joins with me in ſaying ſo, and bids me preſent his Duty to you, and tell you, that he fears not to maintain me very well. I have no Reaſon to doubt of being very happy. And your Prayers for a Bleſſing on both our Induſtry, will, I hope, be a Means to make us more ſo. We are, and ever ſhall be, with Reſpects to all Friends,

LETTER XXXI. Recommending a Superior Man-Servant.

THE Bearer of this is Mr. John Andrews, whom I mentioned to you laſt time I ſaw you; and for whoſe Integrity and Ability to ſerve you in the Way you talked of, I dare be anſwer⯑able. I take the greater Pleaſure in this Recom⯑mendation, as I doubt not it will be of Service to you both. And am, Sir,

LETTER XXXII. Recommending a Wet-Nurſe.

THE Bearer is Mrs. Newman, whom I recom⯑mended to you as a Nurſe for Maſter. You will be pleaſed with her neat Appearance and wholeſome Countenance. She lives juſt above Want, in a pleaſant airy Place, and has a very honeſt diligent Huſband, with whom ſhe lives very happily, and the Man is exceedingly fond of Chil⯑dren, very ſober, and good-humour'd; and they have every thing very pretty about them. You will find ſuch Anſwers to the Queſtions that ſhall be put to her, as will pleaſe you in every reſpect that you mentioned to me; and the Woman will not tell an Untruth, or impoſe upon you. In a word, I know not a more proper Perſon, and am glad I have this Opportunity to oblige you in ſo deſerved a Re⯑commendation: For I am, dear Madam,

LETTER XXXIII. Recommending a Cook-maid.

YOU deſired me to inquire for a Maid, who was qualified to ſerve you as a Cook. The Bearer lived three Years in her laſt Place, and went away to her Friends in the Country, on a Fit of Illneſs, of which ſhe is now perfectly recovered. As ſhe had [44] given no Hopes of Return, they had provided them⯑ſelves when ſhe offered her Service again. They give her a very good Character, as well for Honeſty and Sobriety, as for her orderly Behaviour, and obliging Temper, as alſo for her good Performance of what ſhe undertakes. I therefore thought you could not wiſh for a properer Perſon; and ſhall be glad it proves ſo. For I am, Madam,

LETTER XXXIV. Recommending a Chamber-maid.

THE Bearer, Jane Adams, is well recommended to me as a diligent, faithful Body, who un⯑derſtands her Needle well; is very neat, and houſewifely; and, as you deſired, no Goſſip or Make-bate, and has had a tolerable Education, being deſcended from good Friends. I make no doubt of her anſwering this Character. Of which I will ſatisfy you farther, when I have the Honour to ſee you. Till when I remain

LETTER XXXV. Recommending a Nurſery-maid.

THE Bearer, Sarah Williams, is a houſewifely genteel Body, who has been uſed to attend Children, and has a great Tenderneſs for them. [45] She is very careful and watchful over them in all their little pretty ways, and is a very proper Per⯑ſon to encourage their good Inclinations, or mildly to check their little Perverſeneſſes, ſo far as you ſhall permit her to do the one or the other. She is come of good Friends, who have had Misfortunes; is very honeſt, and will, I dare ſay, pleaſe you much, if you are not provided; which, I hope, you are not, for both your ſakes; for I love the Girl, and am, with great Reſpect, Madam,

LETTER XXXVI. A Father to a Son, to diſſuade him from the Vice of Drinking to Exceſs.

IT is with a Grief proportioned to my Love, which is extreme, that I underſtand you have of late neglected your Studies, and given yourſelf up to the odious Vice of Drinking: What ſhall I ſay, what ſhall I do, to engage you to quit this pernicious Practice, before it becomes ſuch a Habit, that it will be impoſſible, or at leaſt very difficult, for you to caſt it off? Let me require, let me in⯑treat you, to give a ſuitable Attention to what I have to ſay on this Head, which I ſhall offer rather as a warm Friend, than an angry Father; and as I addreſs myſelf to your Reaſon, I will leave it to yourſelf to judge of the Truth of the Obſervations I have to make to you.

In the firſt place, with reſpect to Health, the greateſt Jewel of this Life, it is the moſt deſtructive of all Vices: Aſthma's, Vertigoes, Palſies, Apo⯑plexies, [46] Gouts, Colicks, Fevers, Dropſies, Con⯑ſumptions, Stone, and Hypochondriack Diſeaſes, are naturally introduced by exceſſive Drinking.

All the reſt of the Vices together, are not ſo often puniſhed with ſudden Death as this one: What fatal Accidents, what Quarrels, what Breaches between Friend and Friend, are owing to it?

Then, in the ſecond Place; How does it de⯑face Reaſon, deſtroy all the tender Impulſes of Nature, make a wiſe Man a Fool, and ſubject Perſons of the brighteſt Parts to the Contempt of the weakeſt, and even, in time, extinguiſh thoſe ſhining Qualities, which conſtitute the Difference between a Man of Senſe and a Blockhead? For, as a certain very eminent Author well obſerves, Fools having generally ſtronger Nerves, and leſs volatile Spirits, than Men of fine Underſtandings, that which will rouſe the one, will make the other either ſtupid or frantick; and tho' it ſometimes, whi [...] the Fit continues, ſtrengthens the Imagination, yet it always depreſſes the Judgment; and after the Fit is over, both thoſe Faculties languiſh together, till, in time, it quenches the Imagination, impairs the Memory, and drowns the Judgment.

Moſt other Vices are compatible, as the ſame Author obſerves, with ſeveral Virtues; but Drun⯑kenneſs runs counter to all the Duties of Life. A great Drinker can hardly be either a good Huſband, a good Father, a good Son, a good Brother, or a good Friend: It lays him open to the worſt Com⯑pany, and this Company frequently ſubjects him to lewd Women, Gaming, Quarrels, Riots, and often Murders. All other Vices, even the greateſt of Vices, as Ambition, Unchaſtity, Bigotry, Avarice, Hypocriſy, deteſt this unnatural and worſe than beaſtly Vice; for the Beaſts themſelves, [47] even the uncleaneſt of them, know nothing of it, much leſs practiſe it.

Other Vices indeed make Men worſe, ſays this judicious Author; but this alters Men from them⯑ſelves, to that degree, that they differ not more from their preſent Companions, than from their former Selves. A Habitude of it will make the Prudent inconſiderate, the Ambitious indolent, the Active idle, and the Induſtrious ſlothful; ſo that their Affairs are ruin'd for want of Applica⯑tion, or by being intruſted in the Hands of thoſe, who turn them wholly to their own Advantage, and, in the End, to the Ruin of thoſe who employ them.

I have written a long Letter already: Yet have I ſtill more to ſay, which, that I may not tire you, I will leave to another Letter; which the next Poſt ſhall bring you. And I am, mean time, in hopes this will not loſe its proper Effect,

LETTER XXXVII. The ſame Subject purſued.

BY my former you will ſee, that hard Drinking is a Vice, that breaks a Man's Reſt, impairs the Underſtanding, extinguiſhes the Memory, inflames the Paſſions, debauches the Will, lays the Founda⯑tion of the worſt and moſt dangerous Diſtempers, in⯑capacitates a Perſon from purſuing his Studies, and from applying to the Duties of his Calling, be it what it will; begets Contempt from the World; and even if a Man's Circumſtances were above feeling the Expence, which can hardly be, alters [48] and changes the Practiſer of it from himſelf; and if he is not above feeling it, often reduces him to Want and Beggary: And if he has a Family, his Children, who by their Father's Induſtry and Sobriety might have made a creditable Figure in Life, are left to the Mercy of the World, become the Outcaſts of the Earth; poſſibly Foot-ſoldiers, Livery-ſervants, Shoe-cleaners, Link-boys, and, perhaps, Pickpockets, Highwaymen, or Foot⯑pads; and inſtead of a comfortable Livelihood, and a Station above Contempt, are intitled only to Shame, Miſery, and the Gallows.

And do you judge, my Son, how a Man can anſwer this Conduct to God, to his Parents and other Relations, to his Wife, to his Children, to himſelf, and perſiſt in a barbarous and an unnatural Vice, which makes himſelf not only miſerable and contemptible, but tranſmits the Miſchief to his unhappy and innocent Children, if he has any.

Add to all this, That it is a Vice a Man cannot eaſily maſter and ſubdue; or which, like ſome others, may be cured by Age; but it is a Vice that feeds and nouriſhes itſelf by Practice, and grows upon a Man as he lives longer in the World, till at laſt, if it cuts him not off in the Flower of his Days, his Body expects and requires Liquor: And ſo, tho' a Man, when he enters upon it, may be ſingle, yet if he ever ſhould marry, it may he attended with all the frightful and de⯑plorable Conſequences I have mentioned, and ruin beſides an innocent and perhaps prudent Woman, rendering her, without her own Fault, the joint unhappy Cauſe of adding to the Number of the miſerable and profligate Children, with which the World too much abounds, and which is owing to nothing ſo much as this deteſtable Sin in the Parents.

[49] Conſider all theſe things, my dear Son, and be⯑fore it be too late, get the better of a Vice, that you will find difficult to ſubdue, when it is grown to a Head, and which will otherwiſe creep upon you every Day more and more, till it ſhuts up your Life in Miſery as to yourſelf, and Contempt as to the World; and inſtead of giving Cauſe even to your neareſt and beſt Friends to remember you with Pleaſure, will make it a Kindneſs in them to forget they ever had in the World, if a Parent, ſuch a Son; if a Tutor, ſuch a Pupil; if a Brother or Siſter, ſuch an unhappy near Relation; if a Wife, ſuch a Huſband; if a Child, ſuch a Father; and if a Friend, ſuch a wretched one, that cannot be thought of without Pity and Regret, for having ſhortened his Days, and ruin'd his Affairs, by ſo pernicious a Habit.

What a Joy, on the contrary, will that nobleſt of Conqueſts, over yourſelf, yield to all thoſe dear Relations! And, in particular, what Pleaſure will you give to the aged Heart, and declining Days, of, my dear Child,

LETTER XXXVIII. From an Apprentice to his Maſter, begging For⯑giveneſs for a great Miſdemeanor.

I AM ſo aſham'd of myſelf for the laſt Occaſion I have given you to be angry with me, after my repeated Promiſes of Amendment, that I have not the Courage to ſpeak to you. I therefore take this Method of begging you to forgive what is [50] paſt; and let this Letter teſtify againſt me, if ever I wilfully or knowingly offend again for the future. You have Children of your own. They may poſſibly offend; tho' I hope they never will as I have done. Yet, Sir, would you not wiſh they might meet with Pardon if they ſhould, rather than Reprobation?—My Making or my Ruin, I am ſenſible, lies in your Breaſt. If you will not forgive me, ſad will be the Conſequence to me, I doubt. If you do, you may ſave a Soul, as well as a Body from Miſery; and I hope, Sir, you will weigh this with your uſual Goodneſs and Con⯑ſideration. What is paſt I cannot help; but for what is to come, I do promiſe, if God gives me Health and Power, that my Actions ſhall teſtify for me how much I am, good Sir,

LETTER XXXIX. The Maſter's Anſwer.

YOUR Letter has affected me ſo much, that I am willing once more to paſs over all you have done. Surely I may at laſt depend on theſe your ſolemn Aſſurances, and, as I hope, deep Contrition. If not, be it as you ſay, and let your Letter teſtify againſt you for your ingrateful Baſeneſs; and for me, in my Readineſs (which however ſhall be the laſt time) to forgive one that has been ſo much uſed to promiſe, and ſo little to perform. But I hope for better, becauſe I yet wiſh you well; be⯑ing, as you uſe me,

LETTER XL. From an Apprentice to his Friends, in Praiſe of his Maſter and Family.

I Know it will be a great Satisfaction to you and my dear Mother, to hear that I go on very happily in my Buſineſs; and my Maſter ſeeing my Diligence, puts me forward, and encourages me in ſuch a manner, that I have great Delight in it, and hope I ſhall anſwer in time your good Wiſhes and Expectations, and the Indulgence which you have always ſhewn me. There is ſuch good Order in the Family, as well on my Miſtreſs's Part as my Maſter's, that every Servant, as well as I, knows their Duty, and does it with Pleaſure. So much Evenneſs, Sedateneſs, and Regularity, is obſerved in all they injoin and expect, that it is impoſſible but it ſhould be ſo. My Maſter is an honeſt worthy Man; every body ſpeaks well of him. My Miſtreſs is a chearful ſweet-temper'd Woman, and rather heals Breaches than widens them. And the Children, after ſuch Examples, behave to us all, like one's own Brothers and Siſters. Who can but love ſuch a Family? I wiſh, when it ſhall pleaſe God to put me in ſuch a Station, that I may carry myſelf juſt as my Maſter does; and if I ſhould ever marry, have juſt ſuch a Wife as my Miſtreſs: And then, by God's Bleſſing, I ſhall be as happy as they are; and as you, Sir, and my dear Mother, have always been. If any thing can make me ſtill happier than I am, or continue to [...] my preſent Felicity, it will be the Continuance [52] of yours, and my good Mother's Prayers, for, honour'd Sir and Madam,

LETTER XLI. Another from an Apprentice, where the Maſter is too remiſs in his own Affairs.

YOU deſire to know how I go on in my Buſi⯑neſs. I muſt needs ſay, Very well in the main; for my Maſter leaves every thing, in a manner, to me. I wiſh he did not, for his own ſake. For tho' I hope he will never ſuffer on the Account of any wilful Remiſſneſs or Negligence, much leſs want of Fidelity, in me, yet his Affairs do not go on ſo well as if he was more in them, and leſs at the Tavern. But it becomes not me to reflect upon my Maſter, eſpecially as what I may write or ſay on this Head, will rather expoſe his Failings, than do him Service; for as it muſt be his Equals that ſhould reprove him, ſo all a Servant can obſerve to others will do more Harm than Good to him. One Thing is at preſent in my own Power; and that is, to double my Dili⯑gence, that his Family ſuffer as little as poſſible by his Remiſſneſs: And another, I hope, by God's Grace, will be; and that is, to avoid in my⯑ſelf, when my Time comes, thoſe Failings which I ſee ſo blameable in him. And as this will be benefiting properly by the Example (for that Bee muſt be worſe than a Drone, that cannot draw Honey from a bitter as well as a ſweet Flower) ſo it will give you the Pleaſure of knowing [...] [53] your good Inſtructions are not thrown away upon me; and that I am, and ever will be,

LETTER XLII. To a Country Correſpondent, modeſtly requeſting a Balance of Accounts between them.

I Find myſelf conſtrained by a preſent Exigence, to beg you to balance the Account between us. Tho' Matters have run into ſome Length, yet would I not have apply'd to you, had I known ſo well how to anſwer my preſſing Occaſions any other way. If it ſuits you not to pay the Whole, I beg, Sir, you will remit me as much towards it as you can, without Prejudice to your other Af⯑fairs, and it will extremely oblige

LETTER XLIII. In Anſwer to the preceding.

I AM very glad I have it in my Power to ſend you now directly, One hundred Pounds, on Account between us, which I do by our Carrier, who will pay you in Specie. I will ſoon remit you the Balance of your whole Demand, and am only ſorry, that I gave Occaſion for this Applica⯑tion for what is ſo juſtly your Due. When I ſend you the reſt, which will be in a few Days, if I [54] am not greatly diſappointed, I will accompany it with an Order, which will begin a new Debt; but which I hope to be more punctual in diſcharging, than I have been in the laſt. I am, very ſincerely,

LETTER XLIV. A more preſſing and angry Letter from a City Dealer on the ſame Account.

I AM ſorry your ill Uſage conſtrains me to write to you in the moſt preſſing manner. Can you think it is poſſible to carry on Buſineſs after the manner you act by me? You know what Promiſes you have made me, and how from time to time you have broke them. And can I depend upon any new ones you make? If you uſe others as you do me, how can you think of carrying on Buſineſs? If you do not, what muſt I think of a Man who deals worſe with me, than he does with any body elſe?—If you think you may treſpaſs more upon me, than you can on others, this is a very bad Com⯑pliment to my Prudence, or your own Gratitude. For ſurely good Uſage ſhould be intitled to good Uſage. I know how to allow for Diſappointments as well as any Man; but can a Man be diſappoint⯑ed for ever? Trade is ſo dependent a thing, you know, that it cannot be carried on without mu⯑tual Punctuality. Does not the Merchant expect it from me, for thoſe very Goods I ſend you? And can I make a Return to him, without receiving it from you? What End can it anſwer to give you Two Years Credit, and then be at an Uncertainty, for Goods which I ſell at a ſmall Profit, and have [55] not Six Months Credit for myſelf? Indeed, Sir, this will never do. I muſt be more punctually uſed by you, or elſe muſt deal as little punctually with others; and what then muſt be the Conſe⯑quence?—In ſhort, Sir, I expect a handſome Pay⯑ment by the next Return, and Security for the Remainder; and ſhall be very loth to take any harſh Methods to procure this Juſtice to myſelf, my Family, and my own Creditors. For I am, if it be not your own Fault,

LETTER XLV. In Anſwer to the preceding.

I MUST acknowledge I have not uſed you well, and can give no better Anſwer to your juſt Ex⯑poſtulations, than to ſend you the incloſed Draught for 50 l. which you will be pleaſed to carry to my Credit; and to aſſure you of more punctual Treatment for the future. Your Letter is no bad Leſſon to me; I have conn'd it often, and hope I ſhall improve by it. I am ready to give you my Bond for the Remainder, which I will keep paying every Month ſomething till 'tis all diſcharged; and what I write to you for, in the Interim, ſhall be paid for on Receipt of the Goods. This, I hope, Sir, will ſatisfy you for the preſent. If I could do better, I would; but ſhall be ſtreighten'd to do this: But I think, in Return for your Patience, I cannot do leſs, to convince you, that I am now, at laſt, in Earneſt. I beg you'll continue to me the ſame good Uſage and Service I have met with from you hitherto. And that you'll believe me to be, unfeignedly,

LETTER XLVI. To a young Trader generally in a Hurry in Buſineſs, adviſing Method as well as Di⯑ligence.

THE Affection I have always borne you, as well for your own ſake, as for your late Fa⯑ther's and Mother's, makes me give you the Trouble of theſe Lines, which I hope you will receive as kindly as I intend them.

I have lately call'd upon you ſeveral times, and have as often found you in an extraordinary Hurry; which I well know cannot be ſometimes avoided; but, methinks, need not be always the Caſe, if your Time were diſpoſed in regular and proper Pro⯑portions to your Buſineſs. I have frequently had Reaſon to believe, that more than half the Flutter which appears among Traders in general, is rather the Effect of their Indolence, than their Induſtry; however willing they are to have it thought other⯑wiſe; and I will give you one Inſtance in Confir⯑mation of this Opinion, in a Neighbour of mine.

This Gentleman carried on for ſome Years a profitable Buſineſs; but indulging himſelf every Evening in a Tavern Society or Club, which the Promotion of Buſineſs (as is uſually the Caſe) gave the firſt Pretence for, he looked upon thoſe En⯑gagements as the natural Conſequence of the Ap⯑proach of Night; and drove on his Buſineſs in the Day with Precipitation, that he might get thither with the earlieſt. He ſeldom kept very late Hours, tho' he never came home ſoon. The Night being gone, and his Bottle empty'd, the Morning was always wanted to diſpel the Fumes of the Wine. [57] Whoever therefore came to him before Nine, was deſired to call again; and when he roſe, ſo many Matters waited for him, as directly threw him into a Flutter; ſo that from his Riſing till Dinner⯑time, he ſeem'd in one continued Forment. A long Dinner-time he always allowed himſelf, in order to recover the Fatigues he had undergone; and all his Table-talk was, How heavy his Buſi⯑neſs lay upon him! And what Pains he took in it! The hearty Meal, and the Time he indulged him⯑ſelf at Table, begot an Inappetency for any more Buſineſs for that ſhort Afternoon; ſo all that could be deferr'd, was put off to the next Morning; and long'd-for Evening approaching, he flies to his uſual Solace: Empties his Bottle by Eleven: Comes home: Gets to Bed; and is inviſible till next Morning at Nine; and then riſing, enters upon his uſual Hurry and Confuſion.

Thus did his Life ſeem to thoſe who ſaw him in his Buſineſs, one conſtant Scene of Fatigue, tho' he ſcarce ever apply'd to it Four regular Hours in any one Day. Whereas had he riſen only at Seven in the Morning, he would have got all his Buſi⯑neſs under by Noon; and thoſe Two Hours, from Seven to Nine, being before many People go abroad, he would have met with no Interruption in his Affairs; but might have improved his Servants by his own Example, directed them in the Buſineſs of the Day, have inſpected his Books, written to his Dealers, and put every thing in ſo regular a Train, for the reſt of the Day, that whatever had occurr'd afterwards, would rather have ſerved to divert than fatigue him.

And what, to cut my Story ſhort, was the Up⯑ſhot of the Matter? Why, meeting with ſome Diſappointments and Loſſes, (as all Traders muſt expect, and ought to provide for) and his Cuſtom⯑ers [58] not ſeeing him in his Shop ſo much as they expected, and when there, always in a diſobliging petulant Hurry; and moreover, Miſtakes frequent⯑ly happening through the Flurry into which he put himſelf and every one about him; by theſe means his Buſineſs dwindled away inſenſibly, and not being able to go out of his uſual Courſe, which helped to impair both his Capacity and Ar⯑dor to Buſineſs, his Creditors began to look about them, and he was compelled to enter into the State of his Affairs; and then had the Mortifica⯑tion to find the Balance of 2000 l. againſt him.

This was a ſhocking Caſe to himſelf; but more to his Family; for his Wife had lived, and his Children had been educated, in ſuch a manner, as induced them to hope their Fortunes would be ſufficient to place them in a State of Independence.

In ſhort, being obliged to quit a Buſineſs, he had managed with ſo little Prudence, his Friends got him upon a charitable Foundation, which afforded him bare Subſiſtence for himſelf. His Children were diſperſed ſome one way and ſome another, into low Scenes of Life, and his Wife went home to her Friends, to be ſnubb'd and reflected on by her own Family, for Faults not her own.

This Example will afford ſeveral good Hints, to a young Tradeſman, which are too obvious to need expatiating upon. And as I dare ſay, your Pru⯑dence will keep you from the like Fault, you will never have Reaſon to reproach yourſelf on this Score. But yet, as I always found you in a Hurry, when I called upon you, I could not but give you this Hint, for fear you ſhould not rightly propor⯑tion your Time to your Buſineſs, and leſt you ſhould ſuſpend to the next Hour, what you could and ought to do in the preſent, and ſo did not keep your Buſineſs properly under. Method is [59] every thing in Buſineſs, next to Diligence. And you will by falling into a regular one, always be calm and unruffled, and have time to beſtow in your Shop with your Cuſtomers; the Female ones eſpecially; who always love to make a great many Words in their Bargainings, and expect to be hu⯑mour'd and perſuaded: And how can any Man find Time for this, if he prefers the Tavern to his Shop, and his Bed to his Buſineſs? I know you will take in good Part what I have written, becauſe you are ſenſible how much I am

LETTER XLVII. From a Son reduced by his own Extravagance, requeſting his Father's Advice, on his Inten⯑tion to turn Player.

AFTER the many Occaſions I have given for your Diſpleaſure, permit me to aſk your Advice in an Affair which may render my whole Life com⯑fortable or miſerable. You know, Sir, to what a low Ebb my Folly and Extravagance have reduced me: Your generous Indulgence has made you ſtretch your Power, to my Shame I ſpeak it, even beyond the Bounds which Wiſdom, and a neceſſary Regard to the reſt of your Family would permit; there⯑fore, I cannot hope for further Aſſiſtance from you. Something, however, I muſt reſolve upon to gain a Maintenance: And an Accident fell out Yeſterday, which offers me, at leaſt, preſent Bread.

Mr. Rich, Maſter of one of the Theatres, hap⯑pened to dine at my Uncle's when I was there: After Dinner, the Subject of Diſcourſe was, the [60] Art of a Comedian: On which my Uncle took Occaſion to mention the little Flights in that way with which I have diverted myſelf in my gayer Moments; and partly compelled me to give an Inſtance of my Abilities. Mr. Rich was pleaſed to declare his Approbation of my Manner and Voice; and on being told my Circumſtances, offer'd, at once to take me into his Company with an Allow⯑ance ſufficient for preſent Subſiſtence, and addi⯑tional Encouragement, as I ſhould be found to deſerve it. Half a Benefit he promiſed me the firſt Seaſon; which, by my (otherwiſe too) numerous Acquaintaince might, I believe, be turned to pretty good Account. I am not fond of this Life; but ſee no other Means of ſupporting myſelf like a Gentleman. Your ſpeedy Anſwer, will be ever gratefully acknowledged by, honoured Sir,

LETTER XLVIII. The Father's Anſwer, ſetting forth the Incon⯑veniencies and Diſgrace attending the Pro⯑feſſion of a Player.

I SHOULD be glad to have you in any Situa⯑tion, which would afford you a comfortable and reputable Subſiſtence: But cannot think the Life of a Stage-player proper for that End. You muſt conſider, that tho' in the gay Trappings of that Employment a Man may repreſent a Gentleman, yet none can be farther from that Character if a perpetual Dependence be the worſt Kind of Ser⯑vility. In the firſt Place, the Company you will be in a manner obliged to keep, will be ſuch as will tend little to the Improvement of your Mind, or [61] Amendment of your Morals: To the Maſter of the Company you liſt in, you muſt be obſequious to a Degree of Slavery. Not one of an Audience that is able to hiſs, but you muſt fear; and each ſingle Perſon you come to know perſonally, you muſt oblige on every Occaſion that offers, to en⯑gage their Intereſt at your Benefit. A Thought the moſt ſhocking to a free and generous Mind! And if to this you add the little Profit that will attend making a low Figure on the Stage, and, beſides the Qualifications neceſſary, the incredi⯑ble Fatigue attending the Support of a good Figure upon it; you will eaſily ſee, that more Credit, more Satisfaction, more Eaſe, and more Profit, may be got in many other Stations, with⯑out the mortifying Knowledge of being deem'd a Vagrant by the Laws of your Country. I hope this will be enough to diſſuade you from farther Thoughts of the Stage: And, in any other Em⯑ployment, you may, yet, expect ſome ſmall Aſſiſt⯑ance from

LETTER XLIX. To a Brother too captious to bear himſelf the Ridicule he practiſes upon others.

I AM glad to find you improve both in Thought and Speech. You know I am no Witch at either: But ſo as we have ſome Wit in our Family, no matter who is at the Trouble of carrying it for what he'll get by it. I ſuppoſe you thought to give no ſmall Pleaſure to the Company laſt Night by your facetious Flings at all around you, not [62] excepting the Parſon himſelf: But ſhould you not have conſidered, that every one in the Room had a Right to return the Freedom you took, in the beſt manner he was able? Was it therefore well in you to reſent ſo warmly as you did, a ſmart Re⯑mark, made by Mr. Criſpe, on a palpable Blunder of your own, when you had taken ſo much Liber⯑ty with him, as well as every body elſe, juſt before? Indeed, Brother, you muſt either lay aſide Ridicule, or learn to bear it better; and in the preſent Caſe you ſhould have remember'd, that, in the manner you began with that Gentleman, it was not poſſi⯑ble for him to ſay any thing it would have been your Credit to reſent. A Retort on theſe Occa⯑ſions muſt be excuſed, tho' fraught with Reſent⯑ment; for a Man is not always in a Humour to be jeſted with, and it is the Duty of him who be⯑gins, to take what follows. Your failing in this known Rule; whatever you may think, has made you appear in ſo mean a Light to the whole Com⯑pany, that all your Acuteneſs will not in haſte atone for it.

If I judge rightly, nothing is more delicate than Ridicule: Where it is conducted with Prudence and Humour, it is ſure to pleaſe even the Man who is the Subject of it, if he is not of a moroſe Temper: But when, inſtead of that, perſonal Fail⯑ings, or private Indiſcretions, are expoſed for the Entertainment of a Company, tho' you may think to raiſe a Laugh by it in the Unreflecting, it will bring upon you the Cenſure of the Conſiderate. It is our Duty to conſult what we can bear ourſelves, as well as what we can inflict on others. For my own Part, I know I cannot bear what is called a cloſe Rub, as many Men can, and for that Reaſon I never jeſt with any body, unleſs by way of Re⯑priſal, and that I ſhorten all I can, leſt my Tem⯑per ſhould not hold out.

[63] No doubt but you have more Humour than I; but if you do not blend in it a Quantity of Temper ſufficient to carry it off, you will be no Gainer by the Qualification. The Philoſopher ſays, That to Bear and Forbear, are the higheſt Points of Wiſ⯑dom: If ſo, where is his Wiſdom, who will nei⯑ther do the one or the other? You may not like the Freedom I have here taken; but I reſpect you too well to paſs over your Foibles without ſome Obſervation; being

LETTER L. To a Friend on his Recovery from a dangerous Illneſs.

GIVE me Leave to mingle my Joy with that of all your Friends and Relations, in the Re⯑covery of your Health, and to join with them to bleſs God for continuing to your numerous Well⯑wiſhers the Benefit of your uſeful and valua⯑ble Life. May God Almighty long preſerve you in Health, and proſper all your Undertakings, for the Good of your worthy Family, and the Pleaſure of all your Friends and Acquaintance, in the hearty Prayer of, Sir,

LETTER LI. On the ſame Occaſion.

I HAVE received with great Delight, the good News of your Recovery from the dangerous Ill⯑neſs with which it pleaſed God to afflict you. I [64] moſt heartily congratulate you and your good Lady and Family upon it; and make it my Prayer, That your late Indiſpoſition may be ſucceeded by ſuch a Renewal of Health and Strength both of Body and Mind, as may make your Life equally happy to yourſelf, as it muſt be to all who have the Pleaſure to know you. I could not help giving you this Trouble, to teſtify the Joy that affected my Heart on the Occaſion; and to aſſure you, that I am, with the greateſt Affection and Reſpect, Sir,

LETTER LII. In Anſwer to the preceding.

I GIVE you many Thanks for your kind Con⯑gratulations. My Return of Health will be the greater Pleaſure to me, if I can contribute in any meaſure to the Happineſs of my many good Friends; and, particularly, to that of you and yours; for I aſſure you, Sir, that no body can be more than I am,

LETTER LIII. To a young Lady, adviſing her not to change her Guardians, nor to encourage any clan⯑deſtine Addreſs.

THE Friendſhip which long ſubſiſted between your prudent Mother and me, has always made me attend to your Welfare with more than a com⯑mon [65] Concern: And I could not conceal my Sur⯑prize at hearing, that you intend to remove the Guardianſhip of yourſelf and Fortune, from the Gentlemen to whom your tender Parents commit⯑ted the Direction of both. I am afraid, my Dear, your Diſſatisfaction ariſes more from ſudden Diſ⯑taſte, than from mature Reflection. Mr. Jones and Mr. Pitt were long the intimate Friends and Companions of your Father; for more than Thirty Years, he had experienc'd their Candor and Wiſ⯑dom; and it was their Fitneſs for the Truſt, that [...]duced him to leave you to their Care; and will [...] reflect upon his Judgment?

They are not leſs wiſe now, than when he made his Will; and if they happen to differ from your Judgment in any thing of Moment, what Room have you to ſuppoſe yourſelf better able to judge of the Conſequences of what you deſire, than they. I do not undervalue your good Senſe, and yet I muſt tell you, that (the Difference of Years conſider'd, and their Knowledge of the World, which yet you can know little of) it would he ſtrange if they did not know better than you, what was proper for you; and their Honeſty was never yet diſputed. Upon theſe Conſiderations, who is moſt probably to blame, ſhould you happen to diſagree? From ſuch Men, you will never meet more Reſtraints than is neceſſary for your Happi⯑neſs and Intereſt; for nothing that can injure you in any reſpect, can add to their Advantage or Re⯑putation. I have known ſeveral young Ladies of your Age impatient of the leaſt Controul, and think hardly of every little Contradiction; but when, by any unadviſed Step, they have releaſed themſelves, as they call it, from the Care of their try'd Friends, how often have they had Cauſe to repent their Raſhneſs? How ſeldom do you hear [66] thoſe Ladies, who have ſubjected themſelves to what ſome reckon the greateſt Reſtraints while young, repent the Effects of them when grown up?

To mention the ſingle Article about which, generally, theſe Differences ariſe, that of Marriage: What good Fruits can a Lady hope, from the inſidious Progreſs of a clandeſtine Addreſs? A Man who can be worth a Lady's Acceptance, will never be aſhamed or afraid to appear openly. If he de⯑ſerves to ſucceed, or is conſcious that he does, what need of concealing his Deſigns from her Friends? Muſt it not be with a View to get her in his Power, and by ſecuring a Place in her Af⯑fections, make her Weakneſs give Strength to his Preſumption, and forward thoſe Pretenſions that he knew would otherwiſe be rejected with Scorn?

Let me tell you, my dear Miſs, that you neither want Senſe nor Beauty; and no young Gentleman can be aſhamed of being known to love you. Con⯑ſider this well, and deſpiſe the Man who ſeeks the Aid of back Doors, bribed Servants, and Garden⯑walls, to get Acceſs to your Perſon. If he had not a meaner Opinion of your Underſtanding than he ought, he would not hope for Succeſs from ſuch poor Methods. Let him ſee then, how much he is miſtaken, if he thinks you the giddy Girl his clandeſtine Conduct ſeems to call you. In time adviſe with your try'd Friends. Truſt no Servant with Secrets you would not have known to your Equals or Guardians; and be ſure ever to ſhun a ſervile Confidant, who generally makes her Mar⯑ket of her Miſtreſs, and ſells her to the higheſt Bidder.

I hope, dear Miſs, you will ſeriouſly reflect upon all I have ſaid, and excuſe the well-meant Zeal of

LETTER LIV. From a Mother to her Daughter, jealous of her Huſband.

I AM ſorry to find you are grown jealous of your Huſband. 'Tis a moſt uneaſy Paſſion, and will be fatal, not only to your preſent Quiet, but to your future Happineſs, and probably to that of y [...]ur Family, if you indulge it.

Your either have, or have not Cauſe for it. If you have Cauſe, look into yourſelf and your own Conduct, to ſee if you have not by any Change of Temper, or Diſagreeableneſs of Behaviour, alie⯑nated your Huſband's Affections; and if ſo, ſet about amending both, in order to recover them: for once he loved you, and you was ſatisfy'd he did, above all your Sex, or you would not have had him. If it be owing to his inconſtant Temper, that is indeed unhappy; but then, ſo long as you are clear of Blame, you have nothing to reproach yourſelf with: And as the Creatures wicked Men follow, omit nothing to oblige them, you muſt try to avoid ſuch uneaſy and diſturbing Reſent⯑ments, as will make you more and more diſtaſteful to him. Shew him, that no guilty Wretch's pre⯑tended Love can be equal to your real one: Shew him, that ſuch Creatures ſhall not out-do you in an obliging Behaviour, and Sweetneſs of Temper; and that, let him fly off from his Duty, if he will, you will perſevere in yours. This Conduct will, if not immediately, in time, flaſh Conviction in his Face: He will ſee what a Goodneſs he injures, and will be ſoftened by your Softneſs. But if you make his Home uneaſy to him, he will fly both [68] that and you: And to whom will he fly, but, moſt probably, to one who will allow his Pleas, and aggravate every thing againſt you; who will ſide with him, inflame his Paſſions, and thereby ſecure him to herſelf? And would you contribute to ſuch a Wretch's Power over him, and furniſh Oppor⯑tunities for her to triumph over you? For while you exaſperate his Paſſions, and harden his Mind againſt you, ſhe will, by wicked Blandiſhments, ſhew him how obliging ſhe can be, and ſo a Courſe of Life, that he would follow privately, and by ſtealth, as it were, he will more openly purſue; he will grow ſhameleſs in it; and, ſo com⯑mon is the Vice, more's the Pity! will find thoſe who will extenuate it for their own ſakes, and throw the Blame on the Violence of your Temper, and ſay, you drive him into theſe Exceſſes. Thus much I write, ſuppoſing you have Reaſon to be jealous. I will write yet another Letter on this important Subject. I hope they will have the Weight intended them, by

LETTER LV. The ſame Subject continued.

WHAT I wrote in my former, was on a Suppo⯑ſition that you had too much Reaſon to be uneaſy at your Huſband's Conduct.

I will now purſue the Subject, and put the Caſe that you have no Proof that he is guilty, but your Surmizes, or, perhaps, the buſy Whiſperings of offi⯑cious Make-debates. In this Caſe, take care, my Betſey, that you don't, by the Violence of your Paſ⯑ſions, [69] precipitate him on the Courſe you dread, and that you alienate not, by unjuſt Suſpicions, his Affections from you; for then perhaps he will be ready indeed to place them ſomewhere elſe, where you may not ſo eaſily draw him off; for he will, may be, think, as to you (if he be devoid of ſupe⯑rior Conſiderations) that he may as well deſerve your Suſpicions, as be tiezed with them without deſerving them.

I know it is a moſt ſhocking thing to a ſober young Woman, to think herſelf obliged to ſhare thoſe Affections which ought to be all her own, with a vile Proſtitute, beſides the Danger, which is not ſmall, of being intirely circumvented in her Huſband's Love, and perhaps have only his In⯑difference, if not Contempt, inſtead of it. But, my Dear, at the worſt, comfort yourſelf that you are not the guilty Perſon, for one Day he will, per⯑haps, fatally find his Error. And conſider, be⯑ſides, my Betſey, that your Caſe, from an unfaith⯑ful Huſband, is not near ſo bad as his would be from an unfaithful Wife: For, Child, he cannot make the Progeny of a Baſtard Race ſucceed to his and your Eſtate or Chattels, in Injury of your lawful Children. If any ſuch he ſhould have, the Law of the Land brands them: Whereas a naughty Wife often makes the Children of another Man, Heirs of her Huſband's Eſtate and Fortune, in In⯑jury of his own Children or Family. So, tho' the Crime may be equal in other Reſpects, yet this makes the Injury of the Woman to the Man, greater than his can be to her.

Theſe Thoughts I have thrown together, as they occurred in two Letters, that I might not tire you with a Length, that, yet, the important Subject re⯑quired. Let me briefly ſum up the Contents.

[70] If he be guilty, try by Softneſs and kind Expo⯑ſtulations to reclaim him, before the Vice be rooted in him. If it be ſo rooted, as that he cannot be drawn off, you know not what God may do for you, if you truſt in Him, and take not upon your⯑ſelf, by giving up your Mind to Violence, to be your own Avenger. A ſick Bed, a tender Conduct in you, a ſore Diſaſter, (and who that lives, is not liable to ſuch?) may give him to ſee the Error [...] his Ways, and ſhew him the Foulneſs of his Crime [...] which your good Uſage will aggravate, upon [...] ſober Reflection, with the no weak Addition [...] Ingratitude to ſo good a Wife. The Wretch he has choſen for a Partner in his Guilt, may, by her ſordid Ways, awake him, by her libidinous De⯑portment, ſatiate him, by her detected Commerce with others (for ſuch Creatures, having once given themſelves up to Vice, know no Bounds) make him abhor her: And then he will ſee the Differ⯑ence between ſuch a one, and a chaſte Wife, whoſe Intereſts are bound up in his own, and will admire you more than ever he did; and you'll have the Pleaſure, beſides, in all Probability, of ſaving a Soul that ſtands in ſo near a Relation to your own.

But if your Uneaſineſs be owing to private Tale⯑bearers and buſy Intermeddlers; take care, my Dear, you are not made a Property of by ſuch miſchievous People. Take care that you make not your own preſent Peace, and your future Good, and that of your Family, and of him your injur'd Huſband, the Sacrifices to ſuch pernicious Buſy-bodies.

Conſider, my Dear, all I have ſaid, and God bleſs you with a Conduct and Diſcretion ſuitable to the Occaſion before you, and, at the worſt, give you Comfort and Patience in your own Innocence. For ſuch is this tranſitory Life, that all the Ill or Good we receive, will be ſoon over with us, and [71] then the Pu [...]ſhment of the former, and the Reward of the latter, will make all Scores even, and what is paſt appear as nothing. Mean time I can but pray for you: As, my dear Child, becomes

LETTER LVI. From a tender Father to an ungracious Son,

I AM under no ſmall Concern, that your con⯑tinued ill Courſes give me Occaſion to write this Letter to you. I was in hopes, that your ſolemn Promiſes of Amendment might have been better depended on; but I ſee, to my great Mor⯑tification, that all I have done for you, and all I have ſaid to you, is thrown away. What can I ſay more than I have ſaid? Yet, once more am I deſirous to try what the Force of a Letter will do with one who has not ſuffer'd mere Words to have any Effect upon him. Perhaps this remaining with you, if you will now and then ſeriouſly peruſe it, may, in ſome happy Moment, give you Reflection, and by God's Grace, bring on your Repentance and Amendment.

Conſider then, I beſeech you, in time, the Evil of your Ways. Make my Caſe your own; and think, if you were to be Father of ſuch a Son, how his Actions would grieve and afflict you. But if my Comfort has no Weight with you, conſider, my Son, how your preſent Courſes muſt impair, in time, a good Conſtitution, deſtroy your Health, and, moſt probably, ſhorten your Life. Conſider that your Reputation is wounded, I hope, not mor⯑tally, [72] as yet. That you will be ranked among the Profligate and Outcaſts of the World; that no virtuous Man will keep you Company; that every one who has a Regard for his own Credit will ſhun you; and that you will be given up to the Society of the worſt and moſt abandon'd of Men, when you might be improved by the Examples of the Beſt. That no Family which values their own Honour, and the Welfare of their Child, will ſuffer your Addreſſes to a Daughter worthy of being ſought after for a Wife, ſhould you incline to marry; and that the worſt of that Sex muſt probably, in that Caſe, fall to your Lot, which will make you miſerable in this World, when you might be happy.

Then, as to another World beyond this tranſitory one, my Heart trembles for what moſt probably will be the Conſequence to your poor Soul: For the human Mind is ſeldom at a ſtay; if you do not grow better, you will moſt undoubtedly grow worſe, and you may run into thoſe Sins and Evils, that you now perhaps think yourſelf incapable of; as already you are arrived at a Height of Folly and Wickedneſs, that once you would have thought you could not have been guilty of. Don't, my dear Son, let your poor Mother and me have the Mortification to think, that we have been the un⯑happy Means of giving Life to a Child of Perdition, inſtead of a Child of Glory; that our beloved Son with all the Pains we have taken to inſtil good Principles into his Mind, in hopes he would one day prove a Credit and Comfort to his Family, ſhould, inſtead of anſwering our longing Wiſhes, when at Age, take ſuch contrary Courſes, as will make us join to wiſh he had never been born.

Conſider, my dear Son, we don't want any thing of you but your own Good. We lived before you were born. You have been a great Expence to us [73] to bring you up to theſe Years. You cannot now live without us, but we can without you. We hope God will continue your Life to be ſtill a fur⯑ther Expence to us. For all we live for, is our Chil⯑drens Good. Let then the Diſintereſtedneſs of our Plea move you. Be but good to yourſelf, that is all we require of you. Let us but have Reaſon to hope, that when we are dead and gone, you will ſupport our Name with Credit, and be no Burden to your poor Siſters, nor Diſgrace to our Memories. Shew us that you are of a generous, not of a ſordid Nature; and will probably ſet yourſelf above fu⯑ture Misfortunes by reclaiming in time, and then we ſhall be happy. As God has done his Part by you, and given you Talents that every one cannot boaſt, let me beg you to conſider only, how much more noble it is to be in ſuch a Situation as ſhall enable you to confer Benefits, than ſuch an one as ſhall lay you under the poor Neceſſity to receive them from others, and, perhaps, where they ought to be leaſt expected.

I have written a long Letter. The Subject is next my Heart, and will excuſe it. God give a Bleſſing to it! God give you to ſee the Error of your Ways before it be too late, and before you get ſuch a Habit as you cannot alter if you would. Let your poor Mother and Siſters look upon you with Pleaſure, rather than Apprehenſion, in caſe God Almighty ſhould take me away from them: [...]et them think of you as a Protector in my ſtead, rather than as an ingrateful Spoiler among them; and you will then give Comfort to my Life, as long as God ſhall ſpare it, and alleviate, inſtead of aggra⯑vate, the Pangs of my dying Hour, when God ſhall ſend it.

My dear, dear Son, I conjure you, by all our paſt Tenderneſs and Affection for you, by our [72] [...] [73] [...] [74] Hopes, and our Fears, from Infancy to Manhood, to think of all theſe Things; reflect upon the Tranſitorineſs of worldly Enjoyments, even when better choſen than yours are. Judge of the Plea⯑ſures you expect in your preſent Courſe, by the Vanity of the paſt; of your next Aſſignations, by the aching Head, and undelighted Heart, which followed the laſt; and you will find, that no Satiſ⯑faction, which is not grounded on Virtue and So⯑briety, can be durable, or worthy of a rational Creature.

Your good Mother, who joins her Tears ſo often with mine, to deplore the ſad Proſpect your ill Courſes give us, joins alſo her Prayers to mine, that this my laſt Effort may be attended with Succeſs; and that you will not let us intreat in vain. Amen, Amen, ſays

LETTER LVII. The Son's dutiful Anſwer.

I AM greatly affected with the tender and moving Goodneſs expreſſed in your indulgent Letter. I am exceedingly ſorry, that all your good Advice before has been ſo caſt away upon me, as to render this further Inſtance of your pa⯑ternal Affection neceſſary. I am reſolved inſtantly to ſet about a Reformation, and to conform my⯑ſelf intirely to your good Pleaſure for the future; and I beg, Sir, the Continuance of yours, and my good Mother's Prayers to God, to enable me to adhere to my preſent good Reſolutions. I have ſo often promiſed, and ſo often broken my Word, [75] (rather indeed thro' the Strength of my Paſſions, than a Deſign of Non-performance) that I think, I ought now to give you ſome Proof that I am in earneſt; and what better can I give, than to aſſure you, that I will henceforth break myſelf from the frothy Companions I uſed to take too much Delight in, and whoſe lewd Banters and Tempta⯑tions have ſo frequently ſet aſide my good Pur⯑poſes? You, Sir, for the future, ſhall recommend the Company proper for me to keep; and I beg you will chalk out for me the Paths in which you would have me tread, and, as much as poſſible, I will walk in them; and when I have convinced you of the Sincerity of my Reformation, I hope, Sir, you and my honoured Mother, will reſtore me to your good Opinions, which it ſhall be my conſtant Study to deſerve. I have already broke with George Negus, who attempted to laugh me out of my good Reſolutions. And I beg Leave to wait upon you for ſuch a Space of Time as you ſhall think proper, in order to break myſelf from the reſt of my profligate Companions, and that I may have the Benefit of your Advice and Dire⯑ction for my future Conduct. God continue long (for the Benefit of us all) your Life and Health, and make me happy in contributing as much to your future Comforts, as I have, by my paſt Exceſſes, to your Trouble of Mind, is, and ſhall always be, the Prayer of, Honoured Sir,

LETTER LVIII. To a Friend, on Occaſion of his not anſwering his Letters.

IT is ſo long ſince I had the Favour of a Line from you, that I am under great Apprehenſions in relation to your Health and Welfare. I beg you, Sir, to renew to me the Pleaſure you uſed to give me in your Correſpondence; for I have written three Letters to you before this, to which I have had no Anſwer, and am not conſcious of having any way diſobliged you. If I have, I will moſt willingly aſk your Pardon; for nobody can be more than I am,

LETTER LIX. In Anſwer to the preceding.

YOU have not, cannot diſoblige me; but I have greatly diſobliged myſelf, in my own faulty Remiſſneſs. I cannot account for it as I ought. To ſay I had Buſineſs one time, Company another, was diſtant from home a third, will be but poor Excuſes, for not anſwering one of your kind Letters in four long Months. I therefore in⯑genuouſly take Shame to myſelf, and promiſe future Amendment. And that nothing ſhall ever, while I am able to hold a Pen, make me guilty of the like Neglect to a Friend I love ſo well, and [77] have ſo much Reaſon ſo to do. Forgive me then, my good, my kind, my generous Friend; and be⯑lieve me ever,

LETTER LX. From a Father to a Son, on his Negligence in his Affairs.

YOU cannot imagine what a Concern your Care⯑leſſneſs and indifferent Management of your Affairs give me. Remiſſneſs is inexcuſable in all Men, but in none ſo much as in a Man of Buſineſs, the Soul of which is Induſtry, Diligence, and Punctuality.

Let me beg of you to ſhake off the idle Habits you have contracted; quit unprofitable Company, and unſeaſonable Recreations, and apply to your Compting-houſe with Diligence. It may not be yet too late to retrieve your Affairs. Inſpect there⯑fore your Gains, and caſt up what Proportion they bear to your Expences; and then ſee which of the latter you can, and which you cannot contract. Conſider, that when once a Man ſuffers himſelf to go backward in the World, it muſt be an un⯑common Spirit of Induſtry that retrieves him, and puts him forward again.

Reflect, I beſeech you, before it be too late, upon the Inconveniencies which an impoveriſh'd Trader is put to, for the Remainder of his Life; which, too, may happen to be the prime Part of it; the Indignities he is likely to ſuffer from thoſe whoſe Money he has unthinkingly ſquander'd; the [78] Contempt he will meet with from all, not except⯑ing the idle Companions of his Folly; the Injuſtice he does his Family, in depriving his Children, not only of the Power of raiſing themſelves, but of living tolerably; and how, on the contrary, from being born to a creditable Expectation, he ſinks them into the loweſt Claſs of Mankind, and ex⯑poſes them to the moſt dangerous Temptations. What has not ſuch a Father to anſwer for! and all this for the ſake of indulging himſelf in an idle, a careleſs, a thoughtleſs Habit, that cannot afford the leaſt Satisfaction, beyond the preſent Hour, if in that; and which muſt be attended with deep Remorſe, when he comes to reflect. Think ſeri⯑ouſly of theſe Things, and in time reſolve on ſuch a Courſe as may bring Credit to yourſelf, Juſtice to all you deal with, Peace and Pleaſure to your own Mind, Comfort to your Family; and which will give at the ſame time the higheſt Satisfaction to

LETTER LXI. The Son's grateful Anſwer.

I Return you my ſincere Thanks for your ſea⯑ſonable Reproof and Advice. I have indeed too much indulged myſelf in an idle careleſs Habit, and had already begun to feel the evil Conſequences of it, when I received your Letter, in the Inſults of a Creditor or two from whom I expected kinder Treatment. But indeed they wanted but their own, ſo I could only blame myſelf, who had brought their rough Uſage upon me. Your Let⯑ter came ſo ſeaſonably upon this, that I hope it will [79] not want the deſired Effect; and as I thank God it is not yet too late, I am reſolved to take another Courſe with myſelf and my Affairs, that I may avoid the ill Conſequences you ſo judiciouſly forewarn me of, and give to my Family and Friends the Plea⯑ſure they ſo well deſerve at my Hands; and particu⯑larly that Satisfaction to ſo good a Father, which is owing to him, by

LETTER LXII. A young Woman in Town to her Siſter in the Country, recounting her narrow Eſcape from a Snare laid for her on her firſt Arrival, by a wicked Procureſs.

WE have often, by our good Mother, been warned againſt the Dangers that would too probably attend us on coming to London; tho' I muſt own, her Admonitions had not always the Weight I am now convinced they deſerved.

I have had a Deliverance from ſuch a Snare, as I never could have believed would have been laid for a Perſon free from all Thought of Ill, or been ſo near ſucceeding upon one ſo ſtrongly on her Guard as I imagined myſelf: And thus, my dear Siſter, the Matter happened:

Returning, on Tueſday, from ſeeing my Couſin Atkins, in Cheapſide, I was over-taken by an elderly Gentlewoman of a ſober and creditable Appearance, who walked by my Side ſome little time before ſhe ſpoke to me; and then gueſſing, (by my aſking the Name of the Street) that I was a Stranger to [80] the Town, ſhe very courteouſly began a Diſcourſe with me, and after ſome other Talk, and Queſtions about my Country, and the like, deſired to know if I did not come to Town with a Deſign of going into ſome genteel Place? I told her, If I could meet with a Place to my Mind, to wait upon a ſingle Lady, I ſhould be very willing to embrace it. She ſaid, I look'd like a creditable, ſober and modeſt Body, and at that very time ſhe knew one of the beſt Gentlewomen that ever lived, who was in great Want of a Maid to attend upon her own Perſon, and that if ſhe liked me, and I her, it would be a lucky Incident for us both.

I expreſſed myſelf thankfully, and ſhe was ſo very much in my Intereſt, as to intreat me to go inſtantly to the Lady, leſt ſhe ſhould be provided, and acquaint her I was recommended by Mrs. Jones, not doubting, as ſhe ſaid, but, on Inquiry, my Character would anſwer my Appearance.

As that you know was partly my View in com⯑ing to Town, I thought this a happy Incident, and determined not to loſe the Opportunity; and ſo, according to the Direction ſhe gave me, I went to inquire for Mrs. C [...] in J [...]n's Court, Fleet-ſtreet. The Neighbourhood look'd genteel, and I ſoon found the Houſe. I aſked for Mrs. C [...]; ſhe came to me, dreſs'd in a ſplendid Manner; I told her what I came about; ſhe immediately de⯑ſired me to walk into the Parlour, which was ele⯑gantly furniſhed; and after aſking me ſeveral Que⯑ſtions, with my Anſwers to which ſhe ſeem'd very well pleaſed, a Servant ſoon brought in a Bowl of warm Liquor, which ſhe called Negus, conſiſting of Wine, Water, Orange, &c. which, ſhe ſaid, was for a Friend or two ſhe expected preſently; but as I was warm with walking, ſhe would have me drink ſome of it, telling me it was a pleaſant innocent Liquor, [81] and ſhe always uſed her waiting Maids, as ſhe did herſelf. I thought this was very kind and con⯑deſcending, and being warm and thirſty, and ſhe encouraging me, I took a pretty free Draught of it, and thought it very pleaſant, as it really was. She made me ſit down by her, ſaying, Pride was not her Talent, and that ſhe ſhould always indulge me in like manner, if I behaved well, when ſhe had not Company: and then ſlightly aſked what I could do, and the Wages I required? With my Anſwers ſhe ſeemed well ſatisfied, and granted the Wages I aſked, without any Offer of Abatement.

And then I roſe up, in order to take my Leave, telling her I would, any Day ſhe pleaſed, of the enſuing Week, bring my Cloaths, and wait upon her.

She ſaid, that her own Maid being gone away, ſhe was in the utmoſt Want of another, and would take it kindly, if I would ſtay with her till next Day, becauſe ſhe was to have ſome Ladies to paſs the Evening with her. I ſaid this would be pretty inconvenient to me, but as ſhe was ſo ſituated, I would oblige her, after I had been with my Aunt, and acquainted her with it. To this ſhe reply'd, that there was no manner of Occaſion for that, be⯑cauſe ſhe could ſend the Cook for what I wanted, who could, at the ſame time, tell my Aunt how Matters ſtood.

I thought this looked a little odd; but ſhe did it with ſo much Civility, and ſeemed ſo pleaſed with her new Maid, that I ſcarcely knew how to with⯑ſtand her: But the Apprehenſion I had of my Aunt's Anger for not aſking her Advice, in what ſo nearly concerned me, made me inſiſt upon going, though I could perceive Diſpleaſure in her Coun⯑tenance when ſhe ſaw me reſolv'd.

[82] She then ply'd me very cloſe with the Liquor, which ſhe again ſaid was innocent and weak; but I believe it was far otherwiſe; for my Head began to turn round, and my Stomach felt a little diſ⯑ordered. I intreated the Favour of her to permit me to go, on a firm Promiſe of returning imme⯑diately; but then, my new Miſtreſs began to raiſe her Voice a little, aſſuring me I ſhould on no Ac⯑count, ſtir out of her Houſe. She left the Room, in a ſort of a Pet, but ſaid ſhe would ſend the Cook to take my Directions to my Aunt; and I heard her take the Key out of the outward Door.

This alarmed me very much; and, in the In⯑ſtant of my Surprize, a young Gentlewoman en⯑tered the Parlour, dreſs'd in white Sattin, and every way genteel; ſhe ſat down in a Chair next me, looked earneſtly at me a while, and ſeemed going to ſpeak ſeveral times, but did not. At length ſhe roſe from her Chair, bolted the Parlour-door, and, breaking into a Flood of Tears, expreſs'd her⯑ſelf as follows:

‘"Dear young Woman, I cannot tell you the Pain I feel on your Account; and from an In⯑clination to ſerve you, I run a Hazard of in⯑volving myſelf in greater Miſery than I have yet experienced, if that can be. But my Heart is yet too honeſt to draw others, as I am deſir'd to do, into a Snare which I have fallen into myſelf. You are now in as notorious a Brothel, as is in Lon⯑don: And if you eſcape not in a few Hours, you are inevitably undone. I was once as innocent as you now ſeem to be. No Apprehenſion you can be under for your Virtue, but I felt as much: My Name was as unſpotted, and my Heart as unvers'd in Ill, when I firſt entered theſe guilty Doors, whither I was ſent on an Errand, much like what I underſtand has brought you hither. I [83] was by Force detained the whole Night, as you are deſigned to be, was robbed of my Virtue; and knowing I ſhould hardly be forgiven by my Friends for ſtaying out without their Know⯑ledge; and in the Morning being at a Loſs, all in Confuſion as I was, what to do, before I could reſolve on any thing, I was obliged to repeat my Guilt, and had hardly Time afforded me to re⯑flect on its fatal Conſequences. My Liberty I intreated to no Purpoſe, and my Grief ſerved for the cruel Sport of all around me. In ſhort, I have been now ſo long confined, that I am aſhamed to appear among my Friends and Ac⯑quaintance. In this dreadful Situation, I have been perplexed with the hateful Importunities of different Men every Day; and tho' I long re⯑ſiſted to my utmoſt, yet downright Force never failed to overcome. Thus in a ſhameful Round of Guilt and Horror, have I lingered out Ten Months; ſubject to more Miſeries than Tongue can expreſs. The ſame ſad Lot is intended you, nor will it be eaſy to ſhun it: However, as I can⯑not well be more miſerable than I am, I will aſſiſt you what I can; and not, as the wretched Pro⯑cureſs hopes, contribute to make you as unhappy as myſelf."’

You may gueſs at the Terror that ſeized my Heart, on this ſad Story, and my own Danger; I trembled in every Joint, nor was I able to ſpeak for ſome time; at laſt, in the beſt Manner I could, I thanked my unhappy new Friend, and begg'd ſhe would kindly give me the Aſſiſtance ſhe offered: which ſhe did; for the firſt Gentleman that came to the Door, ſhe ſtept up herſelf for the Key to let him in, which the wretched Procureſs gave her, and I took that Opportunity, as ſhe directed, to run out of the Houſe, and that in ſo much Hurry [84] and Confuſion, as to leave my Hood, Fan, and Gloves behind me.

I told my Aunt every Circumſtance of my Danger and Eſcape, and received a ſevere Repri⯑mand for my following ſo inconſiderately, in ſo wicked a Town as this, the Direction of an intire Stranger.

I am ſure, Siſter, you rejoice with me for my Deliverance. And this Accident may ſerve to teach us to be upon our Guard for the future, as well againſt the viler Part of our own Sex, as that of the other. I am, dear Siſter,

LETTER LXIII. To a Daughter in a Country Town, who en⯑courages the Addreſs of a Subaltern [A Caſe too frequent in Country Places].

I HAVE been under the deepeſt Affliction ever ſince I heard of your encouraging the Addreſſes of a Soldier, whether Serjeant or Corporal, I know not; who happens to quarter next Door to your Uncle.

What, my dear Child, can you propoſe by ſuch a Match? Is his Pay ſufficient to maintain himſelf? If it be, will it be ſufficient for the Support of a Family?

[85] Conſider, there will be no Opportunity for you to increaſe his poor Income, but by ſuch Means as will be very grating for you to ſubmit to! Will your Hands be capable of enduring the Fatigues of a Waſh-tub, for your Maintenance? Or, will following a Camp ſuit your Inclinations? Think well of the certain Miſery that muſt attend your making ſuch a Choice.

Look round at the Wives of all his Fellow-ſol⯑diers, and mark their Appearance at their Homes, and in Publick. Is their abject Condition to be coveted? Do you ſee any thing deſirable in Poverty and Rags? And, as to the Man for whom you muſt endure all this, he may poſſibly indeed be poſſeſſed of Honeſty, and a Deſire to do his beſt for you, at leaſt you may think ſo; but is it proba⯑ble he will? For if he be wiſe and induſtrious, how came he to prefer a Life ſo mean and contempt⯑ible? If he was bred to any Trade, why did he deſert it?

Be cautious of ruſhing yourſelf into Ruin, and as I am not able to maintain you and a young Fa⯑mily, do not throw yourſelf upon the uncertain Charity of well-diſpoſed People; who are already vaſtly encumbered by the Miſerable. I hope you will not thus raſhly increaſe the unhappy Number of ſuch; but will give due Attention to what I have ſaid; for I can have no View, but that of diſ⯑charging the Duty of

LETTER LXIV. Of Expoſtulation from a grave Friend to a young Man, on his ſlighting and irreverent Behaviour to his Father.

I TAKE the Freedom of a brief Expoſtulation with you on your Behaviour to your Father; and I hope you will receive it from me, with the ſame Good-will, that I mean it.

His Indulgence to you formerly, certainly claims better Returns on your Part, altho' it ſhould be allow'd, as you fondly imagine, that his Affection to you is alienated. There may be ſomething of Petulancy in him, which you ought to bear with; for one time or other you may be convinced by Ex⯑perience, that Age itſelf has its inſuperable Affli⯑ctions, that require the Allowance of every one; and more particularly of ſuch who hope to live a long Life themſelves, and ſtill more particularly of a Son, whoſe high Paſſions, require, perhaps, at leaſt as much Allowance. He may be petulant; but are you not fiery and impetuous? And I would fain know, whether you ought to bear with him, or he with you?

'Tis a very groundleſs Surmiſe to think his Af⯑fections are alienated from you. A Father muſt love his Son. He cannot help it. And is it cre⯑dible even to yourſelf, on cool Reflexion, that the ſame good Man who was wont to be delighted with your childiſh Vanities and Foibles, (for we have all had them more or leſs) and even indulged and per⯑haps cheriſhed thoſe youthful Forwardneſſes, that might be called the Seeds of thoſe Paſſions, which [87] now, being ſprung up, give him ſo much Diſturb⯑ance, and make you ſo impatient of Contradiction: Can you, I ſay, believe that this ſame good Man, without Reaſon, without Provocation, can change that Love into Hate?

You are grown to Man's Eſtate, and tho' far from the ungracious Sons, that we have ſeen in the World, yet ought not to be ſo partial to yourſelf, as to believe you are wholly faultleſs. Examine your own Conduct then, and altho' you ſhould not be able to charge your Intention with any Blame, yet you muſt leave your Behaviour to be judg'd by others; and 'twill perhaps be given againſt you, that ſome Slight, ſome Negligence, ſome Inatten⯑tion, if not worſe, too cutting for a Father's Cares and Fondneſs to ſupport, has eſcaped you. Then conſider, Sir, what a grievous thing it muſt be to him to reflect, that this Behaviour of yours, may be but the gradual Conſequence of his former In⯑dulgence to you, and that he is deſervedly puniſh⯑ed, for not rooting up in your childiſh Days thoſe Weeds which now ſpread to his Uneaſineſs. But let me tell you, Sir, that it ought to be a more ſad Reflection to a conſiderate young Gentleman, that he is to be the Inſtrument to puniſh his fond Fa⯑ther's faulty Indulgence to himſelf.

I have been a diligent Obſerver of the Diſpenſa⯑tions of Providence in this reſpect, and have always ſeen the Sin of Undutifulneſs to Parents puniſhed in Kind, more than any one Sin. I have ſeen the Son of the undutiful Son, revenging the Cauſe of his Grandfather; and at the ſame time, intail'd a Curſe upon his Son, if he has not been taken off childleſs, who, in his Turn, has retorted the un⯑gracious Behaviour; and thus a Curſe has been in⯑tail'd by Deſcent upon the Family, from one Ge⯑neration to another.

[88] You'll ſay, that your Behaviour to your Father is not, you hope, of ſuch an atrocious Nature, as to be attended with ſuch terrible Conſequences; and perhaps will add, that you do not wiſh for a better Behaviour from your Son, than you ſhew to your Father. But if this be not Partiality to your⯑ſelf, pray conſider, that while your Father takes your preſent Conduct in ſo ill Part, and you uſe ſo little Circumſpection to avoid giving him Diſguſt, and have ſo little Complaiſance, as not to ſet him right; the thing is full as tormenting to him from the Appearance, as if it were real; nay, 'tis real to him, if he believes ſo.

He thinks, and let me tell you, Sir, he thinks juſtly, that he ought to expect as much Deference to his Will and Pleaſure now, as he has heretofore ſhewn you Indulgence, even in thoſe things that now perhaps you are ſo unkind to ſuffer to turn ſevereſt upon him. I would not recriminate: But it was with very little Reverence, and indeed with an Air as cenſurable as the Words, that you told him, in my Hearing, that he knew not what he would have: That he expected you to be more ac⯑countable at this Age, than when you were a Child, &c. Why, dear Sir, does your being of Age, leſſen the Duty you owe to your Father? Are not his Cares for you allowably doubled, and ought he not now to expect from your good Senſe, and more mature Underſtanding (improved, as it is to be hoped, by the Education he has, at a great Ex⯑pence, given you) greater Proofs of Duty, rather than leſs? He may forget, perhaps what he was at your Age, as you irreverently told him; but how much more laudable would it be, for you, at yours, to enter into what you would naturally expect from your Son, were you in the Place, and at the Age, of your Father. A generous Mind will do its Duty, [89] tho' it were not to meet with ſuitable Rewards or Returns; for even ſhould your Father not do his by you, you are not abſolved of yours to him; much leſs then, ought the natural, the conſequential, In⯑firmities of Age, to diſſolve the Duty of a Son to an indulgent Parent.

Be convinced, my dear Sir, of your wrong Con⯑duct, and don't think it beneath the high Spirit of a brave young Gentleman, to ſubmit to the Will of his Father. By your Dutifulneſs and Circum⯑ſpection you may, in all Probability, add to the Number as well as the Comfort of his Days to whom you owe your Being. But whar a Woe does that young Man bring upon himſelf who robs his aged Parent in both reſpects! It behoves all Children to reflect upon this timely, and with Awe.

On how many Occaſions has he heretofore re⯑joiced to me, on, even, the ſmalleſt Openings and Dawnings of your Mind and Genius! How has he dwelt on your Praiſes on even ſuppoſed Beauties, which have appeared ſuch to his fond and partial Tenderneſs only! How has he extenuated your Failings, connived at your Faults, and extolled and brought forward into ſtrong Light, even the re⯑moteſt Appearance of Virtue in you. Such was always, and ſuch, notwithſtanding the Intermixtures of Age and Infirmity, and even of your continued Slights and Impatience, always will be, the Inſtances of his paternal Affection for you. And I will ven⯑ture to ſay, that even this very Petulance, as you think it, is a Demonſtration of his Regard for you, however diſagreeable it may be to you, ſince he loves you too well to be inſenſible to thoſe Parts of your Behaviour, which he thinks are owing to Slight or Negligence.

I have exceeded the Bounds I intended when I began, and would rather leave to your natural good [90] Senſe, and cooler Reflection, what I have already urged, than tire you too much, with what might ſtill farther be added on this Occaſion. But the Affection and Friendſhip I have for all your Fa⯑mily, and the long Intimacy I have had with your good Father (who, however, knows nothing of my writing) and the evil Conſequences that may follow a wider Breach between you, will anſwer for my Intention, and, I hope, for my Freedom, which I'll take upon me to ſay, I expect from your Candor and Education, being

LETTER LXV. Againſt too great a Love of Singing and Muſick.

I AM ſure you have the good Senſe to take kindly what I am going to mention to you, in which I can have no poſſible View but your Benefit. When you were laſt with me at Hertford, you much ob⯑liged us all, with the Inſtances you gave us of your Skill in Muſick, and your good Voice. But as you are ſo young a Man, and ſeem to be ſo very much pleaſed yourſelf with theſe Acquirements, I muſt enter a Caution or two on this Score, becauſe of the Conſequences that may follow from too much Delight in theſe Amuſements, which, while they are purſued as Amuſements only, may be ſafe and innocent; but when they take up too much of a Man's Time, may be not a little pernicious.

In the firſt place, my dear Couſin, theſe Plea⯑ſures of Sound, may take you off from the more deſirable ones of Senſe, and make your Delights [91] ſtop at the Ear, which ſhould go deeper, and be placed in the Underſtanding. For whenever a chear⯑ful Singer is in Company, adieu to all Converſa⯑tion of an improving or intellectual Nature.

In the ſecond place, it may expoſe you to Com⯑pany, and that not the beſt and moſt eligible neither; and by which your Buſineſs and your other more uſeful Studies, may be greatly if not wholly neglect⯑ed, and very poſſibly your Health itſelf much im⯑paired.

In the third place, it may tend, for ſo it natu⯑rally does, to enervate the Mind, and make you haunt muſical Societies, Operas and Concerts; and what Glory is it to a Gentleman if he were even a fine Performer, that he can ſtrike a String, touch a Key, or ſing a Song with the Grace and Com⯑mand of a hired Muſician?

Fourthly, Muſick, to arrive at any tolerable Pro⯑ficiency in it, takes up much Time, and requires ſo much Application, as leaves but little Room, and, what is worſe, when delighted in, little Inclination for other Improvements: And as Life is a ſhort Stage, where longeſt, ſurely the moſt precious Mo⯑ments of it, ought to be better imploy'd, than in ſo light and airy an Amuſement. The Time of Youth will be ſoon over, and that is the Time of laying the Foundation of more ſolid Studies. The Mind, as well as the Body, will become ſtiff by Years, and unſuſceptible of thoſe Improvements, that cannot be attained, but in particular Periods of it: And, once an airy Delight engages the Faculties, a Habit is formed; and nothing but great Struggle, and abſolute Neceſſity, if that will do it, can ſhake it off. One Part of Life is for Improvement, that is Youth; another Part is for turning that Improve⯑ment to ſolid Benefits to one's Self, one's Family, or Acquaintance; that is the middle Part; another [92] Part carries a Retroſpect to a future Eſtate: And ſhall we loſe the Time of Improvement, which can never come again; forfeit all the Benefits of it, in our Middle-life, and embitter our future Proſpect, as well mundane as eternal, with Reflections on our paſt Neglect of Opportunities that never can be recalled? And all for what? Why, only to be deemed for eight or ten empty Years of Life, a good Companion, as the Phraſe is:—Tho', perhaps, a bad Huſband, a bad Father, a bad Friend, and, of courſe, a bad Man!

Some there are, who divide Life into four Stages or Opportunities. He, they ſay, who is not hand⯑ſome by Twenty, ſtrong by Thirty, wiſe by Forty, rich by Fifty, will never be either handſome, ſtrong, wiſe, or rich. And this, generally ſpeaking, is a good and improving Obſervation; which ſhould teach us, as we go along, to make a right Uſe of thoſe Periods of Life, which may be proper Entrances for us into a ſtill more important one than that behind it.

I have but lightly touched on theſe weighty Points, becauſe I know you have good Senſe enough to improve as much from Hints, as others can from tedious Lectures. And when I have repeated, that I am far from diſſuading you from theſe Amuſe⯑ments while they are reſtrained to due Bounds, and are regarded as Amuſements only; I know you will think me, what I always deſire to be thought, and what I truly am,

LETTER LXVI. From a Daughter to her Father, pleading for her Siſter, who had married without his Conſent.

THE kind Indulgence you have always ſhewn to your Children, makes me preſume to be⯑come an Advocate for my Siſter, tho' not for her Fault. She is very ſenſible of that, and ſorry ſhe has offended you; but has great hopes, that Mr. Robinſon will prove ſuch a careful and loving Huſ⯑band to her, as may atone for his paſt Wildneſs, and engage your Forgiveneſs. For all your Chil⯑dren are ſenſible of your paternal Kindneſs, and that you wiſh their Good more for their ſakes, than your own.

This makes it the more wicked to offend ſo good a Father: But, dear Sir, be pleaſed to con⯑ſider, that it now cannot be helped, and that ſhe may be made by your Diſpleaſure very miſerable in her own Choice; and as his Faults are owing to the Inconſideration of Youth, or otherwiſe it would not have been a very diſcreditable Match, had it had your Approbation; I could humbly hope, for my poor Siſter's ſake, that you will be pleaſed rather to encourage his preſent good Reſolutions, by your kind Favour, than make him deſpair of a Recon⯑ciliation, and ſo perhaps treat her with a Negligence, which hitherto ſhe is not apprehenſive of. For he is really very fond of her, and I hope will continue ſo. Yet is ſhe dejected for her Fault to you, and wiſhes, yet dreads, to have your Leave to throw herſelf at your Feet, to beg your Forgiveneſs and [94] Bleſſing, which would make the poor dear Offen⯑der quite happy.

Pardon, Sir, my interpoſing in her Favour, in which my Huſband alſo joins. She is my Siſter. She is your Daughter; tho' ſhe has not done ſo worthily as I wiſh, to become that Character. Be pleaſed, Sir, to forgive her, however; and alſo forgive me, pleading for her. Who am,

LETTER LXVII. The Father's Anſwer.

YOU muſt believe that your Siſter's unadviſed Marriage, which ſhe muſt know would be diſagreeable to me, gives me no ſmall Concern; and yet I will aſſure you that it ariſes more from my Affection for her, than any other Conſidera⯑tion. In her Education I took all the Pains and Care my Circumſtances would admit, and often flattered myſelf with the Hope that the happy Fruits of it would be made appear in her prudent Conduct. What ſhe has now done is not vicious, but indiſcreet; for, you muſt remember, that I have often declared in her Hearing, that the wild Aſſer⯑tion of a Rake making a good Huſband, was the moſt dangerous Opinion a young Woman could imbibe.

I will not, however, in Pity to her, point out the many Ills I am afraid will attend her Raſh⯑neſs, becauſe it is done, and cannot be helped; but wiſh ſhe may be happier than I ever ſaw a Wo⯑man who leap'd ſo fatal a Precipice.

Her Huſband has this Morning been with [...] for her Fortune; and it was with much Tempe [...] [95] I told him, That as all ſhe could hope for was wholly at my Diſpoſal, I ſhould diſburſe it in ſuch a man⯑ner as I thought would moſt contribute to her Ad⯑vantage; and that, as he was a Stranger to me, I ſhould chuſe to know he deſerved it, before he had the Power over what I intended to do for her. He bit his Lip, and, with a haſty Step, was my humble Servant.

Tell the raſh Girl, that I would not have her to be afflicted at this Behaviour in me; for I know it will contribute to her Advantage one way or other: If he married her for her own ſake, ſhe will find no Alteration of Behaviour from this Diſappoint⯑ment: But if he married only for her Money, ſhe will ſoon be glad to find it in my Poſſeſſion, rather than his.

Your Interpoſition in her Behalf is very ſiſterly: And you ſee I have not the Reſentment ſhe might expect. But would to God ſhe had acted with your Prudence! For her own ſake I wiſh it. I am

LETTER LXVIII. To a Brother, againſt making his Wife and Children the conſtant Subject of his Praiſe and Converſation.

THE Love I have always had for you, and an Unwillingneſs I find in myſelf to ſay any thing that may put you to Confuſion, has made me take this Method of acquainting you with a ſmall In⯑diſcretion I have often obſerved in you, and which I perceive gradually to gain Ground as your Family increaſes.

[96] What I mean, is an immoderate Inclination to make your Spouſe, and your Children, the Sub⯑ject of Diſcourſe where-ever you are. Imagine not that any Pique or Diſlike draws this from me: My Siſter, I think, is poſſeſſed of as many valuable Qualities as moſt of her Sex; and all your Children are very promiſing. No wonder then, that this. View makes a very deep Impreſſion upon ſo tender a Heart as yours; and the Fondneſs of a Huſband, and of a Father, is what muſt make you eſteemed by all who conſider the many Advan⯑tages ariſing from thence to Poſterity. But a Mind full of Affection for what is ſo dear to himſelf, ſtands in need of the utmoſt Care, to keep what con⯑cerns only himſelf, from employing too much the Attention of others: What affects you moſt ſenſi⯑bly upon this Subject, is, even by your Friends, heard rather with an Ear of Cenſure than Applauſe: And what the tender Bias of a Father ſwells in your Conception to the moſt witty Repartee, by an Ear deſtitute of that Bias, ſounds neither witty, nor uncommon; and you cannot mortify many Men more, than by dragging out an unwilling Ay, very pretty indeed, Sir: A charming Boy! or, Such a Saying was far above his Years, truly. Which kind of yawning Applauſe, is ſometimes, by your Attention being ſtrongly fixed to your Story, miſ⯑taken for Approbation, and you thereupon launch out farther upon the ſame Subject, when your Hearers are ſcarce able to conceal their Inattention. Beſides, don't you conſider, that another Man may have as great Fondneſs for his, as you have for yours; and while your Children are the wittieſt, the beautifulleſt, the hopefulleſt in England, do you not tacitly reflect upon every other Man's Children in the Company?

[97] To me, I grant you full Liberty to ſay whatever you pleaſe; nay, ſeveral little Tricks you tell of Patty and Tommy are agreeable enough to me, and ſome I think even entertaining; but to others, have a cloſe Guard upon yourſelf, leſt when you try to get your Children admired, you ſhould get your⯑ſelf deſpiſed. Let you and me, as Father and Uncle, keep all their little Whimſies to ourſelves; for as Strangers ſhare not in the Affection and Expence at⯑tending them, why ſhould they partake in the En⯑tertainment they afford?

I hope my conſtant Behaviour has convinced you of my ſincere Regard for your Intereſt and Repu⯑tation: What I have ſaid, I mean for your Benefit: And you know me too well, to think otherwiſe of

LETTER LXIX. From a Father to a Daughter, in Diſlike of her Intentions to marry at too early an Age.

I WAS greatly ſurpriſed at the Letter you ſent me laſt Week. I was willing to believe I ſaw in you, for your Years, ſo much of your late dear Mother's Temper, Prudence, and virtuous Diſpo⯑ſition, that I refuſed ſeveral advantageous Offers of changing my own Condition, purely for your ſake: And will you now convince me ſo early, that I have no Return to expect from you, but that the Moment a young Fellow throws himſelf in your way, you have nothing elſe to do, but to give me Notice to provide a Fortune for you? for [98] that you intend to be of no further Uſe and Ser⯑vice to me. This, in plain Engliſh, is the Meaning of your Notification. For I ſuppoſe your young Man does not intend to marry you, without a Fortune. And can you then think, that a Father has nothing to do, but to confer Benefits on his Chil⯑dren, without being intitled to expect any Return from them?

To be ſure, I had propoſed, at a proper Time, to find a Huſband for you; but I thought I had yet three or four Years to come. For, conſider, Sally, you are not fully Sixteen Years of Age: And a Wife, believe me, ought to have ſome better Qua⯑lifications, than an agreeable Perſon to preſerve a Huſband's Eſteem, tho' it often is enough to attract a Lover's Notice.

Have you Experience enough, think you, diſ⯑creetly to conduct the Affairs of a Family? I thought you as yet not quite capable to manage [...] Houſe; and I am ſure, my Judgment always took a Bias in your Favour.

Beſides, let me tell you, I have great Exceptions to the Perſon, and think him by no means the Man I would chuſe for your Huſband. For which, if it be not too late, I will give good Reaſons.

On the whole, you muſt expect, if you marry without my Conſent, to live without my Aſſiſtance. Think it not hard: Your Diſappointment cannot be greater than mine, if you will proceed. I have never uſed violent Meaſures to you on any Occaſion and ſhall not on this. But yet I earneſtly hope you will not hurry yourſelf to Deſtruction, and [...] perhaps to the Grave, by an Action which a littl [...] Conſideration may ſo eaſily prevent. I am

LETTER LXX. From a Father to a Daughter againſt a frothy, French Lover.

I CANNOT ſay I look upon Mr. La Farriere in the ſame favourable Light that you ſeem to do. His frothy Behaviour may divert well enough as an Acquaintance; but is very unanſwerable, I think, to the Character of a Huſband, eſpecially an Engliſh Huſband, which I take to be a graver Cha⯑racter than a French one. There is a Difference in theſe gay Gentlemen, while they ſtrive to pleaſe, and when they expect to be obliged. In all Men this is too apparent: But in thoſe of a light Turn it is more viſible than in others. If after Marriage his preſent Temper ſhould continue, when you are a careful Mother, he will look more like a Son than a Huſband: If entering into the World ſhould change his Diſpoſition, expect no Medium; he will be the moſt inſipid Mortal you can imagine; if his Spirits ſhould be depreſſed by the Accidents of Life, he is ſuch a Stranger to Reflection, (the beſt Coun⯑ſellor of the Wiſe) that from thence he will be un⯑able to draw Relief. And Adverſity to ſuch Men is the more intolerable, as their Deportment is ſuited only to the Smiles of Succeſs.

He dances well; writes very indifferently: Is an Artiſt at Cards; but cannot caſt Accounts: Under⯑ſtands all the Laws of Chance; but not one of the Land: Has ſhewn great Skill in the Improvement of his Perſon; yet none at all, that I hear, of his Eſtate: And tho' he makes a good Figure in Com⯑pany, [100] has never yet ſtudied the Art of living at Home: He ſings well; but knows nothing of Buſineſs: He has long acted the Part of a Lover; but may not find the ſame Variety and Entertainment in acting the Huſband: Is very gallant; but may not be over affectionate: And is ſo tender of himſelf, that he will have little Time to indulge any body elſe.—Theſe, Child, are my Sentiments of him; you are not wholly ignorant of the World: I deſire to guide, not to force, your Inclinations; and hope your calm Reaſon will baniſh all farther Thoughts of this Gentleman, who, however you may like him for a Partner at a Ball, ſeems not ſo well qualified for a Journey through the various Trials, from which no Station can exempt the married State. I am

LETTER LXXI. A modeſt Lover deſiring an Aunt's Favour to her Niece.

I HAVE ſeveral times, that I have been happy in the Company of your beloved Niece, thought to have ſpoken my Mind, and to declare to her the true Value and Affection I have for her. But juſt as I have been about to ſpeak, my Fears have vanquiſh'd my Hopes, and I have been obliged to ſuſpend my Purpoſe. I have thrown out ſeveral Hints, that I thought would have led the way to a fuller diſcloſing of the Secret that is too big for my Breaſt, and yet, when I am near her, is too im⯑portant for Utterance. Will you be ſo good, Ma⯑dam, to break way for me, if I am not wholly diſ⯑approved [101] of by you; and prepare her dear Mind for a Declaration that I muſt make, and yet know not how to begin?—My Fortune and Expecta⯑tions make me hope, that I may not on thoſe Accounts be deemed unworthy: And could I, by half a Line from your Hand, hope, that there is no other Bar, I ſhould be enabled to build on ſo de⯑ſirable a Foundation, and to let your Niece know, how much my Happineſs depends upon her Favour. Excuſe, dear Madam, I beſeech you, this Trouble, and this preſumptuous Requeſt, from

LETTER LXXII. The Aunt's Anſwer, ſuppoſing the Gentleman deſerves Encouragement.

I CANNOT ſay I have any Diſlike, as to my own part, to your Propoſal, or your Manner of making it, whatever my Niece may have: becauſe Diffidence is generally the Companion of Merit, and a Token of Reſpect: She is a Perſon of Pru⯑dence, and all her Friends are ſo throughly con⯑vinced of it, that her Choice will have the Weight it deſerves with us all: So I cannot ſay, what will be the Event of your Declaration to her. Yet, ſo far as I may take upon myſelf to do, I will not deny your Requeſt; but on her Return to me to⯑morrow will break the Ice as you deſire, not doubt⯑ing your Honour, and the Sincerity of your Pro⯑feſſions; and I ſhall tell her moreover what I think of the Advances you make. I believe ſhe has had the Prudence to keep her Heart intirely diſengaged, becauſe ſhe would otherwiſe have told me: And [102] is not ſo mean-ſpirited, as to be able to return Tyranny and Inſult for true Value, when ſhe is properly convinced of it. Whoever has the Happi⯑neſs (permit me, tho' her Relation, to call it ſo) to meet with her Favour, will find this her Chara⯑cter, and that it is not owing to the fond Partia⯑lity of, Sir,

LETTER LXXIII. The Anſwer, ſuppoſing the Gentleman is not approved.

I HAVE intimated your Requeſt to my Niece, who thinks herſelf obliged to your good Opinion of her: But begs that you will give over all Thoughts of applying to her on this Subject. She ſays ſhe can by no means encourage your Addreſs. It is better therefore to know this at firſt, becauſe it will ſave her and yourſelf farther Trouble. I am, Sir,

LETTER LXXIV. From a reſpectful Lover to his Miſtreſs.

I HAVE long ſtruggled with the moſt honour⯑able and reſpectful Paſſion that ever filled the Heart of Man. I have often try'd to reveal it per⯑ſonally; as often in this way; but never till now could prevail upon my Fears and Doubts. But I can no longer ſtruggle with a Secret that has given me ſo much Torture to keep, and yet hitherto more, when I have endeavoured to reveal it. I never entertain the Hope to ſee you, without Rap⯑ture; [103] but when I have that Pleaſure, inſtead of be⯑ing animated as I ought, I am utterly confounded. What can this be owing to, but a Diffidence in myſelf, and an exalted Opinion of your Worthi⯑neſs? And is not this one ſtrong Token of ardent Love! Yet if it be, how various is the tormenting Paſſion in its Operations! Since ſome it inſpires with Courage, while others it deprives of all ne⯑ceſſary Confidence. I can only aſſure you, Madam, that the Heart of Man never conceived a ſtronger or ſincerer Paſſion than mine for you. If my Re⯑verence for you is my Crime, I am ſure it has been my ſufficient Puniſhment. I need not ſay my Deſigns and Motives are honourable: Who dare ap⯑proach ſo much virtuous Excellence, with a Suppo⯑ſition that ſuch an Aſſurance is neceſſary? What my Fortune is, is well known, and I am ready to ſtand the Teſt of the ſtricteſt Inquiry. Condeſcend, Madam, to embolden my reſpectful Paſſion, by [...]e favourable Line; that if what I here profeſs, [...] hope further to have an Opportunity to aſſure [...] of, be found to be unqueſtionable Truth, then my humble Addreſs will not quite be unaccept⯑able to you; and thus you will for ever oblige, dear Madam,

LETTER LXXV. The Anſwer.

IF Modeſty be the greateſt Glory of our Sex, ſurely it cannot be blame-worthy in yours. For my own part, I muſt think it the moſt amiable Quality either Man or Woman can poſſeſs. Nor can there be, in my Opinion, a true Reſpect, where [104] there is not a Diffidence of one's own Merit, and an high Opinion of the Perſon's we eſteem.

To ſay more, on this Occaſion, would little be⯑come me. To ſay leſs, would look as if I knew not how to pay that Regard to modeſt Merit, which modeſt Merit only deſerves.

You, Sir, beſt know your own Heart; and if you are ſincere and generous, will receive as you ought, this Frankneſs from

LETTER LXXVI. A humorous Epiſtle of neighbourly Occurrences and News, to a Bottle-Companion abroad.

I AM glad to hear you're in the Land of the Living ſtill. You expect from me an Account of what has happen'd among your old Acquaint⯑ance ſince you have been abroad. I will give it you, and, 'bating that two or three Years al⯑ways make vaſt Alterations in mature Life, you would be ſurpris'd at the Havock and Changes that ſmall Space of Time has made in the Circle of our Acquaintance. To begin them with my⯑ſelf: I have had the Misfortune to loſe my Son Jo; and my Daughter Judy is marry'd, and has brought me another Jo. Jack Kid of the Foun⯑tain, where we kept our Club, has loſt his Wife, who was a ſpecial Bar-keeper, got his Maid Priſe, with Child—you remember the Slut, by her mincing Airs—marry'd her, and is broke: But not till he had, with his horrid Stum, poiſon'd half the Society. We began to complain of his Wine, you know, before you left us; and I told him he ſhould let us have Neat, who drank our [105] Gallons, if he was honeſt to himſelf; and, if he was to regard Conſcience as well as Intereſt, muſt do leſs Harm by diſpenſing his Rats-bane to thoſe who drank Pints, than to thoſe honeſt Fellows who ſwallow'd Gallons, and, in ſo handſome a Doſe of the one, muſt take a too large Quantity of the other: But the Dog was incorrigible; for he went on brewing and poiſoning, till he kill'd his beſt Cuſtomers, and then what could he expect?

Why what follow'd; for, truly, Bob, we began to tumble like rotten Sheep. As thus: The Dance was begun by that ſeaſon'd Sinner Tim. Brackley, the Half-pint Man, who was always ſotting by himſelf, with his Whets in the Morning, his Cor⯑rectives after Dinner, and Digeſters at Night, and at laſt tipt off of one of the Kitchen-benches in an Apoplexy. 'Tis true he was not of our Club; tho' we might have taken Warning by his Fall, as the Saying is; but were above it. So the Rot got among us; and firſt, honeſt laughing Jack Adams kick'd up of a Fever. Tom Dandy fell into a Jaundice and Dropſy, and when his Doctors ſaid he was mending, ſlipt thro' their Fingers, in ſpite of their Art and Aſſurance. Roger Harman, the Punſter, then tipt off the Perch, after very little Warning: And was follow'd in a Week by Arthur Sykes. Ralph Atkyns bid us Good-bye in a few Months after him. And Ben. Tomlyns, who, you remember, would never go home ſober, tumbled down Stairs, and broke his Collar-bone. His Sur⯑geon took him firſt, a Fever next, then his Doctor; and then, as it were of courſe, Death: A natural Round enough, you'll ſay, Bob. His Widow made a handſome Burial for poor Ben.; took on grievouſly, and in Five Weeks married her Journeyman. Jemmy Hawkins was a long time ailing, yet would not leave off; ſo he dy'd, as one may ſay, of a more [106] natural Death. Ralph Rawlins ſell ſick, after a large Doſe; and had ſo narrow an Eſcape, that he was ſrighten'd into a Regimen; and now drinks Aſſes Milk of another Complexion than that which gave him his Malady; and between Phyſick and the Hyp, ſerves for a Memento Mori to others, and neither lives nor dies himſelf. While honeſt Capt. Tinker, who was deep gone in a Conſumption, is in very little better Caſe: And if any thing ſaves him, and me, and the reſt of our once numerous Society, it will be the Bankruptcy of our worthy Landlord; for that has quite broke us up.

So much for the Club, Bob. Now to the Neigh⯑bourhood about us, that you and I knew next beſt.

Jerry Jenkyns, the prim Mercer, has had a Sta⯑tute taken out againſt him, and 5 s. in the Pound is all the Reſult of his pragmatical Fluttering. Dan. Pocock the Draper has had an Eſtate left him, and quitted Buſineſs: While Sam. Simpſon the Grocer has loſt one in Law, and gone mad upon it. See, Bob, the Ups and Downs of this tranſitory State! Harry Barlow the Turkey Merchant has left off to his Nephew, and now pines for want of Employment. Joſhua Williams the Cheeſemonger, a ſtrange projecting Fellow, you know! is carried out of his Shop into a Sponging-houſe by his own Maggots. John Jones the Organiſt is married to Sykes's Daughter Peggy, who proves an arrant Shrew, and has broke about his Head his beſt Cre⯑mona Fiddle, in the Sight of half a dozen Neigh⯑bours. The Wiſe of Job Johnſon, our Sword-cutler, has elop'd from him. You know they al⯑ways liv'd like Dog and Cat. Paul Lane's Daugh⯑ter Poll has had a Baſtard by 'Squire Wilſon's Coachman; and the 'Squire's own Daughter Miſs Nelly has run away with her Father's Poſtilion. Dick Jenkyns, that vile Rake and Beau, is turn'd [107] Quaker; and that ſtill greater Libertine, Peter Mottram, Methodiſt: While old Satan, to make up his Loſs in theſe two, has ſubdued Will Wigley, and Tom Allen, who you know uſed to be very hopeful young Fellows, and are now Rakes of the Town. Tony Williams I had like to have forgot. He has cheated all our Expectations, having eſcaped the Gallows, and dy'd a natural Death, after a hundred Rogueries, every one of which deſerved Hanging.

Parſon Matthews goes on preaching and living excellently, and has ſtill as many Admirers as Hearers, but no Preferment: While old clumſy Parſon Dromedary is made a Dean, and has Hopes, by his Siſter's means, who is a Favourite of a certain great Man, to be a Biſhop.

As to News of a publick Nature, the Papers, which no doubt you ſee, in the monthly Colle⯑ctions at leaſt, will inform you beſt of that. By them however you'll find very little Judgment to be form'd of our Affairs or our Miniſters, as to the one being, or the other doing, right or wrong. For while ſome are made as black as Devils on one Side, they are made as white as Angels on the other. They never did one good thing, ſays the Enemy. They never did one bad one, ſays the Friend. For my own part, I think, conſidering the undoubted Truth of the Maxim Humanum eſt errare, and how much eaſier it is to find a Fault than to mend one, the Gentlemen in the Adminiſtration will be well off, if the Publick will middle the Matter between the two Extremes. Mean time one Side goes on, accuſing without Mercy; the other, acquitting without Shame. 'Tis the Buſineſs of one Set of Papers to beſpatter and throw Dirt; and of the other to follow after them, with a Scrubbing-bruſh and a Diſh-clout: And after all—the one bedaubs [108] ſo plentifully, and the other wipes off ſo ſlovenly, that, let me be hang'd, Bob, if I'd appear on 'Change with the Coat on my Back that a cer⯑tain great Man ſtalks about in, without Con⯑cern, when theſe Dawbers and Scowerers have done their worſt and their beſt upon it. But 'tis a great Matter to be uſed to ſuch a Coat. And a great Happineſs, I'll warrant, your Nameſake thinks it, that with all this Rubbing and Scrubbing, it does not appear threadbare yet, after twenty Years Wear, and a hundred People trying to pick Holes in it.

But I have done with my News and my Poli⯑ticks, in which I was ever but a Dabbler; and having written a terrible long Letter, and given you, as it were, the World in Miniature, think it time to cloſe it; which I ſhall do with wiſhing, that now our poiſoning Landlord Kidd is broke and gone, you were among us your old Friends now-and-then, to enliven us with your chearful Pipe, as you uſed to do in the Days of Yore, when we were all alive and merry. And with this hearty Wiſh, I conclude myſelf, dear Bob,

LETTER LXXVII. From a Nephew to his Aunt, on his ſlow Pro⯑greſs in a Courtſhip Affair.

I HAVE made my Addreſſes, in the beſt man⯑ner I can, to Miſs Dawley, but have not the leaſt Room to boaſt of my Succeſs: The Account you gave me of her good Senſe, and many uncom⯑mon Qualifications, will not permit me to arraign [109] her Conduct; and the good Opinion I have long entertained of myſelf, makes me very ſlow in blaming my own. I would have obey'd your Orders to write to you ſooner, but knew not what to ſay; and by waiting till I began to fear you would think me negligent, I am in no better Condition. I firſt declared my Regard for her in a manner I thought moſt ſuitable for that Purpoſe. She very encouragingly made me no Anſwer; and when I ſpoke again upon the Subject, ſhe aſk'd how you did, and was glad to hear you were well. Be⯑ing put out of my Play, I talk'd of indifferent Things a good while, and at laſt fell again upon the Reaſon of my attending her. She order'd the Cloth to be laid, and complaiſantly hoped I would ſtay Sup⯑per. I had no more Opportunity for that time.

Two Days after, I repeated my Viſit. She receiv⯑ed me at firſt politely; but when I began to reſume the Subject I came upon, ſhe rung for the Maid, and bad her put on the Tea-kettle. About ſix Viſits paſſed before I could obtain one Word to my Buſineſs: And the firſt Thing ſhe anſwer'd upon that Head was, That Length of Time was neceſ⯑ſary to the making of an Acquaintance that muſt not be either bluſhed at, or repented of: This ſhe ſpoke with ſuch an Air of Gravity, as put what I would have reply'd, quite out of my Head. Yet next Viſit I began again. I told her how happy I ſhould think myſelf, if I could be encouraged to hope for the ſmalleſt Share of her Favour. But ſhe made me ſuch an odd Anſwer, as plainly demonſtrated to me, that I had more of her Con⯑tempt than Approbation. This made me as earneſt as ſhe, to wave the Subject; and ſo we went on upon the Weather, for a whole Week before; and when we had done that, we talk'd Politicks: And Admiral Vernon, and Lord Cathcart's Expedition, [110] and the like Stuff, took Place. So that, in ſhort, after Two Months Study how to accompliſh the Happineſs you pointed out for me, I find myſelf not one ſingle Step advanced; for when I ſee her now, we both talk with ſeeming Satisfaction, on any Subject where Love has no Part: but when that is introduced, all her eaſy Eloquence ſinks into Reſerve.

I would not determine to give up my Addreſs, be⯑fore I had your farther Advice: In hopes of which I am,

LETTER LXXVIII. The Aunt's Anſwer, encouraging him to perſevere.

I Thought you had been better acquainted with the Art of Love, than to be ſo eaſily out of Heart. That ſuch a Lady as Miſs Dawley has not forbid your Viſits, let me tell you, is Encourage⯑ment as much as you ought to expect. She is a Lady of fine Senſe, and has had the Advantage of as fine an Education; and you muſt not expect a Lady of her Prudence and Merit, will be won by general Compliments; or that her Affection will be moved by the Notion of a ſudden and precipitate Paſ⯑ſion. Her Judgment muſt be firſt touch'd; for ſhe views Marriage as a ſerious Thing: By it her Mo⯑ther was made happy, and her Siſter undone. I in⯑join the Continuation of your Addreſſes; for a more deſerving Lady than Miſs, does not live. And be ſure, at leaſt, to be more ambitious of appearing a Man of Senſe, than a Lover. When the latter is accepted on account of the former, the Lady [111] does Credit to her Choice. You young Fellows have ſuch Notions of a Nine-days Courtſhip, that if it were indulged by all Women, none would, in a ſhort time, be thought obliging, who did not make Modeſty ſubmit to Paſſion, and Diſcretion to Compliment. I deſire to hear from you again a Month hence; and am, in the mean time,

LETTER LXXIX. A Gentleman to a Lady, profeſſing an Averſion to the tedious Forms of Courtſhip.

I Remember that one of the Ancients, in de⯑ſcribing a Youth in Love, ſays he has neither Wiſdom enough to ſpeak, nor to hold his Tongue. If this be a juſt Deſcription, the Sincerity of my Paſſion will admit of no Diſpute: And whenever, in your Company, I behave like a Fool, forget not that you are anſwerable for my Incapacity. Having made bold to declare thus much, I muſt preſume to ſay, that a favourable Reception of this will, I am certain, make me more worthy your Notice; but your Diſdain would be what I believe myſelf incapable ever to ſurmount. To try by idle Fallacies, and airy Compliments, to pre⯑vail on your Judgment, is a Folly for any Man to attempt who knows you. No, Madam, your good Senſe and Endowments have raiſed you far above the Neceſſity of practiſing the mean Artifices which prevail upon the leſs deſerving of your Sex: You are not to be ſo lightly deceived; and if you were, give me leave to ſay, I ſhould not think you [112] deſerving of the Trouble that would attend ſuch an Attempt.

This, I muſt own, is no faſhionable Letter from one who, I am ſure, loves up to the greateſt Hero of Romance: But as I would hope that the Happineſs I ſue for, ſhould be laſting, it is certainly moſt eligible to take no Step to procure it but what will bear Reflection; for I ſhould be happy to ſee you mine, when we have both out-lived the Taſte for every thing that has not Virtue and Reaſon to ſupport it. I am, Madam, notwithſtanding this unpoliſh'd Addreſs,

LETTER LXXX. The Lady's Anſwer, encouraging a farther Declaration.

I AM very little in Love with the faſhionable Methods of Courtſhip: Sincerity with me is preferable to Compliments; yet I ſee no Reaſon why common Decency ſhould be diſcarded. There is ſomething ſo odd in your Style, that when I know whether you are in Jeſt or Earneſt, I ſhall be leſs at a loſs to anſwer you. Mean time, as there is abundant Room for riſing, rather than ſinking, in your Complaiſance, you may poſſibly have choſen wiſely to begin firſt at the lowſt End. If this be the Caſe, I know not what your ſucceeding Addreſſes may produce: But I tell you fairly, that your preſent make no great Impreſſion, yet perhaps as much as you intended, on

LETTER LXXXI. The Gentleman's Reply, more explicitly avow⯑ing his Paſſion.

NOW I have the Hope of being not more deſpiſed for my acknowledg'd Affection, I declare to you, with all the Sincerity of a Man of Honour, that I have long had a moſt ſincere Paſſion for you; but I have ſeen Gentlemen led ſuch Dances, when they have given up their Affections to the lovely Tyrants of their Hearts, and could not help themſelves, that I had no Courage to begin an Addreſs in the uſual Forms, even to you, of whoſe good Senſe and Generoſity I had never⯑theleſs a great Opinion. You have favoured me with a few Lines, which I moſt humbly thank you for. And I do aſſure you, Madam, if you will be pleaſed to encourage my humble Suit, you ſhall have ſo juſt an Account of my Circumſtances and Pretenſions, as I hope will intitle me to your Favour in the honourable Light, in which I profeſs myſelf, dear Madam,

Be ſo good as to favour me with one Line more, to encourage my perſonal Attendance, if not diſagreeable.

LETTER LXXXII. The Lady's Anſwer to his Reply, putting the Matter on a ſudden Iſſue.

AS we are both ſo well inclined to avoid un⯑neceſſary Trouble, as well as unneceſſary Compliments, I think proper to acquaint you, That Mr. Johnſon, of Pallmall, has the Manage⯑ment of all my Affairs; and is a Man of ſuch Pro⯑bity and Honour, that I do nothing in any Matters without him. I have no Diſlike to your Perſon; and if you approve of what Mr. Johnſon can acquaint you with, in relation to me, and I ap⯑prove of his Report in your Favour, I ſhall be far from ſhewing any Gentleman, that I have either an inſolent or a ſordid Spirit, eſpecially to ſuch as do me the Honour of their good Opinion. I am, Sir,

LETTER LXXXIII. A facetious young Lady to her Aunt, ridiculing her ſerious Lover.

I AM much obliged to you for the Kindneſ you intended me, in recommending Mr. Lead⯑beater to me for a Huſband: But I muſt be ſo free as to tell you, he is a Man no way ſuited to my Inclination. I deſpiſe, 'tis true, the idle Rants of Romance; but am inclinable to think there may be an Extreme on the other Side of the Queſtion.

[115] The firſt time the honeſt Man came to ſee me, in the way you was pleaſed to put into his Head, was one Sunday after Sermon time: He began with telling me, what I found at my Fingers-ends; that it was very cold, and politely blow'd upon his. I immediately perceived, that his Paſ⯑ſion for me could not keep him warm; and in Complaiſance to your Recommendation, con⯑ducted him to the Fire-ſide. After he had pret⯑ty well rubbed Heat into his Hands, he ſtood up with his Back to the Fire, and with his Hand behind him, held up his Coat, that he might be warm all over; and looking about him, aſked with the Tranquillity of a Man a Twelve-month mar⯑ried, and juſt come off a Journey, How all Friends did in the Country? I ſaid, I hoped, very well; but would be glad to warm my Fingers. Cry Mercy, Madam!—And then he ſhuffled a little further from the Fire, and after two or three Hems, and a long Pauſe—

I have heard, ſaid he, a moſt excellent Sermon juſt now: Dr. Thomas is a fine Man truly: Did you ever hear him, Madam? No, Sir, I gene⯑rally go to my own Pariſh-Church. That's right, Madam, to be ſure: What was your Sub⯑ject to-day? The Phariſee and the Publican, Sir. A very good one truly; Dr. Thomas would have made fine Work upon that Subject. His Text to⯑day was, Evil Communications corrupt good Man⯑ners. A good Subject, Sir; I doubt not the Doctor made a fine Diſcourſe upon it. O, ay, Madam, he can't make a bad one upon any Subject. I rung for the Tea-kettle; for, thought I, we ſhall have all the Heads of the Sermon immediately.

At Tea he gave me an Account of all the religious Societies, unaſk'd; and how many Boys they had put out 'Prentice, and Girls they had taught to [116] knit and ſing Pſalms. To all which I gave a Nod of Approbation, and was juſt able to ſay, (for I began to be horribly in the Vapours) It was a very excellent Charity. O, ay, Madam, ſaid he again, (for that's his Word, I find) a very excellent one truly; it is ſnatching ſo many Brands out of the Fire. You are a Contributor, Sir, I doubt not. O, ay, Madam, to be ſure; every good Man would contribute to ſuch a worthy Charity, to be ſure. No doubt, Sir, a Bleſſing attends upon all who promote ſo worthy a Deſign. O, ay, Madam, no doubt, as you ſay, I am ſure I have ſound it; bleſſed be God! And then he twang'd his Noſe, and lifted up his Eyes, as if in an Ejaculation.

O, my good Aunt, what a Man is here for a Huſband! At laſt came the happy Moment of his taking Leave; for I would not aſk him to ſtay Supper: and moreover, he talk'd of going to a Lecture at St. Helen's; and then (tho' I had had an Opportunity of ſaying little more than Yes, and No, all the Time; for he took the Vapours he had put me into, for Devotion and Gravity at leaſt, I believe) he preſs'd my Hand look'd frightfully kind, and gave me to underſtand as a Mark of his Favour, that if, upon further Converſation, and Inquiry into my Character, he ſhould happen to like me as well as he did from my Behaviour and Perſon; why, [...]ruly, I need not fear, in time, being bleſſed with him for my Huſband!

This, my good Aunt, may be a mighty ſafe way of travelling toward the Land of Matrimony, as far as I know; but I cannot help wiſhing for a little more Entertainment on our Jour⯑ney. I am willing to believe Mr. Leadbeater an honeſt Man, but am, at the ſame time, afraid his religious Turn of Temper, however in itſelf [117] commendable, would better ſuit with a Woman who centres all Deſert in a ſolemn Appearance, than with, dear Aunt,

LETTER LXXXIV. Her Aunt's Anſwer, reprehending her ludicrous Turn of Mind.

IAM ſorry you think Mr. Leadbeater ſo unſuit⯑able a Lover. He is a ſerious, ſober, good Man; and ſurely when Seriouſneſs and Sobriety make a neceſſary Part of the Duty of a good Huſband, a good Father, and good Maſter of a Family; thoſe Characters ſhould not be the Sub⯑jects of Ridicule, in Perſons of our Sex eſpecially, who would reap the greateſt Advantage from them. But he talks of the Weather when he firſt ſees you, it ſeems; and would you have him directly fall upon the Subject of Love, the Moment he beheld you?

He viſited you juſt after Sermon, on a Sunday: And was it ſo unſuitable for him to let you ſee, that the Duty of the Day had made proper Im⯑preſſions upon him?

His Turn for promoting the Religious Societies which you ſpeak ſo ſlightly of, deſerves more Re⯑gard from every good Perſon; for that ſame Turn is a kind of Security to a Woman, that he who had a benevolent and religious Heart, could not make a bad Man, or a bad Huſband. To put out poor Boys to 'Prentice, to teach Girls to ſing Pſalms, would be with very few a Subject for Ridicule; for he that was ſo willing to provide for [118] the Children of others, would take ſtill greater Care of his own.

He gave you to underſtand, that if he liked your Character on Inquiry, as well as your Perſon and Behaviour, he ſhould think himſelf very happy in ſuch a Wife; for that, I dare ſay, was more like his Language, than that you put in his Mouth: And, let me tell you, it would have been a much ſtranger Speech, had ſo cautious and ſerious a Man ſaid, without a thorough Knowledge of your Cha⯑racter, that at the firſt Sight he was over Head and Ears in Love with you.

I think, allowing for the ridiculous Turn your airy Wit gives to this his firſt Viſit, that, by your own Account, he acted like a prudent, a ſerious, and a worthy Man, as he is, and as one that thought flaſhy Compliments beneath him, in ſo ſerious an Affair as this.

I think, Couſin Jenny, this is not only a mighty ſafe Way, as you call it, of travelling toward the Land of Matrimony, but to the Land of Happineſs, with reſpect as well to the next World as this. And it is to be hoped, that the better Entertainment you ſo much wiſh for, on your Journey, may not lead you too much out of your Way, and divert your Mind from the principal View which you ought to have to your Journey's End.

In ſhort, I could rather have wiſh'd, that you could bring your Mind nearer to his Standard, than that he ſhould bring down his to your Level. And you'd have found more Satisfaction in it than you imagine, could you have brought yourſelf to a little more of that ſolemn Appearance, which you treat ſo lightly, and which, I think, in him, is much more than mere Appearance.

Upon the whole, Couſin Jenny, I am ſorry that a Woman of Virtue and Morals, as you are, [119] ſhould treat ſo ludicrouſly a ſerious and pious Frame of Mind, in an Age, wherein good Examples are ſo rare, and ſo much wanted; tho' at the ſame time I am far from offering to preſcribe to you in ſo arduous an Affair as a Huſband; and wiſh you and Mr. Leadbeater too, ſince you are ſo differently diſpoſed, matched more ſuitably to each other's Mind, than you are likely to be together: For I am

LETTER LXXXV. From a Gentleman to his Miſtreſs, reſenting her ſuppoſed Coquetry.

BEAUTY has Charms which are not caſily reſiſted; but it is, I preſume, in the Power of the fineſt Woman breathing, to counter-balance all her Charms by a Conduct unworthy of them. This Manner of ſpeaking, Madam, is what I am apprehenſive you have not been enough uſed to: The Advantages you poſſeſs, independently of any Act of your own, cannot be any Warrant for a Behaviour repugnant to Honour, and ſtrict good Manners. I ventured to addreſs myſelf to you, Madam, upon Motives truly honourable, and beſt to be defended; but ſuffer me to ſay, that I never propoſed to glory in adding one to the Number of your publick Admirers, or to be ſo tame, as to ſubject myſelf to any Uſage. And if this be your Intention, and this only, I ſhall ſtill admire you; but muſt leave the flattering of your Vanity to Gentlemen who have more Leiſure, and leſs Since⯑rity, than, Madam,

LETTER LXXXVI. The Lady's angry Anſwer.

BY the Letter I juſt now received from you, I fanſy you have been a little too haſty, as well at too free, in your Conjectures about my Con⯑duct. I hope it is ſuch, and will be always ſuch, as ſhall juſtify me to Perſons of Honour of my own Sex, as well as yours. You have ſurely, Sir, a Right to act as you pleaſe; and (at preſent, how⯑ever) ſo have I. How long I ſhould have this Liberty, were I at your Mercy, this Letter of yours gives me a moſt deſirable and ſeaſonable Intimation.

For Goodneſs ſake, Sir, let me do as I think proper: I ſee, you will. I ſent not for you, nor aſked you to be one of the Number you mention. And, if you think fit to withdraw your Name from the Liſt, can I help it, if I would ever ſo fain? But could you not do this without reſolving to affront me, and to reflect on my Conduct? I am unworthy of your Addreſs. I grant it—Then you can forbear it. Perhaps I like to ſee the young Fellows dying for me; but ſince they can do it without impairing their Health, don't be ſo very angry at me. In ſhort, Sir, you are your own Maſter; and, Heaven be thank'd, I am, at preſent, my own Miſtreſs; and your well-man⯑ner'd Letter will make me reſolve to be ſo longer than perhaps I had otherwiſe reſolved. You ſee my Follies in my Conduct. Thank you, Sir, for letting me know you do. I ſee your Sex in your Letter. Thank you, Sir, for that too. So being [121] thus much obliged to you, in a double reſpect, can I do otherwiſe than ſubſcribe myſelf,

LETTER LXXXVII. The Gentleman's ſubmiſſive Reply.

I BEG ten thouſand Pardons for my raſh Letter to you. I wiſh'd, too late, I could have re⯑call'd it. And when I had the Favour of yours, I was under double Concern. But indeed, Madam, you treated me, I thought, too lightly; and Con⯑tempt is intolerable where a Mind is ſo ſincerely devoted. I never ſaw a Lady I could love before I ſaw you. I never ſhall ſee another I wiſh to be mine; and as I muſt love you whether I will or no, I hope you'll forgive my fooliſh Petulance. I am ſure it was inſpired by Motives, that, how⯑ever culpable in their Effects, are intitled to your Forgiveneſs, as to the Cauſe. I cannot meanly ſue, tho' to you. Don't let me undergo too heavy a Penance for my Raſhneſs. You can mould me to any Form you pleaſe. But, dear Lady, let not my honeſt Heart ſuffer the more Torture, becauſe it is ſo devotedly at your Service. Once again, I aſk a thou⯑ſand Pardons.—What can I ſay more?—I own I am haſty; but 'tis moſt when I think myſelf ſlighted, or uſed contemptuouſly, by thoſe I love. Such Tempers, Madam, are not the worſt, let me tell you. And tho' I may be too ready to offend, yet am I always as ready to repent. And, dear, good Madam, let me be receiv'd to Favour this once, and I will be more cautious for the future. For [122] I am, and ever muſt be, whether you'll allow it or not,

LETTER LXXXVIII. The Lady's forgiving Return.

I Cannot help anſwering your Letter, becauſe you ſeem ſenſible of your Fault. If your Temper is ſo captious, your Guard againſt it ſhould be the ſtronger. It is no very comfortable View, let me tell you, that one ſees a Perſon who wants to recommend himſelf to one's Friendſhip, ſo ready to take Fire. What has a Woman to do in com⯑mon Diſcretion, but to avoid, while ſhe can, a Proſpect ſo unpleaſing? For if ſhe knows ſhe can⯑not bear diſreputable Imputations, as indeed ſhe ought not, and that the Gentleman is not able to contain himſelf whenever he is pleaſed to be moved, from giving them; why this, truly, affords a moſt comfortable Appearance of a happy Life! However, Sir, I cannot bear Malice for a firſt Fault, tho' yet it looks like a Temper, even in a Friend, that one would rather fear than love. But if it be never repeated, at leaſt till I give ſuch Reaſons for it, that neither Charity, nor a profeſſed Eſteem, can excuſe, I ſhall hope, that what has happen'd may rather be of good than bad Uſe to us both. But indeed I muſt ſay, that if you cannot avoid ſuch diſagreeable Inſtances of your Senſibility, it will be Juſtice to both, now we are both free, to think no more of

LETTER LXXXIX. Ridiculing a romantick Rhapſody in Courtſhip.

MY Niece deſires me to acquaint you, that ſhe received your celeſtial Epiſtle laſt Night, as we were all ſitting down to Supper; and ſhe leaves it to me to anſwer it, according to the Effects it has produced. You muſt know then, that as ſoon as ſhe had read it, there appear'd a more marvellous Metamorphoſis in her Deportment, than any we read of in Ovid. She put on high Airs, and talk'd in a lofty Strain to Us, as well as to the Maids; nor knew ſhe how to behave all the reſt of the Evening.—You had ſo thoroughly proved her ſuperior to all the Deities of the Antients, that ſhe could not help fanſying the homely Viands that ſtood before her, a Banquet of Paradiſe; and when ſhe put to her Lips ſome of our common Table⯑drink, it became immediately, in her Fancy, Nectar and Ambroſia; and ſhe affected to ſip, rather than drink. When, by your generous Aid, ſhe had thus raiſed herſelf far above Mortality, ſhe began to deſpiſe our Company, and thought her Grandmother and me too highly favoured by her Preſence; and ſpoke to us in ſuch a Tone, as made us honeſt Mortals amaz'd at her ſudden Elevation.

In ſhort, Sir, as ſhe has placed ſuch a thorough Confidence in you, as to believe whatever you are pleaſed to tell her, ſhe begs you will never ſo far mortify her towering Ambition, as to treat her like any thing earthly.

If then you would make yourſelf worthy of her Favour, you muſt, in order to ſupport the De⯑ſcription [124] you have given of her, at leaſt dart through the Clouds, or riſe with the Morning-Goddeſs, and attend, in her airy Chariot, at her Chamber-window, where, you ſay, all the Graces wait; ſo that you will not be diſpleaſed with your Company.

Indeed ſhe is under a Concern, which you muſt ſupply, for what Kind of Birds you will find to draw her Chariot; for Doves and Peacocks ſhe would ſcorn to borrow of Venus and Juno, whom you make ſo much her Inferiors.

Here ſhe put on a Royal Air: We will con⯑clude Our own Letter Ourſelf, ſaid ſhe; ſo, taking Pen in Hand, ſhe writes as underneath.

Don't let me, when the Car is quite in Readi⯑neſs, be rudely diſturbed: But tell Mercury, I would have him tap ſoftly at my Window. I will riſe in all my Glory, whip into my ſtarry Calaſh, and ruſh through the Regions of Light, till, de⯑ſpiſing Mortality, we ſhall form ſome new Con⯑ſtellation, which ſome happy Aſtrologer may, per⯑haps, in Honour of us both, ſtyle the Twinklers of Moorfields. When I have choſen my new Name, I will deign to write it; till when, I can only ſtyle myſelf, moſt obliging Sir,

LETTER XC. Againſt a young Lady's affecting manly Airs; and alſo cenſuring the modern Riding-habits.

THE Improvement that is viſible in your Per⯑ſon, ſince your going to Bury, gives me much Pleaſure; and the dawning of fine Senſe, and a [125] good Judgment, that diſcovers itſelf in your Con⯑verſation, makes me hope to ſee every Perfection of my Siſter, your late excellent Mother, revived in you.

Yet one thing the Duty of a tender Uncle obliges me to blame in you; and that is, a certain Affectation that of late obtains in your Behaviour, of imitating the Manners of the other Sex, and appearing more maſculine than either the amiable Softneſs of your Perſon or Sex can juſtify.

I have been particularly offended, let me tell you, my Dear, at your new Riding-habit; which is made ſo extravagantly in the Mode, that one cannot eaſily diſtinguiſh your Sex by it. For you neither look like a modeſt Girl in it, nor an agree⯑able Boy.

Some Conformity to the Faſhion is allowable. But a cock'd Hat, a lac'd Jacket, a Fop's Peruke, what ſtrange Metamorphoſes do they make! And then the Air aſſumed with them, ſo pert, and ſo inſipid, at the ſame time, makes, upon the whole, ſuch a Boy-girl Figure, that I know of nothing that would become either the Air, or the Dreſs, but a young Italian Singer. For ſuch an one, being neither Man nor Woman, would poſſibly be beſt diſtinguiſhed by this Hermaphrodite Ap⯑pearance.

In ſhort, I would have you remember, my Dear, that as ſure as any thing intrepid, free, and in a pru⯑dent Degree bold, becomes a Man; ſo whatever is ſoft, tender, and modeſt, renders your Sex amiable. In this one Inſtance we do not prefer our own Likeneſs; and the leſs you reſemble us, the more you are ſure to charm: For a maſculine Woman is a Character as little creditable as becoming.

I am no Enemy to a proper Preſence of Mind in Company; but would never have you appear [126] bold, talkative, or aſſured. Modeſty in the outward Behaviour, is a ſtrong Prepoſſeſſion in a Lady's Favour; and, without it, all your Perfections will be of little Service, either as to Reputation or Preferment. You want not Senſe: and, I hope, will take kindly theſe well-intended Hints from

LETTER XCI. Letter of a Father to a Daughter, relating to Three Perſons of different Characters pro⯑poſed to him, each for her Huſband. With his Recommendation of one in Years.

I HAVE three ſeveral Propoſals made me on your Account; and they are ſo particularly circumſtanced, that I cannot approve of one of them.

The firſt is by Mr. Aldridge, for his Son John, who, you know, is very weak in his Intellects, and ſo apt to be miſled, that he wants a Guardian for him in a Wife, and ſo does you the Reputation to think you a proper Perſon for that Office. But I think, the worſt Weakneſs in the World in a Huſband is, that of Intellect; and I ſhould ſuffer much to have you linked to a Man who has no Head, and is, for that Reaſon, highly unworthy to be yours. A fooliſh Wife is much more tolera⯑ble, becauſe ſhe can be kept up; but a fooliſh Huſ⯑band will do what he pleaſes, and go where he pleaſes; and tho' he knew nothing elſe, will think he knows too much to be controuled by his Wife; and will have this Leſſon taught him by Rakes and [127] Libertines, when he is capable of no other. So I did not think it neceſſary ſo much as to conſult you about him.

The ſecond is from Mr. Gough, for his Son Richard, who has run thro' ſuch a Courſe of Libertiniſm, that he has hardly his Fellow, and has neither a ſound Head, nor a ſound Body; and is ſo far from being reclaim'd, that his Father propoſes a Wife, as the laſt Hope, for him; and yet knows not whether he will accept of one, if one can be found that would venture upon him. So I could not think of ſuffering my Daughter to ſtand either to the Courteſy, or lie at the Mercy, of ſo profligate a Rake: tho', it ſeems, he vouch⯑ſafes to like you better, as his Father ſays, than any one he ever ſaw; which was the Reaſon of the old Man's Application to me.

The third was from Mr. Tomkins, whoſe Nephew is as bad a Sot, as the other is a Rake; but who promiſes to reform, if his Uncle can procure my Conſent and yours. But as you had refuſed his Overtures when made to yourſelf, without con⯑ſulting me, and for the very Reaſons I ſhould have rejected him, I would not trouble you about him; but gave a total Denial to the Requeſt of his Uncle, who deſired that the Matter might be brought on again, by my Authority and Interpoſition.

So, my good Girl has had hard Fortune, as one may ſay, in the Offers of three Perſons, that it is impoſſible ſhe ſhould chuſe out of: One ſo very a Fool, a ſecond ſo profligate a Rake, and the third ſo vile a Sot, that there could be no Thought of any of the Three.

But I have a fourth Affair to mention to you, againſt which there can lie but one Objection; and that is, ſome Diſparity in Years. This is my good Friend Mr. Rowe; as honeſt a Man as ever [128] liv'd; a Man of Prudence; a Man of good For⯑tune, and eaſy Circumſtance; Maſter of a genteel Houſe and Buſineſs; well reſpected by all the World, and moſt by thoſe who know him beſt; a good-natur'd Man, humane, compaſſionate, and, tho' frugal, not a Niggard.

Now, my dear Daughter, What think you of Mr. Rowe?—He has an high Opinion of your Prudence and Diſcretion; but wiſhes himſelf, that you were either Ten Years older, or he Ten Years younger.—Yet he thinks, if you can get over that Point, he could make you one of the fondeſt of Huſbands, and that there is not any thing but he could and would oblige you in.

I too, my Dear, wiſh there was a nearer Agree⯑ment in Years; yet, conſidering the Hazards a young Woman runs, as the World goes, from Rakes, Sots, and Fools, of every Degree; conſidering that in this Matter, there is but one only thing to be wiſh'd for; and that all the grand Deſirables of Life will be ſo well ſupply'd; conſidering too that he is a ſightly, a neat, a perſonable Man, and has good Health, good Spirits, and good Humour, and is not yet got quite at the Top of the Hill of Life. Conſidering all theſe Things, I ſay, I think that one Conſideration might be given up for the many other more material ones, which would be ſo well ſupply'd in this Match.

Say, my dear Daughter, ſay freely, what you think. You'll much oblige me, if you can get this Matter over. But if you cannot, (and be ſo happy as I wiſh you)—why then—I don't know what to ſay—But I muſt—I think—acquieſce. But yet, I could once more wiſh—But I will ſay no more till I have your Anſwer, but that I am

LETTER XCII. Her Anſwer, dutifully expoſtulating on the Caſe.

I AM ſenſible of the Obligations which both Na⯑ture and Gratitude lay me under to obey your Commands; and am willing to do ſo at all Events, if what I have to offer be not thought ſufficient to excuſe my Compliance.

Mr. Rowe is, I believe, poſſeſſed of all the Merit you aſcribe to him. But be not diſpleaſed, dear Sir, when I ſay, that he ſeems not ſo proper an Huſband for me, as for a Woman of more Years and Experience.

His advanced Years, give me leave to ſay, will be far from being agreeable to me; and will not my Youth, or at leaſt the Effects of it, in ſome Particulars, be diſtaſteful to him? Will not that innocent Levity, which is almoſt inſeparable from my Time of Life, appear to him in a more de⯑ſpiſable Light, than perhaps it deſerves? For, Sir, is not a Likeneſs of Years attended with a Likeneſs of Manners, a Likeneſs of Humours, an Agreement in Diverſions and Pleaſures, and Think⯑ing too? And can ſuch Likeneſſes, ſuch Agree⯑ments, be naturally expected, where the Years on one Side double the Number of the other? Be⯑ſides, Sir, is not this Defect, if I may ſo call it, a Defect that will be far from mending by Time?

Your great Goodneſs, and the Tenderneſs I have always experienc'd from you, have embolden'd me to ſpeak thus freely upon a Concern that is of the higheſt Importance to my future Welfare, [130] which I know you have in View from more ſolid Motives than I am capable of entertaining. And if you ſtill inſiſt upon my Obedience, I will only take the Liberty to obſerve, that if I do marry Mr. Rowe, it will be intirely the Effect of my Duty to the beſt of Fathers, and not of an Affection for a Gentleman that I reſpect in every other Light but that you propoſe him in. And dear, good Sir, conſider then, what Miſunderſtandings and evil Conſequences may poſſibly ariſe from hence, and render unhappy the future Life of

I am greatly obliged to you, Sir, that you refuſed, without conſulting me, the three ſtrange Overtures you mention.

LETTER XCIII. His Reply, urgently inforcing, but not compell⯑ing, her Compliance with his Deſire.

I AM far from taking amiſs what you have writ⯑ten, in Anſwer to my Recommendation of my worthy Friend Mr. Rowe; and I am ſure, if I was to ſhew him your Letter, he would never permit you to be urged more on this Head. But, my Dear, I own my Wiſhes and my Heart are engaged in his, ſhall I ſay, or in your own Favour? And I would hope, that notwithſtanding all you have written, your good Senſe, and that Diſcretion for which you have been hitherto ſo deſervedly noted, may, on ma⯑ture Reflection, enable you to overcome the Ob⯑jection that would be inſuperable to lighter and airier Minds of your Sex.

[131] Such is the Profligateneſs of the Generality of young Fellows of the preſent Age, that I own I look into the World with Affrightment, at the Riſques which a virtuous young Woman has to encounter with on a Change of Condition, which makes me dwell upon the Point with the greater Earneſt⯑neſs. And you know, my Dear, I can have no Motive but your Good.

Then, Child, conſider the Reputation this Match, to all who know Mr. Rowe's Worth, will bring to your Prudence, and even to your Sex. For it is as much Credit to a young Lady to marry a worthy Man, older than herſelf, as it is Diſcredit for an old Woman to marry a young Man. Does my Polly take my Meaning? The Caſe is plain. Beſides, no-body thinks Ten or Twelve Years Difference in a Man's Age any thing out of the way. So, my Dear, it is not Twenty Years Odds; it is only Ten at moſt.

Then, again, he is a good-natur'd Man; there's a great deal in that, you know.

To be ſure, my Dear, it is my good Opinion of your Prudence, that makes me endeavour to per⯑ſuade you to this. And I could be glad, methinks, to find, that I have not too high a Notion of your Diſcretion, in the Preference I am willing to give it to that of all the young Ladies I know.

But if I am miſtaken, I mean, if you cannot get over this one Difficulty, I ſhall be apt to think, ſo ſurmountable does it ſeem to me, that you have ſeen ſomebody you like, and are prepoſſeſs'd. Yet I cannot believe that neither, becauſe you know I have ſo tender a Regard for your own Option, that you would have made me acquainted with it.

Yet, after all, far be it from me to compel your Inclinations! But if you ſhould be ſo happy as to [132] think with me, that the many valuable Qualitics Mr. Rowe is poſſeſſed of, are ſcarcely to be hoped for in a younger Man, as the World now goes, you would make me very happy; and I am per⯑ſuaded you will never repent your Choice.

One thing more let me urge, my Dear; for you ſee how my Heart's upon it. How many very virtuous young Maidens have married, for the ſake of Riches only, a Man much older, much more diſagreeable, waſpiſh, humourſome, diſeaſed, decrepit, and yet have lived Years without Re⯑proach, and made themſelves not unhappy! And will not my dear Daughter do as much to oblige her Father, (and where Health, Good-nature, Wiſdom, Diſcretion, and great Circumſtances meet to enforce the Argument) as others would do, where not one of theſe Advantages are in the Caſe, except the ſingle Article of Riches? Only then, my Dear, let Mr. Rowe attend you, two or three times, before you abſolutely ſet yourſelf againſt him. And, as I hope your Affections are intirely diſengaged, you will ſoon ſee whether his Converſation or Propoſals will not incline you in his Favour, conſidering all things; that is to ſay, conſidering the one thing AGAINST him, and the many FOR him. And if it cannot be, I will intirely acquieſce, being ever ſtudious of your Happineſs, as becomes

LETTER XCIV. To a rich Widow Lady with Children, diſ⯑ſuading her from marrying a Widower of meaner Degree, who has Children alſo.

IT is with ſome Reluctance, and great Reſpect, that I prevail on myſelf to give you this Trouble. The frequent Viſits Mr. Clarkſon makes you, and the Airs that Gentleman gives himſelf, have given Birth to a Report, that a Treaty of Marriage be⯑tween you is on foot; and that, in all Probability, it will be ſoon brought to Effect.

To be ſure, Mr. Clarkſon is not to be blam'd, to endeavour to procure for his Wife a Lady of your Prudence, good Character, and Fortune; but whe⯑ther you will be able to avoid the Cenſure of the World, if you chuſe him for a Huſband, is another Point, which greatly concerns you to conſider of, and affects me, and all who wiſh you well.

His Fortune, Madam, is not equal to yours, ſuppoſing it to be better than the World reports it: He has Children: So have you. What Inconvenien⯑cies may not ariſe from hence? Eſpecially, as he is not thought to be one of the beſt and ſmootheſt⯑temper'd Men in the World.—His Character is not equal in any reſpect, to ſay the leaſt, (for I would not detract from any Man's Merit) to that of your late good Spouſe, my dear Friend; who would have been much grieved, if he had had but the leaſt Apprehenſion, that the Man he would not have accompany'd with, ſhould ſucceed him in his Bed.

Far be it from me, dear Madam, if you are ſo diſpoſed, as to wiſh to hinder you from a Change [134] of Condition with a ſuitable Perſon! But as your late Spouſe left his and your Children ſo much in your Power, methinks you ſhould take eſpecial Care, how and to whom you communicate any Part of that Power, and thereby give a Right to controul not only them, but yourſelf. Muſt he not be par⯑tial to his own Children? And will he not expect, that your Complaiſance to him ſhould make you ſo too; or, at leaſt, be his Childrens Behaviour what it will, that it ſhall induce you to put them upon a Par with your own? His Daughters will be Spies upon your Conduct, and, be you ever ſo kind to them, will always ſuſpect your Partiality to your own, and treat you as their Mother-in-law; and their Father will believe all they ſhall ſuggeſt, for that very Reaſon, and becauſe he will judge, tho' perhaps not allow for, that you ought to pre⯑fer your own to his: And this will be the Source of perpetual Uneaſineſſes between you. Conſider, dear Madam, whether your late affectionate Spouſe de⯑ſerved from you, that his Children and your own ſhould be put upon ſuch Difficulties, in Favour of thoſe of any other Perſon whatever.

No doubt but you may make your own Condi⯑tions with Mr. Clarkſon. He will be glad to call you and your Fortune his, upon any Terms: But con⯑ſider, Madam, how difficult it may be, whatever Articles you make, for a good Wife, who has been accuſtom'd to think her Intereſt the ſame with that of her Huſband, to refuſe to his Importunities, and perhaps to his Conveniency, if not Neceſſities, thoſe Communications of Fortune which you may re⯑ſerve in your own Power, when they will make him eaſier in Circumſtance, and more complaiſant in Temper: And how hard it will be to deny a Man any thing, to whom you have given your Per⯑ſon, and to whom you have vowed Duty and Obe⯑dience. [135] But if you ſhould have the Reſolution to refuſe him, what he may not be backward to aſk, do you think yourſelf ſo well able to bear that In⯑difference, if not worſe, which ſuch a Refuſal may occaſion? And would you chuſe to have Advantage taken of your tendereſt Hours, either to induce you to acquieſce with Importunities, which, comply'd with, may hurt your Children; or, to have thoſe tender Moments daſh'd with Suſpicions of Selfiſh⯑neſs and Deſign; for Prudence will oblige you to be on your Guard, that even the higheſt Acts of Kindneſs, and the ſtrongeſt Profeſſions of Affe⯑ction, may not be preparative Arts to obtain from you Conceſſions you ought not to make. And how will the pure Joys which flow from an unſuſpected Union of Minds and Intereſts, the Want whereof will make any Matrimony unhappy, be found in a State thus circumſtantiated?

If, Madam, you are bent upon a Change of Con⯑dition, your Friends would wiſh firſt, that you will be pleaſed abſolutely to aſcertain the Fortunes of your Children, according to the Deſign and Will of their dear Father, as far as may legally be done, either by chuſing Truſtees for them, or by ſuch other way as ſhall put it out of a new Huſband's Power to hurt them: And when he ſhall know this is done, you will have a better Teſtimony of his Affection, as he will know what is, and what is not yours, and can hope for no more, becauſe it is not in your Power to give more. But how much more is it to be wiſhed, for your own ſake, as well as your Chil⯑drens, that if you do change, it may be with a Perſon who has no Children? And then what other Children may be the Reſults of your new Marriage, they will be your own as well as his, and ſo be more properly intitled to your Care and your Kindneſs, than any Man's Children by another Wife can be.

[136] By this means, Madam, moſt of the Uneaſineſſes we every Day ſee in Families, where are two Sorts of Children, will be prevented; or perhaps your preſent Children will be grown up, and out of the way, before the other can interfere eſſentially with them; or if not, they will be naturalized, as one may ſay, to each other; and having the ſame Mother, who has an equal Intereſt in them all, will expect and allow for an equal Exertion of Tenderneſs and Favour to all.

I will trouble you with no more at preſent on this Head; and am confident, that when you conſider maturely what I have written, and the reſpectful Manner in which I have ventur'd to give my Opi⯑nion, and my own Diſintereſtedneſs beſides, and that I might ſtill have urged other powerful Motives, which I forbear in Honour to you, you will have the Goodneſs to excuſe the Liberty I have taken, which is ſo ſuitable to the Laws of Friendſhip, by which I am bound to be, dear Madam,

LETTER XCV.

I INCLOSE the Letter you put into my Hands, and hope it will be the laſt I ſhall ever receive from you or any body elſe on the like Occaſion. I am intirely ſatisfied in the Care and Kindneſs of my Guardian, and ſhall encourage no Propoſal of this ſort, but what comes recommended to me by his Approbation. He knows the World. I do not; and that which is not fit for him to know, is not fit for me to receive; and I am ſorry either you or the Writer looks upon me in ſo weak a Light, as to imagine I would wiſh to take myſelf out of the Hands of ſo experienced a Friend, to throw myſelf into thoſe of a Stranger. Yet I would not, as this is the firſt Attempt of the kind from you, and that it may rather be the Effect of Inconſideration, than Deſign, ſhew it my Guardian; becauſe he would not perhaps impute it to ſo favourable a Mo⯑tive in you, as I am willing to do, being

LETTER XCVI.

YOU have thought fit to write to Miſs Knollys twice or thrice in a very troubleſome manner. She cannot poſſibly ſo far forget what belongs to Herſelf and Character, as to anſwer you any other way than by the Contempt of Silence. Yet ſince ſhe cannot, it ſeems, be free from your Imperti⯑nence, ſhe wiſhes you may be told, That you muſt have as mean an Opinion of her Judgment, as all who read your Epiſtles, muſt have of yours, if you can expect Succeſs from ſuch inconſiſtent Rhap⯑ſodies.

[143] I will from myſelf venture to give you one Piece of Advice; That the next Perſon you pretend to addreſs with your bright Compoſitions, you don't in them forget one Ingredient, which is common Senſe; tho' you ſhould be forced to borrow it. I am

LETTER XCVII.

YOU are deſired to ſend no more of your ela⯑borate Epiſtles to Miſs Knollys. You are quite miſtaken in the Lady. She knows herſelf, and by your Letter ſhe knows you, ſo well, that ſhe ſends it back, that you may find ſome other Perſon to ſend it to, whoſe Sentiments and Underſtanding are better proportion'd to your own. I am, Sir, &c.

LETTER XCVIII.

I AM deſir'd to acquaint you, that Miſs Knollys thinks herſelf obliged to every one who has a good Opinion of her; but begs, that you will not [...]ve yourſelf, or her, the Trouble of any more [...]etters. For Things are ſo circumſtanced, that [144] ſhe has neither Inclination nor Power to encourage your Addreſs. I am, Sir,

LETTER XCIX.

MISS Knollys deſires you ſhould be informed, which ſhe preſumes you did not know, That ſhe can never think herſelf at her own Diſpoſal, while ſhe has ſo near and ſo good a Friend to ad⯑viſe with as Mr. Archer, whoſe Wiſdom ſhe much prefers to her own, as his Experience in the World, and Kindneſs to her, make him deſerve to be con⯑ſulted, in all her Affairs of Moment. Whatever ſhall appear fit to him, will have great Weight with her; and there is but that one poſſible way to en⯑gage her Attention. I am, Sir,

LETTER C.

IT may not be amiſs to acquaint you, that Miſs Knollys is ſo happy as to have a Friend of Ex⯑perience and Probity, without whoſe Advice ſhe [145] undertakes nothing of Conſequence. It is Mr. Salter, of Grace-church-ſtreet. And ſhe will not care to admit of any Propoſal of Moment to her that has not paſſed his Approbation. This, ſhe hopes, will ſave her and yourſelf the Trouble of any fur⯑ther Applications. I am

LETTER CI.

MR. Salter, of Grace-church-ſtreet, being a Gen⯑tleman that Miſs Knollys conſults in all her Affairs, ſhe refers to him all Propoſals that are or may be of Importance to her, and deſires to receive no more Letters or Meſſages from you, by any other Hand. I am

LETTER CII. From a Town-Tenant to his Landlord, excuſing Delay of Payment.

I AM under a great Concern, that I cannot at pre⯑ſent anſwer your juſt Expectations. I have ſuſtain⯑ed ſuch heavy Loſſes, and met with ſuch great Diſ⯑appointments of late, that I muſt intrude another Quarter on your Goodneſs. Then, whatever Shifts I am put to, you ſhall hear to more Satisfaction than at preſent, from, Sir,

LETTER CIII. From a Country Tenant to the ſame Purpoſe.

THE Seaſon has been ſo bad, and I have had ſuch unhappy Accidents to encounter with in a ſick Family, Loſs of Cattle, &c. that I am ob⯑liged to treſpaſs upon your Patience a Month or two longer. The Wheat-harveſt, I hope, will furniſh me the Means to anſwer your juſt Expectations; which will be a great Contentment to

LETTER CIV. The Landlord's Anſwer.

I HAVE yours: I hope you'll be as good as your Word at the Expiration of the Time you have mentioned. I am unwilling to diſtreſs any honeſt Man; and I hope, that I ſhall not meet with the worſe Uſage for my Forbearance. For Lenity abuſed, even in generous Tempers, provokes Re⯑turns, that ſome People would call ſevere; but ſhould not be deemed ſuch, if juſt. I am

LETTER CV. A threatening Letter from a Steward on Delay of Payment.

I HAVE mentioned your Caſe to Sir John, as you requeſted. He is exceedingly provoked at your Uſage, and ſwears bloodily he'll ſeize, and throw you into Gaol, if he has not 20 l. at leaſt paid him by Quarter-day, which is now at hand; ſo you know what you have to truſt to; and I would have you avoid the Conſequences at any rate; for he is reſolved otherwiſe to do as he ſays. Of this I aſſure you, who am

LETTER CVI. The poor Tenant's moving Anſwer.

I AM at my Wits end almoſt on what you write. But if I am to be ruined, with my nume⯑rous Family, and a poor induſtrious, but ailing Wife, how can I help it? For I cannot poſſibly raiſe 20 l. any manner of way by the Time you mention. I hope Sir John won't be ſo hard⯑hearted. For if God Almighty, our common Land⯑lord, ſhould be equally hard upon us, what would become of us all? Forgive my Boldneſs to talk of God Almighty to his Honour, in this free manner.

I would do it, if it was to be done; but you know, Sir, what a Seaſon we have had. And an honeſter Tenant his Honour will never have, that I am ſure of. But if Money won't riſe, what can I do? [148] Should I ſell my Team, and my Utenſils for Labour, there is an End of all. I ſhall have no Means left me then wherewith to pay his Honour, or any body elſe. If his Honour will not be moved, but will ſeize, pray, good Mr. Taverner, prevail on him not to throw me into Gaol, for a Priſon pays no Debts; but let my poor Wife and Six ſmall Children lie in the Barn, till I can get a little Day-labour; for that muſt be all I can have to truſt to, if his Honour ſeizes. I hear my Man William that was, has juſt taken a Farm; may be, he will employ his poor ruin'd Maſter, if I am not priſon'd. But if I be, why then the Pariſh muſt do ſomething for my poor Children, tho' I hoped they would never trouble it. Lay theſe things be⯑fore his Honour, good Sir, and forgive this Trouble from

LETTER CVII. The Steward's Reply, giving more Time.

I HAVE laid your Letter and your Caſe before Sir John: He is moved with it, and ſays he will have Patience another Quarter, to ſee what you'll do. Conſider, Man, however, that Gen⯑tlemen live at a great Expence, are obliged to keep up their Port, and if their Tenants fail them, why then they muſt fail their Tradeſmen, and ſuffer in their Credit. You have good Crops of all Kinds on the Ground; and ſurely may by next Quarter raiſe 40 or 50l. tho' you could not raiſe 20l. in a Fortnight. This Sir John will expect at leaſt, I [149] can tell you. And you may comply with it from the Produce of ſo good a Farm, ſurely. I am

LETTER CVIII. The poor Man's thankful Letter in Return.

GOD bleſs his Honour, and God bleſs you, Mr. Taverner, that's all I can ſay. We will now ſet our Hands to the Plough, as the Saying is, with chearful Hearts, and try what can be done. I am ſure, I, and my Wife and Children too, tho' three of them can but liſp their Prayers, ſhall Morning, Noon and Night, pray to God for his Honour's Health and Proſperity, as well as for you and yours; and to enable me to be juſt to his Expectations. I'm ſure it would be the Pride of my Heart to pay every body, his Honour eſpecially. I have not run be⯑hind-hand for want of Induſtry; that all my Neigh⯑bours know; but Loſſes and Sickneſs I could not help; and nobody could live more frugal and ſparing than both my Wife and I. Indeed we have hardly allowed ourſelves Cloaths to our Backs, nor for our Children neither, tight, and clean, and wholſome as they may appear to thoſe who ſee them: And we will continue to live ſo low as may only keep us in Heart to do our Labour, until we are got before-hand; which God grant. But all this, I told you before, Mr. Taverner; and ſo will ſay no more, but I will do all I can, and God give a Bleſſing to my Labours, as I mean honeſtly. So no more, but that I am, Sir,

LETTER CIX. An Offer of Aſſiſtance to a Friend who has received great Loſſes by a Perſon's Failure.

I AM exceedingly concerned at the great Loſs which you have lately ſuſtained, by the Failure of Mr. Tranter. I hope you behave under it like the Man of Prudence you have always ſhewn your⯑ſelf, and as one who knows how liable all Men are to Misfortunes. I think it incumbent on this Oc⯑caſion, not to conſole you by Words only; but in the Spirit, and with the Chearfulneſs, of a moſt ſincere Friend, to offer my Service to anſwer any preſent Demand, ſo far as 200 l. goes, which you ſhall have the Uſe of freely for a Twelve-month, or more, if your Affairs require it; and will even ſtrain a Point rather than not oblige you, if more be neceſſary to your preſent Situation. You'll do me great Pleaſure in accepting this Offer, as freely as it is kindly meant, by, dear Sir,

LETTER CX. The Friend's Anſwer, accepting the kind Offer.

HOW ſhall I find Words to expreſs the grateful Senſe I have of your Goodneſs? This is an Inſtance of true Friendſhip indeed! I accept moſt thankfully of ſome Part of your generous Offer, and will give you my Bond, payable in a Year, for 100l. which is at preſent all I have Occaſion [151] for; and if I did not know I could then, if not be⯑fore, anſwer your Goodneſs as it deſerves, I would not accept of the Favour. This Loſs is very heavy and affecting to me, as you may ſuppoſe; yet your generous Friendſhip is no ſmall Comfort to me in it. For ſo good a Friend is capable of making any Calamity light. I am, dear Sir,

LETTER CXI. The Friend's Anſwer, ſuppoſing he has no Occaſion.

A THOUSAND Thanks to you for your generous Offer, and kind Advice. I have been not a little affected at the unexpected Failure of a Man all the World thought as good as the Bank. But, at preſent, I have no Occaſion for your friendly Aſſiſtance. If I ſhould, I know no one in the World I would ſooner chuſe to be obliged to; for I am, dear, kind Sir,

LETTER CXII. Of Conſolation to a Friend in Priſon for Debt.

I AM exceedingly concerned to hear, that the Se⯑verity of your Creditors has laid you under Con⯑finement. But there is one Comfort reſults from it, that the utmoſt Stretch of their Revenge cannot carry them farther; and that when a Man is got to the undermoſt Part of Fortune's Wheel, he may [152] riſe, but cannot ſink lower. You now know the worſt, and have nothing to do, but to ſupport your Misfortune with that true Magnanimity which be⯑comes a noble Mind. Long, very long, have you been labouring under great Difficulties, and ſo have been enured to Misfortunes; and you have looked forward with ſuch Anxiety and Pain to the hard Lot that has now befallen you, that 'tis impoſſible the bearing of it can be equal to the Apprehenſions you had of it. You ſee all around you too many un⯑happy Objects reduced to the ſame Diſtreſs, and you ſee them either extricating themſelves from thoſe Difficulties, (as I hope you ſoon will) or learn⯑ing to bear them with a true Chriſtian Reſignation. For well does the wiſe Man obſerve, that the Race is not to the Swift, nor the Battle to the Strong, nor Riches to a Man of Underſtanding. And it will yield you ſome Conſolation when you reflect, that this Life is but a State of Probation, and he that meets with Miſ⯑fortunes here, may, by a proper Uſe of them, and by God's Grace, be intitled to a bleſſed Hope; when a proſperous State may make a Man forgetful of his Duty, and ſo reap no other Good but what he finds in this tranſitory Life. Remember, my Friend, that the School of Affliction is the School of Wiſdom; and ſo behave under this trying Calamity, as to ſay with the Royal Prophet, It is good for me, that I was afflicted.

I think myſelf, however, not a little unhappy, that my Circumſtances will not permit me to aſſiſt you on this grievous Occaſion, in the way a Friend would chuſe to do, if he was able; but if by my perſonal Attendance on any of your Creditors or Friends, I can do you Pleaſure or Service, I beg you to command me. For, in whatever is in my poor Power, I am, and ſhall ever be,

LETTER CXIII. In Anſwer to the preceding.

I NOW experience fully the Truth of the honeſt Engliſh Phraſe, That a Friend in Need, is a Friend in Deed. You have filled me with ſuch un⯑ſpeakable Comfort to find that I am not abandoned by all my old Acquaintance, that, in a great meaſure, your ſeaſonable Kindneſs will enable me to purſue the Advice you give me.

It is too late to look back now on the Steps that have brought me to this abject Condition. No doubt, were I to live my Life over again, I could do much better for myſelf than I have done, and ſhould hardly run into ſome of the Failings that have help'd to bring ſuch heavy Misfortunes upon me. But my Comfort is, I ever had an honeſt In⯑tention, and never was a Sot or a Spendthriſt. But yet, who knows, if I had avoided ſome Miſtakes, that I might not have fallen into as bad another way? So I muſt acquieſce in the Diſpenſation, and pray to God, in his own good Time, to deliver me from it.

What is moſt grievous to me in this Matter, is my poor Wife and Children, who have deſerved a happier Fate; had it been in my Power to have done better for them, than now I am ever likely to do.

As to your kind Offer, my dear Friend, I will beg to ſee you as often as may not be detrimental to your own Affairs. I care not how ſeldom I ſee my dear Wife: Neither her Heart nor mine can bear the Grief that oppreſſes us when we think of our happier Days and Proſpects, and ſee them all [154] concluded within theſe Bars, and Bolts, and Lat⯑tices; ſo that we ſink one another ſtill lower every doleful Viſit the dear good Woman makes me. But your Viſits, my Friend, will be of ſingular Uſe and Comfort to me, (as your Pre⯑ſence and kind Advice will be to her, as often as you can) to ſave us both the Mortification of ſeeing one another ſo often as my Affairs will otherwiſe require her to come to this diſmal Place; for I cannot open my Mind to any body but you and her. I will alſo get you to go to Mr. Maddox, my principal Creditor, and one or two more; I will tell you about what; and only fear I ſhall be too troubleſome to you. But you are ſo kind as to offer your Service in this way, and I am reduced to the ſad Neceſſity of puſhing myſelf upon you, with⯑out the leaſt Hope of ever having it in my Power to ſhew you, as I wiſh to do, how much I am

LETTER CXIV. To a Perſon of Note, in Acknowledgment of great Benefits received.

PERMIT me to approach you with the thank⯑ful Acknowledgments of a grateful Heart, on the Favour and Benefit your Goodneſs has con⯑ferred upon me. It ſhall be the Buſineſs of my whole Life, to the utmoſt of my Power, to de⯑ſerve it; and my whole Family, which you have made happy by your Bounty, will every Day join with me in Prayers to God, to bleſs you with the Continuance of your valuable Health, a long [155] Life, and all worldly Honour; for ſo it will become us to do, for the unmerited Favours conferr'd upon, honoured Sir,

LETTER CXV. Another for Favours of not ſo high, yet of a generous Nature.

I SHOULD appear ungrateful, if I did not add this further Trouble to thoſe I have already given you, of acknowledging your Goodneſs to me, in this laſt Inſtance of it. May God Almighty return to you, Sir, one hundred-fold, the Benefit you have conferr'd upon me, and give me Opportunity by my future Services, to ſhew my grateful Heart, and how much I am, worthy Sir,

LETTER CXVI. An Excuſe to a Perſon who wants to borrow Money.

I AM very ſorry, that your Requeſt comes to me at a time when I am ſo preſs'd by my own Affairs, that I cannot with any Conveniency com⯑ply with it. I hope, Sir, you will therefore excuſe

LETTER CXVII. On the ſame Subject.

I HAVE, on an urgent Occaſion, been obliged to borrow a Sum of Money myſelf within ten Days paſt: Hence you'll judge of my Want of Capacity rather than Inclination to comply with your Re⯑queſt. For I am

LETTER CXVIII. On the ſame Subject.

IT is with no little Pain, that I am obliged to lay open to you, on occaſion of the Loan you requeſt of me, my own Inability. I ſhall make very hard Shift to anſwer ſome neceſſary Demands, which muſt be comply'd with by a certain Time; and ſo can only ſay, I am ſorry I have it not in my Power to ſhew you how ſincerely I am

LETTER CXIX. To a Friend in Compliance with his Requeſt to borrow a Sum of Money.

YOU have highly obliged me in the Requeſt you make me. I moſt chearfully comply with it, and incloſe a Note for the requeſted Sum, payable on Sight; and am not a little glad it is in my Power to ſhew you how much I am

LETTER CXX. Another on the ſame Occaſion, limiting the Re⯑payment to a certain Time.

THE Intimation you give me, that the Sum of 50 Pounds will be of great Uſe to you, and that you ſhall be able to repay it in Four Months, makes me reſolve to put myſelf to ſome Difficulty to oblige you. Accordingly I incloſe a Bank Note to that Amount. But I muſt, in the Name of Friend⯑ſhip, beg of you to return it me unuſed, if you think you cannot keep your Word in the Repayment; for my accommodating you with this Sum, is rather, at preſent, a greater Teſtimony of my Inclination than Ability to ſerve you: For I am

LETTER CXXI. To a Friend, on a Breach of Promiſe in not returning Money lent in his Exigence.

WHEN you apply'd to me, in your Streights, for Aſſiſtance, and made ſuch ſtrong Promiſes of returning in Four Months what I advanced; little did I think, you would give me the irkſome Occaſion, either of reminding you of your Promiſe, or of acquainting you with the Streights in which my Friendſhip for you has involv'd myſelf. I have always endeavour'd to manage my Affairs with ſo much Prudence, as to keep within myſelf the Power [158] of anſwering Demands upon me, without troubling my Friends; and I told you, I muſt expect you would keep your Word exactly to the Four Months, or elſe I ſhould be diſtreſs'd, as bad as you were when you apply'd to me. Six Months paſſed, and you took no manner of Notice of the Mat⯑ter, when I was forced to remind you of it, having been put to it, as I told you I ſhould. You took a Fortnight longer, under ſtill ſtronger Pro⯑miſes of Performance. And Three Weeks are now expired, and your ſecond Promiſes are ſtill as much to be performed as your firſt. Is this kind, is this friendly, is it grateful, Sir, let me aſk you? And ought I to be made to ſuffer in my Credit, who was ſo ready to ſave yours?—When, too, mine had been in no Danger, had I not put out of my own Power what actually was then in it? I will only ſay, That if any Conſideration remains with you for one ſo truly your Friend, let me immediately be paid, and take from me the cruel Neceſſity of reproaching you for Ingratitude, and myſelf for Folly: Who am, Sir,

LETTER CXXII. To a Friend, who had promiſed to lend a Sum of Money, to anſwer a critical Exigence, and drove it off to the laſt.

YOU were ſo kind as to tell me, a Fortnight ago, that you would lend me One hundred Pounds on my Bond, to anſwer a Demand that my Credit would be otherwiſe a Sufferer by. And you were pleaſed to ſay, you would have me look no [159] further, and that I ſhould certainly have it in time. I have looked no further, Sir; and the Day of Pay⯑ment approaching, you cannot imagine how my Mind has ſuffered by being not abſolutely ſure of having the Money to anſwer the Demand. I hope, Sir, nothing has happen'd to make you alter your Mind; for, at this ſhort Notice, I ſhall not know to whom to apply to raiſe it. In the utmoſt Pertur⯑bation of Mind, for fear of the worſt, my Credit being wholly at Stake, I beg your Anſwer, which I hope will be to the Satisfaction of, Sir,

LETTER CXXIII. The Anſwer, excuſing the Pain he had given his Friend by his Remiſſneſs.

I WILL attend you this Afternoon with the Money, which I had always great Pleaſure in the Thought of ſupplying you with; and I am moſt heartily vexed with myſelf, for giving you the Pain and Uneaſineſs that muſt have attended a Mind ſo punctual as yours, and in a Caſe ſo critically cir⯑cumſtanced. But I hope you'll forgive me, tho' I can hardly forgive myſelf. I am, Sir, as well on this, as on any other Occaſion in my Power,

LETTER CXXIV. To one who, upon a very ſhort Acquaintance, and without any viſible Merit but Aſſurance, wants to borrow a Sum of Money.

YOU did me the Favour of inquiring for me two or three times while I was out of Town. And among my Letters I find one from you, deſiring the Loan of 50 Guineas. You muſt certainly have miſtaken yourſelf or me very much, to think we were enough known to each other for ſuch a Trani⯑action. I was twice in your Company; I was de⯑lighted with your Converſation: You ſeemed as much pleaſed with mine: And if we both acted with Honour, the Obligation is mutual, and there can be no room to ſuppoſe me your Debtor. I have no churliſh nor avaritious Heart, I will ven⯑ture to ſay; but there muſt be Bounds to every thing; and Diſcretion is as neceſſary in conferring as in receiving a Kindneſs. To a Friend, my help⯑ing Hand ought to be lent, when his Neceſſities require it: You cannot think our Intimacy enough to commence that Relation; and ſhould I anſwer the Demands of every new Acquaintance, I ſhould ſoon want Power to oblige my old Friends, and even to ſerve myſelf. Surely, Sir, a Gentleman of your Merit cannot be ſo little beloved, as to be forced to ſeek to a new Acquaintance, and to have no better Friend than one of Yeſterday. I will not do you the In⯑jury to ſuppoſe, that you have not many, who have the beſt Reaſons from long Knowledge, to oblige you: And, by your Application to me, I cannot think Baſhfulneſs ſhould ſtand in your way [161] to them. Be this as it may, it does not at all ſuit my Conveniency to comply with your Requeſt; and ſo I muſt beg you to excuſe

LETTER CXXV. A Gentleman to a Lady who humourouſly reſents his Miſtreſs's Fondneſs of a Monkey, and In⯑difference to himſelf.

I MUST be under the leſs Regret, for the Con⯑tempt with which you receive my Addreſſes, when your Favour is wholly engroſſed by ſo wretch⯑ed a Rival: For ought a rational Man to wonder he is received with Neglect and Slight by a Lady who can be taken up with the Admiration of a chat⯑tering Monkey? But pray be ſo good as to permit me to reaſon the Matter a little with you. I would aſk you then, By what extraordinary Endowment this happy Creature has found Means to engroſs your Favour? Extravagance is never commendable: But while I am dying beneath your Frowns, how can you be profuſe in your Careſſes to ſo mean a Competitor? Condeſcend to view us in the ſame Light: What valuable Qualification is Mr. Pug endowed with, which I am deſtitute of? What can he do, which I cannot perform, tho' with leſs Agi⯑lity, to full as good Purpoſe? Is it a Recommenda⯑tion in him that he wears no Breeches? For my part, I will moſt willingly ſurrender mine at your Feet. Be impartial for once: Place us together before you: View our Faces, our Airs, our Shapes, and our Language. If he be handſomer than I, [162] which, on a ſtrict Scrutiny, I hope will not be al⯑lowed him neither, pray try our Wits: However acute he may be, I can aſſure you I reckon myſelf no Fool; if I was, I ſhould leſs reſent the Pre⯑ference you give againſt me. I will ſing or dance with him for his Ears: Turn him looſe to me, I will ſight him, if that be neceſſary to obtain your Favour; or do any thing in the World to ſhew you how much I am, and ſhall ever be, if you'll per⯑mit it,

LETTER CXXVI. A Sailor to his betrothed Miſtreſs.

IF you think of me half ſo often as I do of you, it will be every Hour; for you are never out of my Thoughts, and, when I am aſleep, I conſtantly dream of my dear Peggy. I wear my Half-bit of Gold always at my Heart, ty'd to a blue Ribbon round my Neck; for True Blue, my deareſt Love, is the Colour of Colours to me. Where, my Deareſt, do you put yours? I hope you are careful of it; for it would be a bad Omen to loſe it.

I hope you hold in the ſame Mind ſtill, my deareſt Dear; for God will never bleſs you, if you break the Vows you have made to me. As to your ever faithful William, I would ſooner have my Heart torn from my Breaſt, than it ſhould harbour a Wiſh for any other Woman beſides my Peggy, O my deareſt Love! you are the Joy of my Life! My Thoughts are all of you; you are with me in all I do; and my Hope and my Wiſh is only to be yours. God ſend it may be ſo!

[163] Our Captain talks of ſailing ſoon for England; and then, and then—my deareſt Peggy!—O how I rejoice, how my Heart beats with Delight, that makes me I cannot tell how, when I think of ar⯑riving in England, and joining Hands with my Peggy, as we have Hearts before, I hope! I am ſure I ſpeak for one.

John Arthur, in the good Ship Elizabeth, Capt. Winterton, which is returning to England, (as I hope we ſhall ſoon) promiſes to deliver this into your own dear Hand; and he will bring you too, Six Bottles of Citron-water as a Token of my Love. It is fit for the fineſt Ladies Taſte, it is ſo good; and it is what, they ſaly, Ladies drink, when they can get it.

John ſays, he will have one ſweet Kiſs of my deareſt Peggy, for his Care and Pains. So let him, my beſt Love; for I am not of a jealous Temper. I have a better Opinion of my Deareſt, than ſo.—But, Oh! that I was in his Place!—One Kiſs ſhould not ſerve my Turn, tho' I hope it may his!—Yet, if he takes two, I'll forgive him; one for me, and one for himſelf. For I love John dearly; and ſo you may well think. Well, what ſhall I ſay more?—Or rather what ſhall I ſay next? For I have an hundred things crouding in upon me, when I write to my Deareſt; and, alas! one has ſo few Opportunities!—But yet I muſt leave off; for I have written to the Bottom of my Paper. Love then to all Friends; and Duty to both our Mothers, concludes me

LETTER CXXVII. Her Anſwer.

FOR ſo I may call you now we are ſure; and ſo my Mother ſays. This is to let you know, that nothing ſhall prevail upon me to alter my Pro⯑miſe made to you, when we parted: With heavy Hearts enough, that's true. And yet I had a little Inkling given me, that Mr. Alford's Son the Car⯑penter would be glad to make Love to me: But, do you think I would ſuffer it? No, indeed! For I doubt not your Loyalty to me, and do you think I will not be as loyal to you!—To be ſure I will. Theſe Sailors run ſuch ſad Chances, ſaid one that you and I both know. They may return, and they may not. Well, I will truſt in God for that, who has returned ſafe to his Friends, their dear Billy, ſo many a time, and often. They will have a Miſtreſs in every Land they come to, ſaid they. All are not ſuch naughty Men, ſaid I, and I'll truſt Billy Oliver all the World over. For why cannot Men be as faithful as Women, tro'? And for me, I am ſure no Love ſhall ever touch my Heart but yours.

God ſend us a happy Meeting! Let who will ſpeak againſt Sailors; they are the Glory and the Safe⯑guard of the Land. And what would have become of Old England long ago but for them? I am ſure the lazy good-for-nothing Land-lubbers would never have protected us from our cruel Foes. So Sailors are and ever ſhall be eſteemed by me; and, of all Sailors, my dear Billy Oliver. Believe this Truth from

[165] P. S. I had this Letter writ in Readineſs to ſend you, as I had Opportunity. And the Captain's Lady undertakes to ſend it with her's. That is very kind and condeſcending. Is it not?

LETTER CXXVIII. A Sea-Officer to his Wife.

I TAKE the Opportunity afforded me by Captain Copythorne, who is returning to England, to let you know that I am in perfect Health at pre⯑ſent, God be praiſed; tho' I have, with many of the Crew, been down of the Bloody-Flux, occa⯑ſioned by being a little too free with the new Wines and Fruit of theſe Countries; and yet I thought I was very moderate in both. Our Captain continues very civil and kind, and places his prin⯑cipal Confidence in me; and I endeavour ſo to be⯑have on the Occaſion, as to avoid incurring the Envy of every one; and indeed, have the good Fortune to be generally reſpected.

Captain Copythorne is ſo kind as to carry to you a Token of my Affection; which is a ſmall Parcel of Cyprus Wine, that I believe will be agreeable to your beſt Friend Mrs. Simpſon, to whom therefore you may preſent half, and keep the other for your own Uſe. The Captain has alſo Fifty Dollars to preſent you with, from me, only paying out of them the Duty for the Wine; for it is but juſt that it ſhould be ſo, if he cannot meet with Favour in ſo ſmall a Parcel; for what the Law of the Land, which protects us all, gives to the King, is as much his Due, (however other [166] People act) as any Part of my private Property, which is ſecured to me by the ſame Law, is mine: And I am convinc'd, that if every one acted up to this juſt Principle, there need not be ſo many Taxes as there are; and the fair Trader, and all honeſt Men, would be the better for it.

I hope, my dear Jackey and Nancy continue in good Health, and dutiful, and come on in their Schooling; for that will ſtand them in ſtead, per⯑haps, when the poor Matters we are enabled to do for them, may not be worth truſting to.

I long to ſee my dear Betty. God give us a happy Meeting, if it be his bleſſed Will. But, I believe, it will hardly be till we have humbled the proud Jack Spaniard: Which God alſo grant. For that Nation has been very vile and baſe to us honeſt Engliſhmen. This concludes me at preſent

Love and Service to all Friends.

LETTER CXXIX. A Wife to her Huſband at Sea.

I Think it a long Time ſince I have had the Com⯑fort and Satisfaction of hearing of your Wel⯑fare. Often and often do I reflect on the Unhap⯑pineſs of us poor Women, who are marry'd to Sea⯑faring Men. Every Wind that blows, every Pirate we hear of, and now, in Time of War, every Hour of our Lives, the Dread of Enemies, alarms us. God's Providence is our Reliance, and ſo it ought; for nothing elſe can ſuſtain us thro' our different Apprehenſions every Day we live. But to be ſure the Unhappineſs is ſtill greater to [167] ſuch as love one another, as we always did. I hope, when it ſhall pleaſe God to return you ſafe to my Wiſhes, that you will take no more of theſe very long Voyages, if you can help it. The Trips to Hotland or France are ſo pretty, that they rather add to than diminiſh one's Comforts: But, Oh, theſe long, long Voyages! Yet, in Time of War, People cannot do as they will. And I muſt be contented; and the more, when I ſee that the fine Ladies of Captains, Commodores, and Admirals, are no better off than your poor Jenny

We have had the Misfortune to loſe Uncle James ſince you went: He was a Landman, out of the Dangers you run; yet, as I hope, God has preſerved you, while he is dead and gone. So we ſee there is nothing to be ſaid for it, when our Time is come. They talk of my Aunt's marrying again, and ſhe has a Courtier comes to her, be⯑cauſe ſhe is aforehand in the World, and yet Uncle James has not yet been dead three Months. Fie upon her, I ſay, tho' ſhe is my Aunt! for ſhe had a good Huſband of him. As to you and I, my Dear, I hope God will ſpare us to one another; for you are my Firſt Love, and ſhall be my Laſt. Couſin Barns had the Misfortune to break his Leg, but is in a good way. Jenny Adams is to be marry'd next Week to John Laſcells. This is all the News among our Acquaintance; for I am ſure it is none, to tell you, that I am

LETTER CXXX. To a Father, on his Neglect of his Childrens Education.

I AM under a Concern to ſee ſuch a Remiſſneſ [...] as every body takes notice of, in the Education of your Children. They are brought up, 'tis true, to little Offices in your Buſineſs, which keep them active, and may make them in ſome degree of pre⯑ſent, tho' poor Uſe to you; but, I am ſorry to ſay, of none to themſelves, with regard to their future Proſpects, which is what a worthy Parent always has in View.

There is a proper Time for every thing; and Children are not early initiated into their D [...], and thoſe Parts of Learning which are proper to their particular Years, they muſt neceſſarily be diſcouraged, and ſet behind every one of their School fellows, tho' much younger than themſelves; and you know not, Sir, what a laudable Emulation you by this means deſtroy, than which nothing is of greater Force to Children, to induce them to attend to their Book; nor what a Diſgrace you involve them in with reſpect to Children among Children, for the Biggeſt and Eldeſt to be ſo much out-done by the Leaſt and Youngeſt.

Nor is the Conſequence of this Defect confin'd to the School-age, as I may call it; for as they grow up, they will be look'd upon in an equally diſcouraging and diſadvantageous Light, by all who converſe with them: Which muſt of courſe throw them into the Company of the Dregs of Man⯑kind; for how will they be able to converſe or correſpond with thoſe whoſe Acquaintance it is [169] moſt worth their while to cultivate? And indeed they will probably be ſo conſcious of their Unfit⯑neſs to bear a Part in worthy Converſation, that, to keep themſelves in Countenance, they will, of their own Accord, ſhun the better Company, and aſſociate with the worſt: And what may be the Conſequence of this, a wiſe Man, and a good Father, would tremble to think of, eſpecially when he has to reflect upon himſelf as the Cauſe of it, let it be what it will.

Then, Sir, it is to be conſider'd, that without a tolerable Education, they can be only fit for mean and ſordid Employments. Hear what the Wiſe Man ſays to this very Purpoſe: ‘"How can he get Wiſdom, that holdeth the Plough, and that glorieth in the Goad, that driveth Oxen, and is occupied in their Labours, and whoſe Talk is of Bullocks? He giveth his Mind to make Furrows, and is diligent to give the Kine Fodder. So every Carpenter and Workmaſter that labour⯑eth Night and Day—The Smith alſo ſitting by the Anvil, and conſidering the Iron-work, the Vapour of the Fire waſteth his Fleſh—The Noiſe of the Hammer and the Anvil is ever in his Ears—So doth the Potter ſitting at his Work, and turning the Wheel about with his Feet—He faſhioneth the Clay with his Arm, and boweth down his Strength before his Feet."’ Theſe, as he obſerves, are uſeful in their Way; but their Minds being wholly engroſſed by their Labours, ‘"they ſhall not be ſought for in publick Council, nor ſit high in the Congregation—they cannot declare Juſtice and Judgment, and they ſhall not be found where Parables are ſpoken."’ That is, they ſhall be confined to the Drudgery of their own ſervile Station, and will be intitled neither to Honour nor Reſpect, as they might [170] have been, had they had an Education to qualify them for more reſpectable Buſineſſes. And you will conſider, Sir, in a cloſer Light, as to us who live in the preſent Age, and in this great City, that there is hardly a creditable or profitable Em⯑ployment in London, where a tolerable Knowledge of Accounts, and Penmanſhip, in particular, is not required. Conſider alſo what Opportunities they may loſe by this Neglect of their Education, in caſe they ſhould fail in the Buſineſs they are put to, of getting comfortable and genteel Bread in ſome Merchant's Compting-houſe, or in ſome one of the ſeveral Offices about this great Metropolis; as Book-keepers, Clerks, Accomptants, &c.

And with regard more immediately to yourſelf, how can you expect, when they know you could do better for them, but that their Behaviour to you will be of a Piece with the reſt? for if they are not poliſh'd by Learning, but are left to a kind of Inſtinct rather, is it to be expected, that they ſhould behave to you, and their Mother, with that Senſe of their Obligations which Learning incul⯑cates? Nor indeed will they have thoſe Obligations to you, which other Children have to their Parents, who take care to give them Opportunities of Im⯑provement, which are deny'd to yours. Conſider, dear Sir, what a contemptible Character, even among the ſordid Vulgar, that of an illiterate Fellow is; and what Reſpect, on the contrary, a Man of Letters is treated with, by his Equals, as well as Inferiors: And when you lay all theſe plain Reaſons and Obſervations together, I make no doubt but you will endeavour to retrieve loſt Time, and be adviſed in this material Point (which I can have no Intereſt in) by

LETTER CXXXI. From a young Maiden, abandon'd by her Lover for the ſake of a greater Fortune.

I MUST take up my Pen and write, tho' perhaps you will only ſcoff at me for ſo doing; but when I have ſaid what I have to ſay, then I ſhall have eaſed my Mind, and will endeavour to forget you for ever. I have had ſo many Cautions given me againſt the falſe Hearts of Men, and was ſo often told how they will vow and forſwear them⯑ſelves, that I ought to have been on my Guard, that's true: And indeed, ſo I was a great while: You know it well. But you courted me ſo long, vowed ſo earneſtly, and ſeem'd ſo much in Love with me, that it was firſt Pity in me, that made me liſten to you; and, Oh! this naſty Pity, how ſoon did it bring—But I won't ſay Love neither. I thought, if all the young Men in the World beſides proved falſe, yet it was impoſſible you ſhould. Ah! poor ſilly Creature that I was, to think, tho' every body flatter'd me with being ſightly enough, I could hold a Heart ſo ſordidly bent on Intereſt, as I always ſaw yours to be; but that, thought I, tho' 'tis a Meanneſs I don't like, yet will it be a Security of his making a frugal Huſband in an Age ſo fruitful of Spendthrifts.

But at length it has proved, that you can prefer Polly Bambridge, and leave poor me, only becauſe ſhe has a greater Portion than I have.

I ſay nothing againſt Polly. I wiſh her well. Indeed I do. And I wiſh you no Harm neither. But as you knew Polly before, why could you not have made to yourſelf a Merit with her, without [172] going ſo far with me? What need you have ſo often begg'd and pray'd, ſigh'd and vow'd, (never leaving me, Day nor Night) till you had got me fooliſhly to believe and pity you? And ſo, after your Courtſhip to me was made a Town-talk, then you could leave me to be laugh'd at by every one I ſlighted for you! Was this juſt, was this well done, think you?

Here I cannot go out of Doors but I have ſome one or other ſimpering and ſneering at me; and I have had two Willow-garlands ſent me; ſo I have—But what poor Stuff, in ſome of my own Sex too, is this, to laugh at and deride me for your Baſe⯑neſs? I can call my Heart to witneſs to my Virtue in Thought, in Word, and in Deed; and muſt I be ridicul'd for a falſe one, who gives him⯑ſelf Airs at my Expence, and at the Expence of his own Truth and Honour? Indeed you cannot ſay the leaſt Ill of me, that's my Comfort. I defy the World to ſay any thing to blaſt my Cha⯑racter: Why then ſhould I ſuffer in the World's Eye, for your Baſeneſs?—

I ſeek not to move you to return to the Fidelity you have vow'd; for by this Time, may hap, you'd be as baſe to Polly as you have been to me, if you did; and I wiſh her no Willow-garlands, I'll aſſure you. But yet, let me deſire you to ſpeak of me with Decency: That is no more than I deſerve, well you know. Don't, to brave-thro' the Perfidy you have been guilty of, mention me with ſuch Fleers, as, I hear, you have done to ſeve⯑ral; and pray call me none of your poor dear Girls! And, I hope ſhe won't take it to Heart, poor Thing!—with that Inſolence that ſo little becomes you, and I have ſo little deſerved. I thought to have appeal'd to your Conſcience, on what has paſſed between us, when I began. I thought to have [173] put the Matter home to you! But I have run out into this Length, and now don't think it worth while to write much more: For what is Conſcience to a Man who could vow as you have done, and act as you have done?

Go then, Mr. John, naughty Man as you are! I will try to forget you for ever. Rejoice in the Smiles of your Polly Bambridge, and glad your Heart with the Poſſeſſion of an Hundred or Two of Pounds more than I have; and ſee what you'll be the richer or happier a few Years hence. I wiſh no Harm to you. Your Conſcience will be a greater Trouble to you than I wiſh it to be, if you are capable of reflecting. And for your ſake, I will henceforth ſet myſelf up to be an Adviſer to all my Sex, never to give Ear to a Man, unleſs they can be ſure, that his Intereſt will be a Security for his pre⯑tended Affection to them. I am, tho' greatly in⯑jured and deceived, naughty Mr. John,

LETTER CXXXII. From a Gentleman to his Miſtreſs, who ſeeing no Hopes of Succeſs, reſpectfully withdraws his Suit.

I MAKE no doubt but this will be the welcomeſt Letter that you ever received from me; for it comes to aſſure you, that it is the laſt Trouble you will ever have from me. Nor ſhould I have ſo long with-held from you this Satisfaction, had not the Hope your Brother gave me, that in time I might meet with a happier Fate, made me willing [174] to try every way to obtain your Favour. But I ſee, all the Hopes given me by his kind Con⯑ſideration for me, and thoſe that my own Pre⯑ſumption had made me entertain, are all in vain: And I will therefore rid you of ſo troubleſome an Importuner, having nothing to offer now but my ardent Wiſhes for your Happineſs; and theſe, Madam, I will purſue you with to my Life's lateſt Date.

May you, whenever you ſhall change your Con⯑dition, meet with a Heart as paſſionately, and as ſincerely devoted to you as mine! And may you be happy for many, very many Years, in the Man you can honour with your Love! For, give me leave to ſay, Madam, that in this, my End will be in part anſwer'd, becauſe it was moſt ſin⯑cerely your Happineſs I had in View, as well as my own, when I preſumptuouſly hoped, by contri⯑buting to the one, to ſecure the other. I am, Madam, with the higheſt Veneration,

LETTER CXXXIII. From a Lady to a Gentleman, who had obtained all her Friends Conſent, urging him to decline his Suit to her.

YOU have often importuned me to return Marks of that Conſideration for you, which you profeſs for me. As my Parents, to whom I owe all Duty, encourage your Addreſs, I wiſh I could. I am hardly treated by them, becauſe I cannot. What ſhall I do? Let me apply to you, Sir, for my [175] Relief, who have much good Senſe, and, I hope, Generoſity. Yes, Sir, let me beſpeak your Hu⯑manity to me, and Juſtice to yourſelf, in this Point; and that ſhall be all I will aſk in my Favour. I own you deſerve a much better Wife than I ſhall ever make; but yet, as Love is not in one's own Power, if I have the Misfortune to know I can⯑not love you, will not Juſtice to yourſelf, if not Pity to me, oblige you to abandon your preſent Purpoſe?

But as to myſelf, Sir, Why ſhould you make a poor Creature unhappy in the Diſpleaſure of all her Friends at preſent, and ſtill more unhappy, if, to avoid that, ſhe gives up her Perſon, where ſhe can⯑not beſtow her Heart? If you love me, as you profeſs, let me aſk you, Sir, Is it for my ſake, or is it for your own?—If for mine, how can it be, when I muſt be miſerable, if I am forced to marry where I cannot love?—If for your own, reflect, Sir, on the Selfiſhneſs of your Love, and judge if it deſerves from me the Return you wiſh.

How ſadly does this Love already operate! You love me ſo well, that you make me miſerable in the Anger of my deareſt Friends!—Your Love has already made them think me undutiful, and inſtead of the Fondneſs and Endearment I uſed to be treated with by them, I meet with nothing but Chidings, Frowns, Slights, and Diſpleaſure.

And what is this Love of yours to do for me hereafter?—Why hereafter, Sir, it will be turned to Hatred, or Indifference at leaſt: For then, tho' I cannot give you my Heart, I ſhall have given you a Title to it, and you will have a lawful Claim to its Allegiance. May it not then, nay ought it not to be treated on the Foot of a Rebel, and expect Puniſhment as ſuch, inſtead of Tenderneſs? Even were I to be treated with Mercy, with Goodneſs, [176] with Kindneſs by you, and could not deſerve or return it, what a Wretch would your Love make me! How would it involve me in the crying Sin of Ingratitude! How would it deſtroy my Repu⯑tation in the World's Eye, that the beſt of Huſbands had the worſt of Wives!—The kindeſt of Men, the unkindeſt of Women!—

Ceaſe then, I beſeech you, this hopeleſs, this cruel Purſuit!—Make ſome worthier Perſon happy with your Addreſſes, that can be happy in them!—By this means, you will reſtore me (if you decline as of your own Motion) to the Con⯑dition you found me in, the Love of my Parents, and the Eſteem of my Friends. If you really love me, this may be a hard Taſk; but it will be a moſt generous one—And there is ſome Reaſon to expect it; for who, that truly loves, wiſhes to make the Object of his Love miſerable? This muſt I be, if you perſiſt in your Addreſs; and I ſhall know by your Conduct on Occaſion of this uncommon Requeſt, how to conſider it, and in what Light to place you, either as the moſt ge⯑nerous or the moſt ungenerous of Men. Mean time I am, Sir, moſt heartily, tho' I cannot be what you would have me,

LETTER CXXXIV. The Gentleman's Anſwer to the Lady's uncom⯑mon Requeſt.

I AM exceedingly concerned, that I cannot be as acceptable to you, as I have the good For⯑tune to find myſelf to your honoured Parents. If, [177] Madam, I had Reaſon to think it was owing to your Prepoſſeſſion in ſome happier Man's Favour, I ſhould utterly deſpair of it, and ſhould really think it would be unjuſt to myſelf, and ungenerous to you, to continue my Addreſs. As therefore you have, by your Appeal to me, in ſo uncommon a way, endeavour'd to make me a Party againſt myſelf, and I have ſhewn ſo much Regard to you, as to be willing to oblige you, as far as I can, may I not hope the Favour of you to declare generouſly, whe⯑ther I owe my Unhappineſs to ſuch a Prepoſſeſſion, and whether your Heart is given to ſome other?—If this be the Caſe, you ſhall find all you wiſh on my Part; and I ſhall take a Pride to plead againſt myſelf, let me ſuffer ever ſo much by it, to your Father and Mother: But if not, and you have taken any other Diſguſts to my Perſon or Be⯑haviour, that there may be Hope my utmoſt Affec⯑tion and Aſſiduity, or a contrary Conduct, may, in time, get the better of, let me implore you to permit me ſtill to continue my zealous Reſpects to you; for this I will ſay, that there is not a Man in the World who can addreſs you with a ſincerer and more ardent Flame, than, dear Madam,

LETTER CXXXV. The Lady's Reply, in caſe of a Prepoſſeſſion.

I Thank you for your kind Aſſurance, that you will befriend me in the manner I wiſh; and I think I owe it to your Generoſity to declare, that there is a Perſon in the World, that, might I be left to my own Choice, I ſhould prefer to all other [178] Men. To this, Sir, it is owing, that your Addreſs cannot meet with the Return it might otherwiſe deſerve from me. Yet are Things ſo circumſtanc'd, that while my Friends prefer you, and know nothing of the other, I ſhould find it very difficult to obtain their Conſents. But your generous Diſcontinu⯑ance, without giving them the true Reaſon for it, will lay an Obligation greater than I can ex⯑preſs, on

LETTER CXXXVI. The Lady's Reply in caſe of no Prepoſſeſſion, or that ſhe chuſes not to avow it.

I AM ſorry to ſay, that my Diſapprobation of your Addreſs is inſuperable—yet cannot I but think myſelf beholden to you for the Generoſity of your Anſwer to my earneſt Requeſt. I muſt beg you, Sir, to give over your Application; but how can I ſay, while I cannot help being of this Mind, that it is or is not owing to Prepoſſeſſion; when you declare, that, in the one Inſtance, (and that is very generous too) you will oblige me; but in the other you will not? If I cannot return Love for Love, be the Motive what it will, pray, Sir, for your own ſake, as well as mine, diſcontinue your Addreſs—In caſe of Prepoſſeſſion, you ſay you can, and you will oblige me: Let my Un⯑worthineſs, Sir, have the ſame Effect upon you, as if that Prepoſſeſſion were to be avow'd. This will inſpire me with a Gratitude that will always make me

LETTER CXXXVII. A Lady to a Gentleman of ſuperior Fortune, who, after a long Addreſs in an honourable way, propoſes to live with her as a Gallant.

AFTER many unaccountable Heſitations, and concealed Meanings, that your Mind ſeem'd of late big with, but hardly knew how to expreſs, you have, at laſt, ſpoken out all your Mind; and I know what I am to truſt to! I have that Diſdain of your Propoſal that an honeſt Mind ought to have. But I wiſh, for my own ſake, (and I will ſay, for yours too, becauſe your Honour is concerned in it ſo deeply) that I had had, at my firſt Acquaintance with you, ſuch an Inſtance of your Plain-dealing, or rather Baſeneſs: Then I ſhould have had no Regret in letting you know how much I ſcorn'd the Propoſer, and the Propoſal: Tho' I hope, as it is, a little Time and Reflection will make me, for the ſake of the latter, abhor the former.

However, Sir, I muſt ſay, you are very cruel to uſe me thus, after you had, by all the alluring Profeſſions of an honourable Love, inſpired me with a grateful Return, and brought me to the Freedom of owning it—Nor yet will I be an Hypocrite, or deny my honeſt Paſſion; for that would be to leſſen your Guilt. God is my Wit⯑neſs, I loved you beyond all your Sex; yet I loved you virtuouſly; I loved you becauſe I thought you virtuous. And now, tho' it may take ſome Time, and too much Regret, to get over, yet do I hope, your Behaviour will enable me to conquer my fond Folly.

[180] Ungenerous Man! to take Advantage of your ſuperior Fortune to inſult me thus, when you had gain'd my Affections! What, tho' I am not bleſſed with a worldly Circumſtance equal to what you might expect in a Wife, can you think my Mind ſo baſe as to ſubmit to be yours on unworthy Terms? Go, unworthy Man, and make your Court to Miſs Reynolds, as you ſeem to threaten. She has a Fortune equal to your own, and may you be happy together! I ſhould have been ſo, had I never known you. I never deceived you: You knew my ſcanty Fortune, and yet pretended to prefer me to all my Sex.

On me you might have laid the higheſt Obli⯑gation, by raiſing me to a Condition I was humble enough to think above me; and I ſhould have been, on that account, all Gratitude, all Duty, all Acknowledgment. On Miſs Reynolds you will confer none; her Fortune will quit Scores with yours, and you muſt both, in your Union, be Strangers to the inexpreſſible Pleaſure of receiving or conferring of Benefits: But this is a Pleaſure which none but generous Minds can taſte: That yours is not ſo, witneſs your deteſted Propoſal, after ſuch ſolemn Profeſſions of faithful and ho⯑nourable Love. And I have one Conſolation, tho' a Conſolation I did not wiſh for, that I am under no Obligation, but the contrary, to ſuch a Man. And am as much your Superior, as the Perſon who would do no Wrong, is to one that will do nothing elſe. Send me, however, my Let⯑ters, that I may be aſſured my fond Credulity will not be the Subject of freſh Inſult, and that perhaps to the Perſon that ſhall be what you made me expect I ſhould be. I will ſend you all yours, the laſt only excepted. Which, as it may aſſiſt me to conquer my fond Folly for you, I hope you'll [181] allow me to keep, tho' it is the Abhorr'd of my Soul—May you be happier than you have made me!—is the laſt Prayer you will have from

LETTER CXXXVIII. A Father to a Daughter in Service, on hearing of her Maſter's attempting her Virtue.

I Underſtand with great Grief of Heart, that your Maſter has made ſome Attempts on your Virtue, and yet that you ſtay with him. God grant that you have not already yielded to his baſe Deſires! For when once a Perſon has ſo far for⯑gotten what belongs to himſelf, or his Character, as to make ſuch an Attempt, the very Continuance with him, and in his Power, and under the ſame Roof, is an Encouragement to him to proſecute his Deſigns. And if he carries it better, and more civil, at preſent, it is only the more certainly to undo you when he attacks you next. Conſider, my dear Child, your Reputation is all you have to truſt to. And if you have not already, which God forbid! yielded to him, leave it not to the Hazard of another Temptation; but come away directly (as you ought to have done on your own Motion) at the Command of

LETTER CXXXIX. The Daughter's Anſwer.

I Received your Letter Yeſterday, and am ſorry I ſtay'd a Moment in my Maſter's Houſe after his vile Attempt. But he was ſo full of his Pro⯑miſes, of never offering the like again, that I hoped I might believe him; nor have I yet ſeen any thing to the contrary: But am ſo much con⯑vinced, that I ought to have done as you ſay, that I have this Day left the Houſe; and hope to be with you ſoon after you will have received this Letter. I am

LETTER CXL. To a Gentleman of Fortune, who has Children, diſſuading him from a Second Marriage with a Lady much younger than himſelf.

YOU are pleaſed to inform me of your Thoughts in relation to a Change of your Condition, and to command me to give you freely my Opinion of the Conveniencies and Inconveniencies, that may follow from the Inequality of Years between you, and the young Lady you think of making your ſecond Wife. Indeed, I am ſo much con⯑cerned for your Happineſs, that had I heard of ſuch your Intention, and had not your Commands to be free on this Head, I think I ſhould have run [183] the Riſque of being thought impertinent and offi⯑cious, rather than not have expoſtulated with you on this Occaſion. My Objections, Sir, are not ſo much to the Gaiety of the Lady, as to her Youth, and the Children you have already by your late excellent Lady: And when you remember, that Miſs Fanny, your eldeſt Daughter, is near as old as the Lady you think to make her Mother, I beg, Sir, you will conſider how your Reputation, as to Prudence, will ſuffer in the Eye of the World without you, as well as the Look it will have to your Children and Domeſticks.

Nature, Juſtice, Decency, and every Branch of human Prudence, plead ſtrongly againſt the Union of lively Youth with maturer Years. Her Temper may be very agreeable: So indeed is yours—But may they be ſo to each other, when they meet together in ſo cloſe an Union? You are yet bleſt with a good State of Health; but can you expect, that it will be always ſo?—Or rather, will not every Year take from your Conſtitution, what it will add to hers, for ſeveral Years to come? Your Years make you ſerious and ſolemn, and you are paſt a Reliſh for thoſe Pleaſures and Amuſe⯑ments, which are but ſuitable to hers, and which at the ſame Age you yourſelf delighted in. Can you recall Time paſt? Will it become you to re⯑ſume the Part which Judgment has made you quit? How aukwardly, if you attempt it, will you do this! What Cenſure will this ſubject you to? How will it embolden the gay young Fellows to make Attempts, that may, notwithſtanding the moſt unexceptionable Conduct in the Lady, give you great Uneaſineſs?

If you cannot join in the innocent Gaieties which you have long diſuſed, it would be, in ſome meaſure, cruel, to deprive a young Lady of her Share of them, [184] at an Age that will naturally make her expect and require them: And yet will not even innocent Liberties be Matter of Reproach to her, and Un⯑eaſineſs to you, if ſhe takes them without you? And would you chuſe to bear her Company, and indulge a young-old Taſte, for gay Scenes long contemn'd, and ſo appear in a Light, to all that beheld you together, either as her Father, or her jealous Keeper, and make it look to the World as if you yourſelf doubted her Virtue out of your own Preſence? Suppoſe the Scene at a gallant Comedy, that ſprightly free Joke which will make her ſmile, will make you frown; and ſo on in every other Scene of Life and Amuſement between you. For a Defect or Inequality of whatever Kind, when⯑ever a Man is conſcious of it, let him carry it off as he may, will always be preſent with him, and, like another Conſcience, ſtare him in the Face.

Your Fortune, 'tis true, is ſo conſiderable, that you may amply provide for all your Children, and yet make it worth a young Lady's while, who would ſtudy her Intereſt, preferably to any other Conſideration, to oblige you: But, Sir, let me aſk you, Can you, who lived ſo happily with your late dear Lady, and had ſuch conſtant Proofs of her inviolable Affection to your Perſon, content yourſelf with a counterfeit Paſſion, a mere ſelfiſh Affection in a Wife? And can you think, that ſo young a Lady can love you, like her who grew on in Life, in Hope, in Deſires with you; and who, from a reciprocal Youth paſſed agreeably together, grew equally mature, and had both but one View between you; to wit, a young Family growing up, the common Offspring of your mutual Affe⯑ctions; and who were the binding, and, ſo long as her Life laſted, the indiſſoluble Cement of your Loves and your Intereſts?—If ſhe can, ſhe will be [185] a Contradiction to all Experience, and you will be happy againſt all reaſonable Expectation—If ſhe cannot, will you be content with a ſelfiſh, an in⯑tereſted Civility, inſtead of true Love; and which cannot poſſibly ſo much as look like Love, but by the Diſſimulation and Hypocriſy of your Boſom Companion?—

When I look back on what I have written, I begin to be afraid of your Diſpleaſure on a double Account; for the Nature, and for the Length of this Epiſtle, tho' you have commanded me to ſpeak my Mind. Yet having ſeveral other material Points to touch upon, and relying upon your Ex⯑cuſe for my good Intentions, (for what View can I have in the Liberty I take, but your Happineſs?) I will beg Leave to purſue the Subject in another Letter; and to conclude this, tho' a little ab⯑ruptly, with the Aſſurance, that (as your requeſt) nobody ſhall ſee what I write but yourſelf; and that I am, Sir,

LETTER CXLI. The ſame Subject purſued.

I WILL now take the Liberty to continue my Subject, and my humble Expoſtulations upon it: And I will ſuppoſe two Caſes very, if not equally probable; to wit, that you may, or may not, have Children by your new Lady; and to judge in both Caſes, how the Happineſs of your remaining Life may be affected by either. In the firſt place, if you ſhould have Children by her, (to ſay nothing of the Miſunderſtandings and Jea⯑louſies [186] this may create between your Lady, and your preſent Children, which may greatly affect your own Happineſs) are you ſo well able to ſup⯑port, at theſe Years, with Credit and Satisfaction, that Character which ſo peculiarly befits a young Huſband to a young Wife? And will it not natu⯑rally ſtrike you, that your own Children by that time will make a better Figure in ſuch a Circum⯑ſtance than yourſelf? Will you be ſo well able to go thro' the ſame Troubles, the ſame Anxieties, the ſame Hopes, Fears, and Affections, both to the pregnant Mother, and afterwards to the Infant Progeny, that you have ſo happily got over? And will not what was then called laudable Love, be now deemed Dotage and Uxoriouſneſs?

Providence ſeems to have deſign'd the youthful Portion of a Man's Life, for mutual Endearments, and Propagation of his Family; the maturer Part, for Education, Counſel or Advice. And will you, Sir, invert the Deſign of it? Will you call back the Days of Senſe, into the Years of Intellect; watch over the Baby in the Cradle, when you ſhould form the Mind of the grown Perſon?—How unequal will you be to this Part, to what you once were?—As you will not have the ſame Diſpoſitions about you, you cannot have the ſame Joy at a pleaſing Incident; but will have poſſibly a ſuperadded Weight of Sorrow on any ſad Event, as Years will have added to your Reflection, as Expe⯑rience will have contracted your Hope, and as you will have ſeen the Vanity of all worldly Expectations.

Then, my dear Sir, conſider, if you ſhould even get over this reſumed Province happily, and have no material Uneaſineſs from the Lady, on the Account I have intimated to you: Is it not too probable, that you may not live to ſee this young Race brought up? And if you ſhould, what Ani⯑moſities, [187] what Uneaſineſſes may not enſue, from the different Intereſts into which your Family will be divided? And it may, moreover, be poſſible for you to have Grandchildren older than ſome of your own by your new Lady.

But if we ſuppoſe, that the Occaſion for this may not happen, will the Matter be mended by it?—All young Ladies expect and wiſh for Children, when they marry. If ſhe ſhould not have any, ſhe will hardly be induced to think it her Fault; but the Difference of Years will tell her, and all the World will join in it, where to lay the Blame, deſerved or not. She will, for want of ſo neceſſary an Employment, look abroad for Amuſements and Diverſions, which, however innocent in her firſt Intentions, may not always end ſo; and if they do, will be very unſuitable to your Diſpoſition and Liking. Childbed matronizes the giddieſt Spirits, and brings them to Reflection ſooner than any other Event. Its Conſequences fill up the Time, and introduce different Scenes of Pleaſure and Amuſement in the Mind of a Lady. It draws her Attention to more ſerious Affairs, it domeſticates her, as I may ſay, and makes her aſſociate with graver Perſons, and ſuch as are in the ſame Scenes of Life. But where this is not, ſhe continues her youthful and giddy Acquaintance, claſſes herſelf as to her Company and Diverſions, as if in the ſingle State ſtill, and looks for Amuſements out of her⯑ſelf, and out of your Houſe: And you will be obliged to connive at a good deal more than you otherwiſe would, becauſe the Difference of Years will give as much Conſciouſneſs to you, as it will Preſumption to her; and if there be any Grievance between you, ſhe'll think, after all you can do, it is of her Side. Nor will Time and Years mend the Matter; but, contrarily, make it worſe and worſe.

[188] Then another Inconvenience may ariſe: The Lady, if ſhe has no Children by you, to prevent lying at the Mercy of yours, as ſhe will call it, will be making a ſeparate Intereſt to herſelf: She will grow upon your Indulgence and Fondneſs; ſhe will cajole, ſhe will reproach, ſhe will tieze you into Acts of Bounty and Profuſion to her. She will endeavour to build up a Fortune out of yours, to the Prejudice of your Family. And all this for what End?—Only to make her a rich Widow, and to give her Opportunity to triumph, in Con⯑junction perhaps with ſome young Rake or Profli⯑gate, over your Aſhes, and to make Compariſons grievous to Reflection, at the Expence of your For⯑tune and Memory, in the new Man's Favour.

Forgive me, dear Sir, theſe free Hints. My full Mind, which is thus ready to overflow thro' the Zeal I have for your Honour and Welfare, ſug⯑geſts many more to me, which your cool Reflection will not want. And I have been already ſo prolix, that I will only farther ſay, that I am, and ſhall ever be,

LETTER CXLII. Againſt a Second Marriage, where there are Children on both Sides.

YOU aſk my Opinion as to the Thoughts you have entertained of making your Addreſſes to the Widow Lockyer. Do you really aſk it with an Intent to take it? Or, like the Generality of the World, only in hopes that my Judgment falling in [189] with your own, may be a kind of Juſtification or Excuſe for what you intend to do, and are, per⯑haps, already reſolved upon? If ſo, what do you do, but lay a Snare for me, which may put an End to our Friendſhip? For Men leaſt of all bear Con⯑troul or Contradiction in Points of this Nature, when their Hearts are actually determined; and then Indifference begins, and Diſguſt ends the beſt⯑cemented Friendſhips.

To ſay the Truth, I never was a Friend to Second Marriages, where there are Children on one Side, and a Likelihood of more; but, eſpecially, where there are Children on both. I have nothing to ſay, as to the Perſon or Character of the Lady. You, whom it moſt concerns, are well ſatisfy'd of both, or you would not have gone ſo far, as to aſk a Friend's Advice on this Occaſion: But ſince you do put it to me, I will throw a few Reaſons together, which have always had Weight with me on theſe Occaſions; and I hope, you'll not think the worſe of your Friend, if he happen to differ a little from your own Judgment.

It muſt be confeſs'd, in the Caſe you put, That the Circumſtances on both Sides, are pretty equal. That there is no great Diſparity in Years. That ſhe has Three Children, and you have Four; a round Family, however, when they come toge⯑ther! That ſhe is very fond of her Children, and you, at preſent, of yours. That you are not an ill-temper'd Man, and ſhe is a good-temper'd Wo⯑man; and was a loving Wife to her late Spouſe, as you were an affectionate Huſband to yours. Well, ſo far is very well, and, you'll think perhaps, very promiſing of a happy Union; and poſſibly you may think right; at leaſt you have much better Grounds for it, than many that do marry upon much worſe and more unequal Proſpects.

[190] But conſider, Sir, what Security have you, that Perſons who have been always good-temper'd, when they have nothing to thwart or try their Temper, will be ſtill ſo, when they have ſome⯑thing that will?—Here, at the very Threſhold of this Adventure, is a Cauſe of great Trial; a Trial which neither of you had before, and con⯑ſequently, which neither of you know how you ſhall behave in: She loves her Children. So ſhe ought. You love yours. It is right ſo to do. But ſee you not, before I ſpeak, that this laudable ſeparate Love of either, may become matter of great Uneaſineſs to both? You cannot, either of you, poſſibly expect more than common Civility, and outſide Kindneſs, from the other, ſhe to yours, you to hers. And it will be happy enough if this Taſk do not ſufficiently try the Diſcretion of both.

It is impoſſible, my Friend, but you muſt have very different Views on each other—A pretty Pro⯑ſpect to ſet out with in a matrimonial Adventure! Her Praiſes of her own Children will be very ſin⯑cere and laviſh. Her Praiſes of yours, if ſhe ever praiſes, will be very ſuſpicious and ſparing. And perhaps you muſt be as diſcreet as poſſible, in the Praiſes of your own. The very Cloaths each wear, the Victuals they eat, nay, the very Looks of either Parent, as they ſhall appear kind to their own, or reſerved to the other's, will afford room for in⯑ward Heart-burnings, if not outward Janglings. I have ſeen many Inſtances of theſe kinds.

Their different Capacities; one ſhall take their Learning, another not—Their different Tempers; one ſhall be mild, another inſulting: one ſmooth, another rough—Their different Ages; which will make one dictate, while the other will not be preſcribed to—Will all afford Cauſe of Dif⯑ference; and when they come to an Age fit for [191] ſetting them out in the World; if Boys, to Ap⯑prentice; You put Jackey to a better Trade than Tommy, and give more Money with him! And yet one Trade or Maſter may apparently deſerve or require it; the other, not. If Girls, in Matri⯑mony; Why ſhould Betſey be married before Thomaſine?—Let the Eldeſt go firſt! Tho' perhaps the one has an humble Servant, the other none—Ay, I ſee poor Thomaſine muſt be contented with any body, or any thing, while Betſey muſt be a Lady!—Theſe are all ſtill freſh Cauſes of Dif⯑ference and Uneaſineſs to you both.

Then will ſhe actually, or you will ſuſpect it, (and that is as bad to your Peace) be conſtantly progging, as the Women call it, for her Children, in order to make a private Purſe for them, on any Occaſion that may happen, or in caſe ſhe ſhall outlive you.

And if there be a third Race of Children from this Marriage, worſe and worſe ſtill. Then the two former Sets, if they never joined together before, now will make a common Cauſe, in this ſingle Point, againſt the new Race; and muſt not this double your own and your Wife's Comforts, think you?—Then muſt you be glad to leſſen your Family at home, that you may leſſen the Number of ſo many Spies and Enemies to your Repoſe. The Boys muſt be hurry'd out to the firſt Thing that offers for them, whether ſuitable or unſuitable to their Genius or Capacity; and they generally thrive accordingly: The Girls to the firſt Man that will take them, whether he can provide for them or not, as he ought; and after a while they may come back to you, tho' fitted out with a great Expence, quite deſtitute and undone, with a farther Increaſe to your Family; the too frequent Conſequences of precipitate Marriages. And then [192] will a new Scene commence; for all the unprovided-for, will join againſt the poor unhappy one.

This, you'll ſay, is looking a great way forward. It is ſo. And what may never happen. Poſſibly it never may, as to the laſt Caſe; but as it too often has happen'd, and daily does happen, a wiſe Man will think a little about it, while it is in his Power to prevent it all.

I have touch'd but upon a few of the Conſe⯑quences that may too probably follow from a new Engagement. Yet, I believe, theſe, if you are not abſolutely determin'd, will make you think a little; if you are, why then, all the Rea⯑ſons that can be urged will ſignify nothing. And in this Caſe, you ſhould not have laid a Snare for me to diſoblige a Perſon who is to ſtep in be⯑tween your Friendſhip and mine, and who will look upon me, if ſhe knows my Mind, (as very probably ſhe will; for I hardly ever knew a Secret of this kind kept) as her Enemy, and ſo create a Coolneſs and Indifference between us, which you cannot help if you would. For if ever it be ſo, and your Lady receives me, in a way that I have not been uſed to in your Houſe, I ſhall be very ſhy of viſiting either you or her.

If you require it, and it will have any Effect upon you, I can enter ſtill farther into this Subject; but I fanſy I have ſaid enough, and perhaps more than you'll thank me for. But be that as it will, I have anſwer'd your Requeſt; and ſhewn you, (peradventure, at the Expence of my Diſcretion) that I am, in all Things,

LETTER CXLIII. Againſt a ſecond Marriage, where there are Chil⯑dren on one Side, and a Likelihood of more.

YOU are inclined, you tell me, to give your Children a Mother, inſtead of the good one they have loſt; or rather, in plain Engliſh, you ſhould have ſaid, yourſelf a Wife, to ſupply your own Loſs: And you aſk my Opinion on the Sub⯑ject, without naming the Perſon, only intimating, that ſhe is a maiden Lady, no more than Seven Years younger than yourſelf, and has a pretty middling Fortune.

I am glad you have not named the Lady; for now I ſhall ſtand clear of any Imputation of per⯑ſonal Prejudice, let me ſay what I will. I will therefore freely tell you my Mind, that I am al⯑ways againſt ſecond Marriages, where there are Children on one or both Sides, and likely to be more: Unleſs there are ſuch worldly Reaſons as make it abſolutely prudent for a Perſon to marry to eſtabliſh his Circumſtances. This is not your Caſe: For you are very eaſy in the World; and beſides, the Ladies of this Age are ſo brought up, that a Man muſt not look for very extraordinary Aſſiſt⯑ances in a Wife, with relation to her own Chil⯑dren, much leſs the Children of another Woman. Well, but this Lady is highly prudent, good-hu⯑mour'd, an excellent Oeconomiſt, and what not! And ſo they are all, my Friend; or at leaſt, we are apt to perſuade ourſelves ſo, before they are marry'd.

But we'll ſuppoſe her all you ſay, and all you think; yet ſhe will hardly, I preſume, be diveſted [194] of the Paſſions common to human Nature. Can you expect, that tho' you give your Children a Mo⯑ther, you give them an own Mother? She may have Prudence enough to do what ſhe will think her Duty by them, but muſt ſhe not be her own Judge, of what that is?—And are you ſure, that what ſhe calls ſo, nay, and, for Peace-ſake, what you will be willing to call ſo too, will be called ſo by your Children, as they grow up, and even by the reſt of the World? But Children, you'll ſay, may be unreaſonable and undutiful—Very well, Sir—we'll ſuppoſe it ſo; but will this make you happy, let them have Reaſon, or not, for their Surmiſes? And as ſhe cannot plead Nature for the Regulator of her Conduct towards them, but common Civility, and Prudence only, at the very beſt; will there not be two to one on the Childrens Side, that they may be right? But whoever may be right or wrong, if you are made unhappy by it, that's the eſſential Point to you, who by this ſecond Marriage have been the Cauſe of it all.

This is moſt certain, her Views muſt be quite contrary to thoſe of your Children: 'Tis true, theirs will of Conſequence be likewiſe contrary to hers, and yet both may be very reaſonable too, according to the Character of each. And is not this a pretty Situation for you, do you think? For which Side can you, muſt you take? The Children, as they grow up, will be jealous of ill Offices from her with you. She will interpret thoſe things which a natural Mother would think nothing of, as ſtudied Slights; and will not their conſtant Bickerings make you uneaſy in your own Family, where Un⯑eaſineſs is the leaſt tolerable, as it is the Place to which a Man ſhould retire for Comfort, when the World gives him Cauſe of Diſpleaſure?

[195] And what, pray, may this probably end in? Why, for Quietneſs-ſake, you will poſſibly be ob⯑liged to ſeparate them. The Mother-in-law, ſhould ſhe be in Fault, you cannot part with. The Children then muſt turn out, of courſe. You muſt ſtudy, after reconciling and patching up a hundred Breaches, to make ſome other Proviſion for them. And thus, perhaps, they are precipitated into a wide World, and expoſed to a thouſand dangerous Temptations; and how can you forgive yourſelf, if they ſhould by this means become a Prey to the deſigning Attempts, the Boys, of vicious Women; the Girls, of profligate Men? And how would it have grieved the Heart of their indulgent Mother, could ſhe have foreſeen, that her beloved Spouſe, inſtead of ſupplying the Loſs of a Mother to them, ſhould take from them his own immediate Pro⯑tection, and that perhaps at a Time of Life, when it was moſt neceſſary for their future Good?

This may very probably be more or leſs the Caſe, if there be no other Difficulties, than what may ariſe between your Children and their Mother-in-law. But if, as is moſt likely, you ſhould have Children by this your ſecond Wife, the Caſe may be ſtill worſe. She will then look upon yours by your firſt, not only with a more indifferent, but probably with a jealous Eye. She will be continu⯑ally carking and laying up for her own, and grudge every thing you lay out upon the others. And when they are both grown up to any Bigneſs, what Claſhings and Jarrings may not enſue between the Offspring of the ſame Father, and two different Mothers? How will you be obliged to give a Pre⯑ference to the Children of the latter Wife, againſt thoſe of the former; becauſe the Mother of the one Set is preſent and partial, and perhaps clamorous, [196] in their Favour—that of the other, abſent, ſilent, dead, forgotten!

If Love hides a Multitude of Faults, as no doubt it does, and Indifference, or, perhaps, as it may be, Hatred, is quick-ſighted to every little Slip, how will hers be all Angels! Yours—the worſt ſhe can call them!—Yet how can you help this? You are married to the Temper, as well as to the Woman; and Oppoſition, 'tis likely, will but make matters worſe; for what the Sex cannot carry by Reaſon or Argu⯑ment, they will by Obſtinacy and Teizing.

Then in the Matter of making Proviſion reſpe⯑ctively for their future Good, how will your Soli⯑citudes for the one be conſtantly leſſened; for the other perpetually importun'd? Nor muſt your own Judgment, in either Caſe, be ſo much the Rule of your Conduct, as the fond Partiality of your ſecond Wife for hers. And it is far from being impoſſible, that ſhe may uſe your firſt Children worſe than ſhe would do mere Strangers, for no other Reaſon, but becauſe they have a better Title to your Regard, and ſtand more in the way of her Intereſt and Views.

Theſe, my good Friend, are ſome of the Reaſons I have to alledge againſt ſecond Marriages, where there are Children on one Side, and a Probability of having a ſecond Race. As I hinted, there may be Reaſons, where a Perſon's Circumſtances ſtand in need of the Aſſiſtance that may be procur'd by this means, to overbalance many of the Inconve⯑niencies I have hinted at. The leſſer Evil in this Caſe is to be choſen, and the Party muſt make the beſt of the reſt. But this is not your Caſe: And ſo I refer the Whole to your mature Con⯑ſideration, and am, Sir,

LETTER CXLIV. Adviſing a Friend againſt going to Law.

I AM ſorry to hear, that the Difference between you and Mr. Archer is at laſt likely to be brought to a Law-ſuit. I wiſh you'd take it into your ſeri⯑ous Conſideration before you begin, becauſe it will hardly be in your Power to end it, when you pleaſe. For you immediately put the Matter out of your own Hands, into the Hands of thoſe whoſe Intereſt it is to protract the Suit from Term to Term, and who will as abſolutely preſcribe to you in it, as your Phyſician in a dangerous Illneſs.

The Law, my good Friend, I look upon, more than any one thing, as the proper Puniſhment of an over-haſty and perverſe Spirit, as it is a Puniſh⯑ment that follows an Act of a Man's own ſeeking and chuſing. You will not conſent perhaps now to ſubmit the Matter in Diſpute to Reference: but let me tell you, that after you have expended large Sums of Money, and ſquandered away a deal of Time in Attendance on your Lawyers, and Pre⯑parations for Hearings, one Term after another, you will probably be of another Mind, and be glad Seven Years hence to leave it to that Arbitration which now you refuſe. He is happy who is wiſe by other Mens Misfortunes, ſays the common Adage: And why, when you have heard from all your Acquaintance, who have try'd the Experiment, what a grievous Thing the Law is, will you, notwith⯑ſtanding, pay for that Wiſdom, which you may have at the Coſt of others?

The Repreſentation that was once hung up as a Sign in the Rolls Liberty, on one Side, of a Man [198] all in Rags wringing his Hands, with a Label im⯑porting, That he had loſt his Suit; and on the other, a Man that had not a Rag left, but ſtark naked, capering and triumphing, That he had carry'd his Cauſe ^*, was a fine Emblem of going to Law, and the infatuating Madneſs of a litigious Spirit.

How excellent to this Purpoſe is the Advice of our Bleſſed SAVIOUR, rather than ſeek this Redreſs againſt any who would even take one's Coat, to give him his Cloak alſo? For, beſides the Chriſtian Doctrine inculcated by this Precept, it will be found, as the Law is managed, and the Un⯑certainty that attends it, even in the beſt-grounded Litigations, that ſuch a pacifick Spirit may be deemed the only way to preſerve the reſt of one's Garments, and to prevent being ſtript to the Skin.

Moreover, what wiſe Man would ruſh upon a Proceeding, where the principal Men of the Pro⯑feſſion (tho' the Oath they take, if Serj [...]nts, ob⯑liges them not to ſign a ſham Plea, nor plead in a Cauſe againſt their own Opinion) are not aſhamed, under the ſpecious, but ſcandalous Notion, of do⯑ing the beſt they can for their Client, to undertake, for the ſake of a paltry Fee, to whiten over the blackeſt Cauſe, and to defeat the juſteſt? Where your Property may depend altogether upon the Impudence of an eloquent Pleader aſſerting any thing, a perjured Evidence ſwearing whatever will do for his Suborner's Purpoſe? Where the Tricks and Miſtakes of Practiſers, and want of trifling Forms, may Nonſuit you? Where Deaths of Per⯑ſons made Parties to the Suit, may cauſe all to begin again? What wiſe Man, I ſay, would ſub⯑ject [199] himſelf to theſe Vexations and common In⯑cidents in the Law, if he could any way avoid it; together with the intolerable Expences and Attendances conſequent on a Law-ſuit? Beſides, the Fears, the Cares, the Anxieties, that revolve with every Term, and engroſs all a Man's Thoughts? Where legal Proofs muſt be given to the plaineſt Facts; that a living Man is living, and identi⯑cally himſelf; and that a dead Man is dead, and buried by Certificate; where Evidence muſt be brought at a great Expence to Hands and Seals affixed to Deeds and Receipts, that never were be⯑fore queſtion'd; till a Cauſe ſhall be ſplit into ſeveral Under-ones; theſe try'd Term by Term; and Years elapſe before the main Point comes to be argued, tho' originally there was but one ſingle Point, as you apprehended, in the Queſtion. As to the Law-part only, obſerve the Proceſs: Firſt, comes the Declaration; 2dly, a Plea; 3dly, De⯑murrer to the Plea; 4thly, a Joinder in Demurrer; 5thly, a Rejoinder; 6thly, a Sur-rejoinder; which ſometimes is concluſive, ſometimes to begin all over again. Then may ſucceed Tryals upon the Law Part, and Tryals upon the Equity Part; oftentimes new Tryals, or Rehearings; and theſe followed by Writs of Error.

Then you may be plung'd into the bottomleſs Gulf of Chancery, where you begin with Bills and Anſwers, containing Hundreds of Sheets at exor⯑bitant Prices, 15 Lines in a Sheet, and 6 Words in a Line, (and a Stamp to every Sheet) barefacedly ſo contrived to pick your Pocket: Then follow all the Train of Examinations, Interrogatories, Exceptions, Bills amended, References for Scandal and Imperti⯑nence, new Allegations, new Interrogatories, new Exceptions, on Pretence of inſufficient Anſwers, Replies, Rejoinders, Sur-rejoinders, Butters, Rebut⯑ters, [200] and Sur-rebutters; till, at laſt, when you have danced thro' this bleſſed Round of Preparation, the Tryal before the Maſter of the Rolls comes next; Appeals follow from his Honour to the Chancellor; then from the Chancellor to the Houſe of Lords; and ſometimes the Parties are ſent down from thence for a new Tryal in the Courts below—Good Heavens! What wiſe Man, permit me to repeat, would enter himſelf into this confounding Circle of the Law?—

I hope, dear Sir, you will think of this Matter moſt deliberately, before you proceed in your preſent angry Purpoſe; and if you ſhall think proper to take my Advice, and avoid a Law-ſuit, I am ſure you will have Reaſon to thank me for it, and for the Zeal wherewith I am

LETTER CXLV. To a young Lady, cautioning her againſt keep⯑ing Company with a Gentleman of a bad Character.

THE great Reſpect I have, and always had for you, obliges me to take this Freedom, to let you know, that the Neighbourhood begins to talk pretty freely of you and Mr. Lory. You have been ſeen with him at the Play, and after that, at the R [...] Tavern, a Houſe of no good Repute, I aſſure you; where you have ſtaid with him till near Twelve o' Clock at Night: You have like⯑wiſe been with him at Vipont's at Hampſtead, at Vaux-hall, Cuper's-gardens, Mary-le-bon, &c.

[201] I am ſorry for theſe Things, becauſe he has none of the beſt of Characters; having, as I am well in⯑form'd, already ruin'd Two, if not Three, worthy Tradeſmens Daughters: And it is but too probable, that he has no honourable Deſign upon you: For, whatever he may promiſe you, I am credibly aſſur'd, that he is actually engaged with Miſs Knapper, whom you know very well: Indeed, it is ſaid, he has 200 l. per Ann. but if it be ſo, he is very much involved in the World; and, at the Rate he lives, had he three times that Eſtate, would never be out of Debt; for he is downright extravagant, a Man of no Conduct, a perfect Rattle, whoſe Words are not to be rely'd on in any reſpect; and makes a common Boaſt of the Favours he has received from our Sex, whoſe faulty Fondneſs is the conſtant Subject of his Ridicule.

For all theſe Reaſons, I beg of you, dear Couſin, to avoid his Company; for tho' I am confident you will preſerve your Virtue, yet, my Dear, think what you will, you may receive an incurable Wound in your Reputation. I hope you'll excuſe this Liberty, which no other Motive but Zeal for your Credit and Welfare has occaſioned. And be⯑lieve me to be

LETTER CXLVI. From a Mother to her high-ſpirited Daughter, who lives on uneaſy Terms with her Husband.

I AM ſorry with all my Heart, to hear of the frequent Miſunderſtandings between your Huſ⯑band and you. I hoped much better things from [202] your Prudence. From my Prudence, you'll ſay perhaps! as if I thought all the Fault was yours: But, my Dear, I don't think ſo, I can't think ſo; and yet I may find Fault with your want of Pru⯑dence too: For Prudence will oblige a good Wife to bear a little Contradiction from her Huſband, tho' not always juſt, perhaps, as well as to avoid giving Offence. Suppoſe he is peeviſh, petulant, un⯑eaſy in his Temper, and on ſlight or no Occaſions, as you may think; muſt you be peeviſh and petu⯑lant, becauſe he is ſo? How do you know what things may have happened to him abroad, in the way of his Buſineſs, to make him ſo?—Or, if it be only Humour, why muſt you be as bad as he that you find Fault with? Is an ill Temper in a Huſband, ſo taking a thing, that the Wife, who finds it intolerable to her, muſt nevertheleſs imi⯑tate or aſſume it?

The Reaſon why you will not allow him to be oftener in the Right, and why you condemn as cauſeleſs his Petulance and Waſpiſhneſs, muſt pro⯑ceed in a great meaſure from a ſlender Opinion, if not Contempt, of his Judgment. If you think him a Man of Senſe, 'tis impoſſible but you ſhould allow, that there may be ſome Cauſe, tho' you don't im⯑mediately penetrate it, why he ſhould be diſturbed; and it would be kind in you to ſuppoſe the beſt; as, that his Tenderneſs for you will not let him communicate it to you, rather than to imagine he is always in the wrong, and always angry with⯑out Reaſon. But were it actually to be ſo, are you commiſſioned to puniſh him with Provocations and Reſentments as wrong, and even more unbe⯑coming in a Wife? If you love him as you ought, you will extenuate his Failings, and draw into an advantageous Light thoſe Actions which may be interpreted in his Favour.

[203] But if, as I heard you once ſay, you will give him as good as he brings; that you will not bear his unaccountable Humours, and ſuch-like vulgar and provoking Expreſſions; it muſt come to this Point: Either you or he muſt give way; one of your Tem⯑pers muſt be ſubdued, and over-aw'd by the other. If it be his Caſe, tir'd out by your reſolute and ſturdy Behaviour, to ſuccumb, do you think this will either be a Credit to him or to you? What an abject (henpeck'd, the Vulgar call it) Wretch will he be deem'd? What a Termagant you? He'll be the Jeſt of his Companions, and you be thought to excel—in what? In a Quality the moſt infamous to a Woman, next to that of an Adultereſs.

But this I aver, that Meekneſs, Condeſcenſion, Forbearance, are ſo far from being deſpiſable Qua⯑lities in our Sex, that they are the Glory of it. And what is Meekneſs, my Dear, if you are not to be try'd by Provocations? What is Condeſcenſion, if you muſt always have your own way? What is Forbearance, if you are to return Injury for Injury, with the hoſtile Spirit of a fierce Enemy, rather than to act with the ſweet Complacency of a tender Wife, who has vow'd Obedience and Duty?

But, Obedience and Duty, you'll ſay, in Re⯑turn for ill Nature and ill Uſage! Yes, my Dear, even were it to be ſo, you ought. For, do you think you are never to condeſcend, or give up your own Humour to your Huſband? A pretty Sort of Obedience that, which ſhall be only ſhewn where you are not thwarted, but never where you are! Would not this be Obedience to your own head⯑ſtrong Paſſions, and not to him?—So long as you can have your way in every thing, you will be a Mirror of Condeſcenſion; but when once you come to be contradicted, why then you are at Liberty to contradict again. If he is out of the way in his [204] Humour, you will never be in the way in yours. If he gives you one unkind Word, he ſhall have two in Return; for you will give him as good as he brings. If he is paſſionate, you will be ſo too. You will return provoking Anſwers for reflecting Words; and ſo make your Houſe a conſtant Scene of Con⯑fuſion, and your Life uncomfortable. And for what? Why to ſhew how bravely you can return Injury for Injury; how nobly you can contend for Victory over your Huſband; and how you can make him deſpiſed in his Family, as well by Chil⯑dren as Servants, and yourſelf diſcredited by the poor Victory, ſuppoſe you were to win it by breaking his Spirit.

Is this, my Dear, the Part of a tender Wife to a Huſband? Nay, is it the Part of a Chriſtian to a Chriſtian, where there is not the matrimonial Ob⯑ligation? For are we not commanded to return Good for Evil, and to pray for them that deſpight⯑fully uſe us?—And is not the Wife's Converſa⯑tion to be coupled with Fear; and do we not vow Reverence to a Huſband as our Head?—How can all this be, if you are to return Evil for Evil; to make yourſelf your own Judge, and Jury, and Ex⯑ecutioner too, by acquitting yourſelf, condemning him, ſentencing him, and puniſhing him with all the Severity of licentious Speech, provoking Snap⯑piſhneſs, or the ſtill more affecting Deportment of ſullen contemptuous Silence. Let me, on the Whole, beſeech you, for my ſake, who would be loth to be thought to have ſet you any bad Example; for your Family's ſake, for your Reputation's ſake, as well as his, to reſolve on a different Conduct. Make the good Rule yours, of never being out of Humour when he is ſo. Firſt ſoften him by good Temper; then, when ſoften'd, expoſtulate mildly on the Un⯑reaſonableneſs of his Anger. If you convince him [205] thus, he will take care of the like Error, or his preſent Confeſſion will ſtrengthen your mild Argu⯑ments againſt him in any thing elſe for the future. He will ſee you adviſe him for his Good. He will have a greater Opinion of your Prudence, and be more doubtful of his own. He will ſee you contend not for Victory, or Contradiction-ſake; but for his own ſake. And depend upon it, you will both reap the happy Fruits of it in the Comfort of your Lives; in the Love of your own Children; in the Reverence of your Servants (who will otherwiſe be liſted in each Contender's Quarrel, and be inſolent Judges of the Conduct of both); in the Reſpect of your Neighbours and Friends; and in the Pleaſure you will give to your Relations, who will viſit and be viſited by you both, with that Delight which no⯑body knows how to eſtimate ſo much, as, my dear Nanny,

LETTER CXLVII. A Lady to her Friend, a young Widow Lady, who, having bury'd a polite and excellent Husband, inclines to marry a leſs deſerving Gentleman, and of unequal Fortune.

WERE I to lay it down for a Maxim, that Maids often mend their Circumſtances by Marriage, Widows very rarely, I believe I might be juſtify'd by every one's Experience. To what can the Truth of this Obſervation be owing? Is it to be ſuppoſed, that Widows have ſtronger Paſſions than Maids? Shall the proud lordly Sex have it to boaſt, that they are ſuch eſtimable Creatures, that [206] when once one of them has had the Fortune to be choſen by a Lady, and has been taken from her by Death, ſhe cannot live without taking another, and finds herſelf obliged to accept of the next that offers, thro' all Diſadvantages, and every Degree of Inequality? Surely this cannot be the Caſe! Surely a prudent, a modeſt Lady will not ſay this in ſo many Words!—Much leſs then ought ſhe to con⯑feſs it by her Actions, which are much ſtronger than Words. For I believe no Woman who ever en⯑ter'd the Pale of Matrimony with ſprightly Hopes about her, found the Poſſeſſion (Sex only conſider'd) equal to her Expectations. The Maid may hope, may fanſy much, in the Commerce between the Sexes, from her meditating on the heighten'd Scenes, which pernicious Novels, and idle Ro⯑mances, the Poiſon of Female Minds, abound with. But the Widow knows 'tis all Free-maſonry, all empty Hope, flaſhy, fooliſh, unworthy, unperma⯑nent, and, but for the Law of Nature, deſpicable.—Whence is it then, that the wiſhing, expecting Maid ſhould be more prudent than the knowing, experienced Widow? Should be better Proof, with raiſed Imaginations, againſt Courtſhip or Perſua⯑ſion, than one who well knows the tranſitory Va⯑nity and Unſatisfactorineſs of the End to which that Courtſhip or Perſuaſion tends?

If it be ſaid, That this Point is not ſo much the Caſe, as the ſettled Life of Matrimony, which has been once ſo ſatisfactorily experienced; let the Circumſtances of a Lady who abounds in every thing, anſwer this poor, but common Excuſe; and let the Choice ſhe makes of the Perſon and Fortune of her ſecond Husband (which is generally, as I have obſerved above, in both Caſes, far ſhort of her former Choice) acquit or convict her, as her Con⯑duct ſhall deſerve.

[207] If a young Widow indeed advantages herſelf, and worſts not her Children, (if ſhe has any) in her ſecond Adventure, let her proceed: She is juſti⯑fied to worldly Prudence. But this, as I have ſaid, is ſo ſeldom the Caſe, even with Widow Ladies of Modeſty, and Diſcretion in other reſpects, that I muſt own I have been often puzzled and confound⯑ed how to account for the Motives of ſuch an one, reputably; eſpecially when ſhe appears to me and all the World, neither to have done Honour to the Memory of her late Spouſe, to her Family, to her⯑ſelf, nor, as ſometimes, has been the Caſe, paid any regard to common Decency. How, I ſay, ſhall this be accounted for, in a Lady of Prudence and Virtue? Is it, that, as one Extreme is ſaid to border on another, extreme Joy treads on the Heels of extreme Sorrow? It cannot be; for as, on one hand, I am ſure there can be no extreme Joy in the matrimonial Commerce; ſo, I fear, where a Wo⯑man can ſoon forget her departed Spouſe, ſhe can⯑not be ſenſible of extreme Grief for his Loſs. And if ſhe will take upon her this latter Part of the Cha⯑racter, and own the firſt was thus indifferent to her, ſhe ſhall have my Conſent to do any thing ſhe has a mind to do, and I will exempt her willingly from the Obſervation of every other Rule of Pru⯑dence and Decency.

But in a Caſe the direct Reverſe of this, how ſhall we account for ſuch a Behaviour? How in particular, if the charming, the blooming Miſs Bendiſh, who was ſo coy a Maiden, and with ſo much Difficulty won by the late amiable and con⯑verſible Mr. Brookes, with a Fortune ſuperior to her own, ſhould, within a few Months after his Deceaſe, when bleſt with an Affluence left her by his Generoſity and Affection for her, be won by Mr. [208] Fownes, a Man leſs accompliſh'd as to Knowledge, leſs amiable in his Perſon, leſs polite in his Con⯑verſation, and of a Fortune ſo much beneath what was even her maiden one, that her Friends then would never have thought him worthy of her?—How, I ſay, ſhall we account for this, if it ſhould be ſo? Is there a ſecret Sympathy in Tempers and Diſpoſitions, that attracts each its Like by Motives imperceptible and unaccountable? It cannot be in this Caſe ſurely. For can the polite Mrs. Brookes be leſs polite for having been marry'd to one of the beſt-bred and beſt-behav'd Gentlemen in England? And can ſhe ſo ſoon get over Forms as a Widow, for ſuch a Suitor as Mr. Fownes, which as a Maid were ſo long before they could be diſpenſed with in Favour of ſuch a Lover as Mr. Brookes?—Is her ſoft and delicate Mind, as well all think it, after all, more on a Level with that of the one Gentleman than that of the other far more excellent one? Has ſhe, will the Licentious aſk, ſtronger Incentives to a married State, as a Widow, than ſhe had as a Maid?—It cannot be!—What then ſhall we ſay to all this?—For after all, two Years won not Miſs Bendiſh, to a Gentleman of exalted Worth; and two Months ſeem to have made a great Pro⯑greſs with Mrs. Brookes!—And that in Favour of a Gentleman, whom we all think unworthy of her at all.

My dear Boſom-friend, my School-fellow, my Companion, as well in the maiden as in the matri⯑monial, tho', I bleſs God, not in the vidual State, reſolve me theſe Queſtions; anſwer to me for this Conduct; account to me for theſe ſeeming unac⯑countable Motives, and thereby juſtify yourſelf to your Reputation, to the Memory of the dear De⯑parted, to your own Sex, to the other Sex, (ſo at⯑tentive [209] as they both are to your Conduct in this Particular) and, laſtly, which will for ever oblige me, to

LETTER CXLVIII. From a Gentleman, ſtrenuouſly expoſtulating with an old rich Widow, about to marry a very young gay Gentleman.

I AM very ſorry to hear of the Encouragement you give to the Viſits of young Mr. Barnes, becauſe of the great Difference in Years between you. I cannot help giving you the Trouble of this Expoſtulation, tho' I am told, (and much affected I am with the News, if it be true) that the Matter between you is ſo far gone, that all I can ſay may too probably prove ineffectual.

Our Sex, Madam, in all your late Huſband's Time, has received an Advantage and a Credit from your Conduct in the marry'd State; and now, I wiſh it may not receive as great a Diſparagement, ſince the prudent Mrs. Bates thinks fit to coun⯑tenance the Addreſſes of one who was born after ſhe was marry'd, and a Mother, and who can poſſi⯑bly have no other Inducement than your Fortune. I believe, Madam, you never knew one happy Marriage of this ſort in all your Life: And you will reflect, that you will not be intitled to Pity, nor the young Man to Cenſure, if he ſhould prove the worſt and moſt profligate of Huſbands to you. For every one will cenſure you, and acquit him, [210] ſhould he even treat you with perſonal Abuſe and Barbarity.

Beſides, it is well known, that Mr. Barnes is a young Man of no very promiſing Inclinations. Some young Gentlemen are as grave and diſcreet at Twenty-five, as others at Thirty-five: But he has all the Vanity, the Gaiety, the Affectation, of any one at his Time of Life: And can you expect, that he will treat you well, that was never noted for treat⯑ing his own Mother very dutifully, who, by the way, is younger than yourſelf? Advanced Years are the con⯑ſtant Subject of Ridicule with ſuch wild young Fel⯑lows, to their Shame be it ſpoken! and what can you expect, when the very Motives by which you ſhall be ſuppoſed to be acted in ſuch a Match, will in⯑volve you in the deepeſt Cenſure, will make you the Contempt of Perſons of all Ages, and both Sexes, and expoſe you to the low Buffoonery even of the Man you have choſen, who, inſtead of being your Protector, as a Huſband ought to be, will probably be the Perſon who will lead the Jeſt that all will join in upon you, in order to excuſe his own ſorbid Choice?

You owe it, Madam, give me Leave to ſay, to the Memory of your late worthy Huſband; you owe it to your Sex; you owe it to yourſelf, and your own Intereſt, and future Good; nay, to Decency, I will venture to add, to proceed no further in this Affair. It ſeems to me, to be next to a Degree of Inceſt for a Woman all hoary and grey-gooſed over by Time, or who will be ſoon ſo, to expoſe her⯑ſelf to the Embraces of a young Fellow, who is not ſo old as her firſt Son would have been, had he lived. Forgive me, Madam; but I cannot help this Plain-dealing on the Occaſion. If you pro⯑ceed in giving Encouragement to the Boy's Ad⯑dreſs, I expect not, nor can I deſire, to be forgiven, [211] or to ſtand upon common Terms with you: If otherwiſe, I am ready to aſk your Pardon; but I cannot with Patience think, that Mrs. Bates, who has paſſed thro' every Station hitherto with ſo much Applauſe, as well that of the prudent Widow, and exemplary Matron, as the affectionate Wife, ſhould give ſo great a Wound to our Sex as ſhe will do, if ſhe makes ſuch a Boy as Mr. Barnes the Succeſſor to her late worthy Huſband, and the Maſter of her Perſon and Fortune: By which Act ſhe will vow Obedience to one who was in a Cradle, when ſhe had Children of her own who were riſing from it; and who would undoubtedly deſpiſe her in this Light, were it not for her Wealth; all of which, that he can get at, by Force, or fair Means, (if he acts by you as others generally have done in the ſame Circumſtances) will be ſquander'd away upon rival Objects more ſuitable to his Youth, while you will be the Laughing-ſtock and Scorn of ſuch as will revel in your Spoils, and triumph over you by the Help of your own Fortune. Mean time you will be ſo far from engaging the Pity of your Sex, that the more conſiderate of them, will ſhun and contemn you, as one who has brought a Diſgrace upon it: The Men will deſpiſe and flout you, and you will have nothing to do but to hide in a contemn'd Obſcurity that grey-green Head, which has ſo inconſiderately involved you in ſo much Di⯑ſtreſs, and to turn Penitent for it, and pray for an End to a miſerable Life; which, come when it will, will give Cauſe of Joy and Triumph to your young Huſband, and very little Sorrow to any other Perſon.

But I hope ſtill for better things; and I hope for Pardon for this Freedom; for fain would I be thought by Mrs. Bates,

LETTER CXLIX. From a young Lady in Town to her Aunt in the Country.

I. Deſcribing the Tower, Monument, St. Paul's, &c.

YOU will have me write you down Accounts of what I ſee remarkable in and about London, to keep me, as you ſay, out of Idleneſs, and to enter⯑tain my good Friends in my Abſence. I will obey, tho' your good Opinion of me, I am ſenſible, will be no ſmall Diſadvantage to me; for I ſhall convince you more effectually than ever of my Defects, and want of that Ability to entertain my abſent Friends, which their Partiality had made them expect from me.

To begin then, my Aunt and Couſins carried me, in the firſt Place, to ſee the Tower of London, which we have heard ſo much Talk of in the Country; and which no one that viſits this great Town, omits ſeeing. 'Tis ſituated by the Thames Side, ſurrounded with an old Wall, about a Mile in Compaſs, with a broad deep Ditch, which has generally more Mud in it than Water. All round [213] the outward Wall are Guns planted, which on ex⯑traordinary Occaſions are fired; as on more com⯑mon ones, they fire only Rows of others, which are fixed in the Ground, on the Wharf by the Thames. At the Entrance on the Right-hand, we ſaw the Collection of wild Beaſts kept there, as Lions, Panthers, Tygers, &c. alſo Eagles, Vul⯑turs, &c.

We were then carried to the Mint, where we ſaw the manner of coining Money, and ſtriking Medals, &c. From thence we went to the Jewel-houſe, and were ſhewn the Crown, and the other Regalia; which gave me no ſmall Pleaſure, as I had never ſeen theſe things before, and heard ſo much Talk of them.

The Horſe-Armory is a fine Sight; for here they ſhew Fifteen of our Engliſh Monarchs on Horſe⯑back, all in rich Armour, attended with Guards: But I think this Sight not comparable to the ſmall Armory; for here Pikes, Muſkets, Swords, Hal⯑berds, and Piſtols, (enow, as they told us, for three⯑ſcore thouſand Men) are all placed in ſuch beauti⯑ful Order, and ſuch various Figures, repreſenting the Sun, Star and Garter, Half-moons, and ſuch⯑like, that I was greatly delighted with the Sight, all the Arms being bright and ſhining.

We ſaw the Train of Artillery, in what they call the Grand Storehouſe; filled with Cannon and Mortars, all very fine, a Diving-bell, and other Curioſities; and I thought, upon the whole, that this great Magazine of Curioſities and Stores, was the moſt worthy of the Notice of a Stranger to London, of any thing I had been ſhewn.

From hence they carried me to the Monument, built in Remembrance of the Fire of London, a very curious Pillar, from the Gallery of which we had a Survey of the whole City. But as it ſtands [214] low, I cannot ſay, but I liked the Proſpect from St. Paul's Cupola much better, when I was car⯑ried up thither, which was Yeſterday; for that be⯑ing the higheſt Situation in the City, and more in the Centre of London and Weſtminſter, commands a finer View over both Cities, Hampſtead and High⯑gate Hills, Surrey, the River, &c. The Cathe⯑dral is a moſt noble Building, and I admired it not a little, for its Choir, Chapels, Dome, Whiſper⯑ing-place, Vaults below, and other Curioſities too tedious to mention.

This, Madam, may ſerve for one Letter, and to ſhew you how much I am deſirous, by my Obe⯑dience to your Commands, to approve myſelf

LETTER CL. From the ſame.

II. Deſcribing other remarkable Places in and about London and Weſtminſter, which are generally ſhewn to Strangers.

I HAVE ſeen the Cuſtom-houſe, a Place of Hurry and Buſineſs, with a crouded and incon⯑venient Key, compared to that of Briſtol. St. Thomas's and Guy's Hoſpitals, Southwark, all moſt noble Charities; St. Bartholomew's, a ſtill nobler; but which, by its additional Buildings, ſeems to be in a way to ſwallow up its own Revenues, by pulling down their Tenants Houſes, which con⯑tributed Means to ſupport the Charity. Smithfield alſo, a ſpacious Market for live Cattle, &c. as, I ſhould have ſaid, I had Leaden-hall Market, a [215] Prodigy of its Kind, and the Admiration of Fo⯑reigners. Sadler's-wells, at Iſlington, I have been at, and ſeen there the Diverſions of Rope-dancing, Volting, Singing, Muſick, &c. which I thought well enough for once. Iſlington-wells, or the New Tunbridge, I have been at; the Walks and Rooms neat enough, and good Decorum obſerv'd in both.

The Blue-coat Hoſpital I have alſo ſeen, another noble Charity; and the pretty Sight of the Chil⯑dren at Church, and at Supper of Sunday Night, which much pleaſed me. The Charter-houſe too, another noble Charity.

Alſo the Guildhall of London, a handſome Build⯑ing, adorn'd with Pictures, and with the Trophies of the Duke of Marlborough's Victory over the French; and the prepoſterous wooden Figures of the two famous Giants. The Royal Exchange likewiſe, a very fine Edifice; but they ſay the Statues of the Kings and Queens there, are ill done, except that of Charles II. in the Middle of the Area, and one or two more.

I have alſo been carried to Weſtminſter-hall, and the two Houſes where the Lords and Commons meet. They are by no means anſwerable to what I expected, tho' the Houſe of Commons is the neateſt, and very convenient for hearing and ſee⯑ing too. Weſtminſter-hall, like Guildhall, is adorn⯑ed with more of the Duke of Marlborough's Tro⯑phies, and it has Shops on each Side for Milaners, Bookſellers, and ſuch-like Trades. Here the Coro⯑nation-Feaſt is kept; and here are held, as you know, the Courts of Chancery, King's-bench, Common Pleas, and up Stairs the Court and Offices of the Exchequer.

The Abbey we are to ſee another time, being obliged to dine at Weſtminſter with a Friend of my Couſin's.

[216] Somerſet-houſe, in the Strand, I have ſeen, noted for its pleaſant Garden fronting the River; and it is indeed a fine Palace itſelf, deſigned for the Re⯑ſidence of the Queens Dowager of England, when we have ſuch a Perſonage. Marlborough Houſe in the Park, is finely furniſhed and adorned with Pictures of the Duke's Battles. St. James's Houſe is a poor Palace for a King of England; but it ſeems convenient on the Inſide. Buckingham Houſe ſtands better than that, for commanding the beautiful Park and Canal. The Treaſury, a fine new Build⯑ing. White-hall, whoſe Glory is the Banquetting-houſe, juſtly admir'd for its Architecture by Inigo Jones, and Inſide Painting by Rubens. It is a noble Situation for a Palace, which, were it to be built like this, would be the moſt magnificent in the World.

We took Coach another time, and were carried thro' the principal Squares and new Buildings about London and Weſtminſter, which are highly worth ſeeing; ſuch as Lincoln's-Inn Square, Lincoln's-Inn Fields, St. James's Square, Soho Square, Hanover Square, Cavendiſh Square, and Groſvenor Square, with the Multitude of ſtately Buildings, and noble Streets contiguous to the latter; a Sight worthy of Admiration.

This, Madam, may ſerve for a ſecond Letter, and another Inſtance, tho' a poor one, of that Obe⯑dience which will always bind me to be

LETTER CLI. From the ſame.

III. Deſcribing Chelſea Hoſpital, and Kenſing⯑ton Palace.

I HAVE been carried by my obliging Couſins to Chelſea College, about a Mile from St. James's Park, and to Kenſington Palace about two Miles Weſt from London.

The College, you know, was founded by King Charles II. and finiſhed by the late King William, for the Reception of ſuperannuated Officers and Soldiers. It is ſituated on the Banks of the Thames, its Gardens extending quite down to the River. It is a neat and ſtately Building; the Front looking to the Thames, has a fine Hall on one Side, and a neat Chapel on the other, with a noble Pavilion, as they call it, between them. The two Sides are four Stories high, and have two Wards in each Story, containing thirty-ſix neat Bed-rooms each, for ſo many Soldiers. Each Corner of this main Building is adorned with a fine Pavilion, being the Gover⯑nor's Lodging and Council-chamber; Lodgings for Officers, &c. In the Middle of the Square is a Braſs Statue of King Charles II. on a Marble Pe⯑deſtal.

There are beſides, four other large and uniform Wings; one is the Infirmary for the Sick, a ſecond for maimed Officers, a third for Officers of the College, the fourth for Servants. The Whole is a neat, convenient and airy Building, well worth a Stranger's View.

Kenſington Palace is a very pretty Summer Retire⯑ment for the Court: It is adorn'd with fine Pictures, [218] rich Hangings, and other Ornaments. But the Gar⯑dens, which have been much augmented of late Years, are delightful, and we diverted ourſelves in walk⯑ing round them, which gave me great Pleaſure; and I could not but wiſh, that you, Madam, were with me, becauſe you love walking, and would have been much pleaſed with theſe charming Gar⯑dens, which abound with fine Walks, &c. A noble Piece of Water, called the Serpentine River, but for what Reaſon I know not, (it being a ſtrait, and not winding Piece) preſents itſelf to View; and there is lately a new Road made thro' Hyde-park to Kenſington, by the late Q. Caroline, to keep the Gardens clear from Duſt in the Summer, and make them more private from Horſes, Paſſengers, Coaches, &c.; for the old Road, in one Part, ran almoſt cloſe to the Wall. A Row of Lamps from one End to the other of this Road, is placed on each Side of it, when the Court is there, which is a Beauty as well as Convenience.

Will this, Madam, ſerve for a third Letter on the Subject you have preſcribed to

LETTER CLII. From the ſame.

IV. Deſcribing Greenwich Park, and the Paſſage to it by Water.

LAST Tueſday, being Eaſter Tueſday, I went with my Uncle, Aunt and Couſins, down the River, on what they call a Party of Pleaſure; but with Deſign principally to ſee Greenwich Park and Hoſpital.

[219] We took Water at the Tower, which I de⯑ſcribed in my firſt Letter: I was pretty much afraid of Danger from Anchors, Cables, and ſuch-like, as we paſſed by the great Numbers of Ships, that lay in our Way at firſt ſetting out. But afterwards the River looked very pleaſant, and the Number of Boats all rowing with the Tide, made the River look very agreeably.

After ſailing not many Miles, we come with⯑in Sight of the Dock-yard at Deptford, where ſeveral large Ships upon the Stocks afforded a fine Proſpect; as the naval Strength of England is both its Glory and its Defence.

Next to Deptford, I was greatly pleaſed with the Proſpect of the Royal Hoſpital at Greenwich, for Seamen grown old in the Service of their Coun⯑try. When we landed, we went into this fine Building; and in the Inſide, every thing, in my Judgment, was perfectly agreeable to the Magni⯑ficence of the Outſide; allowing the one to be deſign⯑ed to do Honour to the Nation, the other to ſupport a Number of neceſſitous People, who ought to be the publick Care. The great Hall, and the Paint⯑ings in it, are admirable; but I know not whether they would not better ſuit a Palace, than an Hoſpital; and indeed this may be ſaid of the whole Building.

From thence we went into the Park; where I beheld divers odd Scenes of Holiday-folks. Here appeared a rakiſh young Fellow, with two or three Women who look'd like Servant-maids; the Hero delighted, the Nymphs ſmiling round him—There a careful-looking Father with his Children on each Side; Trains of admiring Lovers, ready-pair'd, followed one another in thronging Crouds at the Gate; a Sea-Officer, with a Lady not over-burdened with Modeſty in her Beha⯑viour: A Croud of City Apprentices, ſome with, [220] ſome without their Laſſes: Half a dozen Beaux ogling all they met: And ſeveral ſeemingly diſcon⯑ſolate Virgins walking alone. The Concourſe of middling Objects preſſed chiefly toward a high Hill in the Middle of the Park; where, as they arrived, their Buſineſs was to take hold of Hands, and run down as faſt as poſſible, amidſt the Huzza's of a Multitude of People, who earneſtly expected to ſee the Women fall, in hopes that their Cloaths would not lie ſo conveniently, when they were down, as might be wiſhed.

This, Madam, is a Diverſion you would not expect ſo near the polite City of London; but I aſſure you, ſuch a Levity poſſeſſed almoſt every body aſſembled on this Occaſion, as made the Park, though moſt beautiful in itſelf, no way entertain⯑ing to

LETTER CLIII. From the ſame.

V. Deſcribing Bethlehem Hoſpital.

YOU tell me, in your laſt, that my Deſcrip⯑tions and Obſervations are very ſuperficial, and that both my Uncle and yourſelf expect from me much better Accounts, than I have yet given you; for I muſt deliver my Opinion, it ſeems, on what I ſee, as well as tell you what I have been ſhewn. 'Tis well I left my bettermoſt Subjects to the laſt; ſuch, I mean, as will beſt bear Refle⯑ction; and I muſt try what I can do, to regain that Reputation which your Indulgence, rather than my Merit, had formed for me in your kind [221] Thoughts—Yet, I doubt, I ſhan't pleaſe you, after all. But 'tis my Duty to try for it, and it will be yours, I had almoſt ſaid, to forgive Imper⯑fections which I ſhould have concealed, but for your undeſerved good Opinions of me, which draw them into Light.

I have this Afternoon been with my Couſins, to gratify the odd Curioſity moſt People have to ſee Bethlehem, or Bedlam Hoſpital.

A more affecting Scene my Eyes never beheld; and ſurely, Madam, any one inclined to be proud of human Nature, and to value themſelves above others, cannot go to a Place that will more effe⯑ctually convince them of their Folly: For there we ſee Man deſtitute of every Mark of Reaſon and Wiſdom, and levelled to the Brute Creation, if not beneath it; and all the Remains of good Senſe or Education, ſerve only to make the unhappy Perſon appear more deplorable!

I had the Shock of ſeeing the late polite and in⯑genious Mr. [...] in one of theſe woful Chambers: We had heard, you know, of his being ſomewhat diſordered; but I did not expect to find him here: No ſooner did I put my Face to the Grate, but he leap'd from his Bed, and called me, with fright⯑ful Fervency, to come into his Room. The Sur⯑prize affected me pretty much; and my Confuſion being obſerved by a Croud of Strangers, I heard it preſently whiſper'd, That I was his Sweetheart, and the Cauſe of his Misfortune. My Couſin aſ⯑ſured me ſuch Fancies were frequent upon theſe Occaſions: But this Accident drew ſo many Eyes upon me, as obliged me ſoon to quit the Place.

I was much at a Loſs to account for the Beha⯑viour of the Generality of People, who were looking at theſe melancholy Objects. Inſtead of the Concern I think unavoidable at ſuch a Sight, a [222] ſort of Mirth appeared on their Countenances; and the diſtemper'd Fancies of the miſerable Patients moſt unaccountably provoked Mirth, and loud Laughter, in the unthinking Auditors; and the many hideous Roarings, and wild Motions of others, ſeemed equally entertaining to them. Nay, ſo ſhamefully inhuman were ſome, among whom (I am ſorry to ſay it!) were ſeveral of my own Sex, as to endeavour to provoke the Patients into Rage, to make them Sport.

I have been told, this dreadful Place is often uſed for the Reſort of lewd Perſons to meet and make Aſſignments: But that I cannot credit; ſince the Heart muſt be abandon'd indeed, that could be vicious amidſt ſo many Examples of Miſery, and of ſuch Miſery, as, being wholly involuntary, may overtake the moſt ſecure.

I am no great Admirer of publick Charities, as they are too often managed; but if we conſider the Impoſſibility of poor Peoples bearing this Misfor⯑tune, or providing ſuitably for the Diſtempered at their own Beings, no Praiſe can ſurely be too great for the Founders and Supporters of an Ho⯑ſpital, which none can viſit, without receiving the moſt melancholy Proof of its being needful. I am, with Reſpects where due, honoured Madam,

LETTER CLIV. From the ſame.

VI. Diverſions of Vaux-hall deſcribed.

I WENT on Monday laſt to Vaux-hall Gardens; whither every body muſt go, or appear a ſort of Monſter in polite Company. For the Convenience [223] of Waterage, as well as of Converſation, we were a pretty large Company, and the Evening proved ſerene and clear.

The Paſſage from Somerſet Stairs, where we took Water, was pleaſant enough; the Thames at High-water being a moſt beautiful River, eſpeci⯑ally above Weſtminſter, where the green Banks, and the open Country, afford a very agreeable Proſpect. The Place we landed at was crouded with Boats, and from the Water-ſide to the Gardens, we walk⯑ed through a double Line of gaping Watermen, Footmen, old Beggar-women and Children. As ſoon as we entered the Walks, I was pleaſed with a ſort of Stage, or Scaffold, raiſed at the Entrance, for the Servants of the Company to ſit out of their Maſters way, and yet within Call of the Waiters.

The Muſick-gallery and Organ look perfectly polite, and their being raiſed one Story from the Ground, has a good Effect upon the Muſick. The Walks are well enough, but environ'd with paltry wooden Boards, where I expected at leaſt a good Brick-wall. One Part of the Whole is thrown into Walks only; the other is on the Sides filled with Seats or Arbours, with painted Backs; on each of which is repreſented ſome Scene of our moſt common Plays, or the youthful Repreſenta⯑tion of the Infant Games, &c. I happened to have at my Back honeſt Hob, come dripping wet out of the Well; and the young Fellows, under Colour of ſhewing their Taſte in obſerving the Beauties of the Piece, were ſo perpetually ſtaring in our Faces, that Couſin Bet and I had little Pleaſure in our Supper. Perhaps you will wonder at our Supping in ſo open a Place; but, I aſſure you, Madam, no Lady is too tender for ſo faſhionable a Repaſt. My Uncle treated us very chearfully; but I could not help grudging the Expence he was at; [224] for when the Reckoning was paid, it amounted to no leſs than Ten Shillings a Head; which I think too dear, as the Entrance-money muſt be ſuffici⯑ent to defray the Houſe and Muſick. But as the Whole is devoted to Pleaſure, the Expence ſeems rather to create Satisfaction, than Diſtaſte, as it gives an Opportunity to gallant People to oblige thoſe they love, or pretend to love, in order, moſt of them, to pay themſelves again with large In⯑tereſt.

The Figure of Mr. Handel, a great Maſter of Muſick, ſtands on one Side the Gardens, and looks pretty enough: The Muſick plays from Five to Ten, about three Tunes (I believe I ſhould have ſaid Pieces) in an Hour. They are all reported to be the beſt Performers who aſſiſt here: but my rough Ears cannot diſtinguiſh.

About Ten o' Clock, many People think of Home: But the Votaries of Cupid, I am told, about that Time, viſit the remoteſt Walks, and ſigh out the ſoft Paſſion in Accents that may poſſibly be improved by the melting Sweetneſs of the Mu⯑ſick—I would not have you from hence conclude any Rudeneſs can be offered; for at the Termina⯑tion of every Walk, through the whole Garden is placed a Man to protect the Company from all manner of Inſult. But when the Place grows thin of Company, the Lovers have a better Chance to eſcape being laugh'd at, on the Appearance of any amorous Symptom.

Soon after Ten, we returned to our Boat; and I found the Paſſage extremely cold, notwithſtand⯑ing a Covering over us: I muſt own, I wiſh'd to be at home, long before I reached it; for I was taken with ſuch a Shivering, as did not leave me for two Days.

[225] Thus, Madam, have I been at Vaux-hall, with the Crowd of Faſhion-hunters. But if nobody had a greater Inclination than I have to go thither again, that Amuſement would ſoon be given up—For I ſee more and more, that, do what I will, Nature never deſigned me to be polite; and I can ſincerely declare, that I take more Satisfaction in an Evening-walk with you up the Weſt-grove, where I am ſo often benefited by your good In⯑ſtructions, than in the inchanting Shades of the ſo⯑much celebrated Vaux-hall. I am, honoured Madam,

LETTER CLV. From the ſame.

VII. An Account of Weſtminſter-Abbey.

I HAVE this Afternoon been at Weſtminſter-Abbey, and not a little pleaſed with what I have ſeen there. If there can be Majeſty in the Grave, here we ſee it: And ſuch was the ſolemn Effect the ſacred Repoſitory had upon me, that I never found an awful Reverence equal to what I felt on that Occaſion. Whatever be the Intention of erecting theſe coſtly Monuments, they ſeem to me very capable of being made an excellent Sermon to ſucceeding Generations; for here the moſt ſumptuous Piles ſerve only to ſhew, that every one of us muſt ſub⯑mit to the ſame Fate, that has overtaken thoſe whom Empire itſelf could not ſave. And how humble ought the Perſon to be, who ſurveys the Royal Ruins of Mortality, preſerved (as if in a vain Defiance [226] of Time) to ſhew nothing more than the Cer⯑tianty of our Diſſolution!

Theſe, Madam, were my general Sentiments on this Occaſion; but as I know you expect more particular Deſcriptions from me, I will tell you what moſt ſtruck my Notice among the many remarkable Curioſities to be here met with.

Among the Royal Monuments, thoſe of antient Date pleaſed me beſt; becauſe they look agreeable to what I read of the plain Royalty of our former Sovereigns. I lamented the Loſs of Henry the Fifth's Head, which being Silver, as they ſay, was ſtolen during the Civil War. I much wonder it has never yet been ſupply'd from ſome of his Buſto's. He wanted not a Head, to ſpeak in the metaphorical Style, while living; and France can teſtify, that his Heart deſerved all things of Engliſh Men: For he was the Terror of the one, and the Glory of the other.

Henry the Seventh's Chapel, in every Part of it, is ſurpriſingly magnificent and beautiful; and, as far as I can judge of ſuch Things, far ſurpaſſes all I have ſeen, either of antient or modern Date.

In this Chapel is the Chair in which our Kings for many Ages have been crown'd. 'Tis very plain, and looks as if it were not worth more than the Forfeit paid for ſitting in it.

The Body of Queen Catharine, Conſort to Henry the Fifth, was ſhewn us in an open Coffin; and what remains of Skin, looks like black diſ⯑coloured Parchment. She is ſaid to have been very beautiful; and, ſurely, to view her now, is a moſt effectual Antidote againſt the Vanity riſing from that dangerous Accompliſhment.

Two Embaſſadors Coffins are kept here, ſaid to be detained for want of having their Debts diſ⯑charged. This, indeed, does little Credit to the [227] Crown they ſerved; but I can ſcarce think it the Diſhonour deſign'd them, to be repoſited among the Remains of our Kings; tho' indeed ſeveral of them have their Debts unpaid too, as I am told.

Several Effigies are preſerved in Wax; particu⯑larly thoſe of King William, and his excellent Queen Mary; as alſo, very lately, the truly Royal Queen Anne. To be ſure, this is no bad Way, for a few Years, to preſerve their Likeneſs; but I know not whether ſuch gay Repreſentations ſuit the Solemnity of a Sepulchre. And yet ſome that ſtand here, ſeem not to have deſerved that Diſtinction, if it be deemed one, in Favour of their Memories. Ge⯑neral Monk, if I were to judge, would be one of thoſe; for his conſtant Train of Hypocriſy for a long time, ſeem'd a Contradiction to the Apoſto⯑lical Precept, Not to do Evil, that Good may come of it. A Ducheſs of Richmond, who walked at King Charles the Second's Coronation, never was re⯑markable for any thing, as I can hear, but that.

A very coſtly Effigy of the late Duke of Buckinghamſhire is in this Place, who was ſomewhat remarkable in his Time, but chiefly for doing what pleaſed himſelf, whether any body elſe was pleaſed or better'd by it, or not. And, what is odd enough, the preſent Ducheſs ſtands by him. Her Son too, the laſt Duke, who died juſt before he came of Age, is diſtinguiſhed with an Oſtentation ſuperior to all the reſt; tho' all I can learn of him is, that he was a hopeful young Nobleman, and the Darling of his Mother.

General Monk, whom I mentioned before, in a Habit mourning the Power of Time, ſtands in a Poſture ſo very fierce, as to ſeem rather intended to ſcare Children, than for any other Purpoſe.

I had almoſt forgot his Royal Maſter, King Charles the Second, who ſtands in his Garter [...] [228] Robes, and has long been admired by all Comers, it ſeems, for reſtoring Monarchy; for I can re⯑member no worthy Actions in his Hiſtory, nor were we told any more, by the Perſon who ex⯑poſed his Image to our View.

Many Reaſons make it neceſſary for the Wills of deceaſed Perſons to be literally obſerved, tho' ſome Inſtances of this kind do little Honour to the Deceaſed; as a Monument erected to the Conſort of a noble Lord, for whom a Vacancy being left on his Tomb, as for his ſecond Wife, ſhe, becauſe ſhe could not take the Right-hand of his firſt Lady, left ſtrict Order to be bury'd where her Bones now lie, and thereby has tranſmitted her Pride and Folly to ſucceeding Ages.

Near this Tomb, is the Figure of a Lady bleed⯑ing to Death by pricking her Finger: She was Maid of Honour to Queen Elizabeth, and, I think, of the Ruſſel Family. It ſeems ſhe got her fatal Wound at her Needle; and ſuch has been the Care of the Ladies who have ſucceeded her, that not one has fallen under the like Misfortune ever ſince.

If I ſhall not quite tire you, I will proceed with this Subject in my next—And am, mean time, honoured Madam,

LETTER CLVI. From the ſame.

VIII. Account of Weſtminſter-Abbey continued.

I NOW trouble you with an Account of what moſt ſtruck my Attention in the outward Ayles of Weſtminſter-Abbey.

[229] At entering the North-gate, a Monument of pro⯑digious Size, and great Expence, ſtood on my Left⯑hand: It is that of John Holles late Duke of New⯑caſtle, and all that is left him, out of upwards of 50000 l. a Year, as they tell me he had accumu⯑lated, and the two Heirs not much the richer for their Shares of it neither. I hope, as we ſay in our Country Phraſe, it was honeſtly got.

Next to this is one conſecrated to the Memory of the Duke that preceded him, the laſt of his Name of the Cavendiſh Family, as the other was of the Holles; with the celebrated Lady, his Ducheſs Margaret, a great Writer, and a great Chymiſt, (you know we have her Olio) both lying Side by Side, on a Tomb made great by their Names, and diſtinguiſhed by their Adventures; but as to outward Grandeur, wholly eclipſed by the former. Behind theſe is a large Room, or little Chapel, ſeparated from the publick Places, in which are repoſited the Holles Family. One of theſe Gentlemen has at his Feet the Repreſentation of a wild Boar, in Token of his having killed one of thoſe Animals, when he was on a Croiſade. Another has a large black Patch over his Right⯑eye, having loſt an Eye on the like Expedition.

Not far from hence, a fine Monument ſtands, to the Memory of Dr. Chamberlen, a Man-mid⯑wife, of no great Fame when living, but who happened to have the Eſteem of the preſent Ducheſs of Buckingham, who erected this to his Memory.

A magnificent Monument ſtands near this, of a Lady, whoſe Name is Carteret; and ſome Re⯑ports aſſign an odd Cauſe for her Death; viz. the late French King's ſaying, A Lady one of his Nobles compared to her, was the handſomeſt of the two.

[230] A fine Monument of Lord Courcey ſtands near this; on which, we are told, One of his Anceſtors had a Privilege granted, of wearing his Hat before the King—Here are ſeveral Monuments of Gentle⯑men who fell in the late Wars; Col. Bringfield, in particular, who had his Head ſhot off by a Cannon Ball, as he was mounting the Duke of Marlborough, who had a Horſe ſhot under him. Thoſe of others who were famous for different Talents; as my Favourite Purcel, and Dr. Crofts, for Muſick, decorate the North Iſle; at the Head of which ſtands Sir Godfrey Kneller, Painter to his late Majeſty; but with a Copy of Verſes on it, that, Judges ſay, are not very extraordinary, and yet Mr. Pope's Name is affixed to them. In a Corner, that anſwers to it, on the South-ſide of the Weſt-gate, ſtands a curious Reſemblance of James Craggs, Eſq Secre⯑tary of State in 1720. erected by a certain Ducheſs, for what Reaſon is not ſaid. Mr. Pope has been laviſh of his Praiſes, much more being engraved on this Gentleman's Monument of his Virtue, &c. than I ever heard any-where elſe. But they ſay he was a companionable Man, as ſome call it, and eaſy of Acceſs—A ſmall Diſtance from this, is a Monument erected by another Ducheſs, Siſter of the former, to the Memory of Mr. Congreve, from the great Eſteem ſhe bore him. So here are three Monuments erected to three Favourites, by three Ducheſſes. What a generous Sex is ours, who carry their Eſteem for the Merit of thoſe they favour, beyond the Grave! On the ſame Side of the Church is a very ſlight Monument of the great Earl Godolphin, who was Ld. High Treaſurer, during the proſperous Part of Queen Anne's Reign; and the mean Appearance this makes, when compared with thoſe of Mr. Craggs, Mr. Congreve, Dr. Chamberlen, &c. makes a Spectator ſenſible, that [231] a Judgment of the Deceaſed's Merits muſt not be formed from their Monuments; nor, as is to be hoped, the Gratitude and Affection of their De⯑ſcendents either. Sir Cloudeſly Shovel has great Honour done him, his Monument being erected at the Expence of his Royal Miſtreſs. But I thought he was a rough honeſt Tar; yet his Effigies makes him a great Beau, with a fine flowing full-bottom'd Periwig; ſuch a one, but much finer, and more in Buckle, than that we have ſeen our Lawyer Mr. Kettleby wear at our Aſſizes.

Mr. Thynne's Murder is prettily repreſented on his Tomb—But before I ſtep into what is call'd the Poets Row, I muſt return to the Door of the Choir; on the North-ſide of which is placed a noble Monument of the great Sir Iſaac Newton, which I humbly apprehend to be needleſs; for has he not built for himſelf a much finer Monument, and a much more durable one, than Marble? And will it not out-laſt this we ſee here, and the Abbey which contains it? He lies in a contemplative Poſture, leaning on the Volumes that have made his Name immortal. Oppoſite to him, at the South Entrance of the ſame Door, is a very grand Pile, to the Memory of the late Earl Stanhope, a brave Soldier, tho' unfortunate in one Battle; and a Man of great Probity.

On one Side of the Poets are Dr. South and Dr. Buſby; the one an humorous and witty Di⯑vine, the other as remarkable a School-maſter, be⯑ing famous for his Diſcipline and Severity. Geoffry Chaucer has reach'd us: Spencer is near him; Philips not far from Spencer. Ben. Johnſon is written on a poor Buſt: and Butler (put up by a Printer, to make his own Name famous) bears him Company. I would fain not name Matt. Prior; but his Monument is ſo beautiful and large, [232] and his Buſto ſo admirable, being a Preſent to the Poet by the French King Lewis XIV. that I muſt not paſs it over; tho', poor Man! it ſerves only to proclaim his Vanity, being erected at his own Deſire and Expence: A ſad Inſtance of Pride beyond the Grave! Behind him ſtands Mr. Gay, in a Place conſecrated to Mortality, declaring Life is a Jeſt, &c. Dryden has only his Name on his Buſt. Milton has lately been put up by a Gentle⯑man, who, after the Printer's Example above⯑mentioned, has a Mind to engraft his own Fame on the other's Stock; but, in this, out-does Mr. Barber: For, after dedicating Six ſingle Letters to the Poet's Name, MILTON, he beſtows many Words upon his own; not being content to name the little Honours he, the Erector, now enjoys, but the leſſer ones which he poſſeſſed in the former Reign; and from this Example, the Architect (who, no doubt, was paid for his Labour) has Seven Words to his Fame, declaring, That Ryſbrack was the Statuary who cut it. Here's fine engraft⯑ing Work for you! However, Milton's Memory is a Tree that will do Honour to the weakeſt Scyon that ſhall ſprout from it, or even to a Dung-hill, were ſuch a thing to lie at its Root. But of our Poets I'll add no more; for Shakeſpeare is not among them. I am, Madam,

LETTER CLVII. From the ſame.

IX. On a Concert or Muſical Entertainment.

I WENT laſt Night to ſee, or rather to hear, a new Entertainment of Muſick: And muſt con⯑feſs, [...] is much diſappointed of the Pleaſure I [233] promiſed myſelf. I can't ſay but I liked two or three of the Songs well enough; and the Muſick, that was playing all the while, I did not diſap⯑prove. But pray, Madam, can you tell me, (for I have already aſked twenty, not one of whom will anſwer me) What is the Reaſon of having every Word ſpoken, ſqueaked to—I cannot ſay a Tune, but to ſuch a Hum as makes me quite ſick? If it be the Muſick that is valuable, why muſt the Words torture it? And if the Words be ſought after, wherefore ſhould they be broken to Pieces by Notes that drown the Sound, and quite loſe their Senſe? What I mean is, I believe, called, Speaking in Recitative; but whence was this Mode of Speech taken? In what Country is it natural? And if it be natural no-where, of what is it an Imitation? What are the Marks of its Excellencies? and how ſhall we judge of its Merit? Whence can ariſe any Pleaſure from hear⯑ing it? And ſhall we find Cauſe for excuſing the Time loſt in ſuch an unnatural Amuſement? For myſelf, I muſt own 'twas far from delighting me; for as it was neither ſinging nor ſpeaking, I could not tell what to make of it; for it was more like to make me cry than laugh, I was ſo provoked, when the Twang of the Harpſichord robbed me of the Word the whole preceding Line depended upon!—I muſt confeſs myſelf for downright Speaking or Singing: I hate Mongrels. Unleſs my Judgment be convinced by ſuch Reaſons as I can't, for my Life, hit upon at preſent. Yet, after all, I begin to think, I am betraying my Ignorance all this time; and ſo I'll conclude myſelf, Madam,

LETTER CLVIII. From the ſame.

X. On the Diverſions of the Play-houſe.

NOW I have, by your Indulgence, tarry'd in Town till the Approach of Winter, you will expect that I ſhould give you a little Account of the Diverſions of the Stage. To begin then: My Couſin William and his two Siſters conducted me laſt Night to the Playhouſe, and we took Places in the Pit.

You may believe I was agreeably ſurpriſed at the Magnificence of the Stage, and its elegant Orna⯑ments; and I was mightily pleaſed to ſee ſuch a prodigious Number of People ſeated with Eaſe, and conveniently placed to hear the natural Pitch of a common Voice. I did not expect to find the Mu⯑ſick ſo near the Audience; but believe that the moſt proper Situation to convey the Sound over the whole Theatre.

The Play I ſaw was a Comedy, in which the Parts acted by Women had ſeveral Speeches that I thought not quite conſiſtent with the Modeſty of the Sex. And the Freedom of their Voice and Geſtures, tho', perhaps, ſuitable enough to the Characters they repreſented, were not ſo pleaſing to a Mind bent upon innocent Amuſement, (if not wholly upon Inſtruction) as Speeches that put us not to the Expence of a Bluſh. What Hardſhip muſt it be to the Minds of theſe Women, to enter firſt upon this Employment? How muſt their Virtue (and ſure no Woman is without Virtue at her Entrance into the World) be ſhock'd to offer themſelves for the Entertainment of Six [235] hundred Men, and to utter Words which con⯑vey Ideas too groſs for a modeſt Ear, and ſuch as would be difficult to hear in private Company without Confuſion! How hard then muſt the Utterance of them be to a numerous and gay Aſſembly! And yet, I am aſſured, ſeveral Women who get their Bread upon the Stage, are ſtrictly virtuous. If ſuch there are, how great muſt be their Merit, when compared with that of the wicked ones of our Sex, who are liable to none of their certain and numerous Temptations? But yet, where it can be avoided, why ſhould Women ex⯑poſe themſelves to certain Dangers, if there is a Poſſibility of obtaining a tolerable Subſiſtence with⯑out it? And thoſe who can live by Performance upon the Stage, certainly require Qualifications more than ſufficient to ſubſiſt in ſafer and leſs dependent Stations.

The Behaviour of the Men, I did not ſo much wonder at; for a becoming Aſſurance in them is rather pleaſing than diſobliging: Nor did I per⯑ceive, that ſo many Expreſſions, which are oftener miſcalled arch, than more truly named obſcene, were put into the Mouths of the Men as of the Women; tho' the Reaſon the Poets have for this I cannot gueſs.

The Conduct of the Company I thought, to the higheſt Degree, commendable: The utmoſt Decency was obſerved, and I ſaw nothing diſagree⯑able to the ſtricteſt Politeneſs or good Manners; the Awe given by ſo great an Audience of Per⯑ſons of Taſte, being too much to admit any thing but what is decent and obliging: Not that I think it adviſeable for Women to go alone to the Play-houſe; for the Complaiſance, ſo faſhionable at pre⯑ſent, affords a ſort of Occaſion for laying them under ſuch ſeeming Obligations as cannot be [236] returned, and ought therefore not to be ac⯑cepted.

Theſe, dear Madam, are the rough Thoughts, on this Occaſion, of

LETTER CLIX. From the ſame.

XI. The Play, and the low Scenes of Harle⯑quinery after it, deſcribed and expoſed.

HAving, as I told you in my laſt, ſeen a Comedy, I was next carried by my Couſin William, and his kind Siſters, to a Tragedy; which was that of Hamlet: And I was greatly moved with the Play, and pleaſed with the Action. But the low Scenes of Harlequinery that were exhibited afterwards, filled me with high Diſguſt, inſomuch that I could, for their ſake, have wiſhed I had not ſeen the other. I will give you an Account of this diſmal Piece of farcical dumb Shew.

We were, then, preſented with the moſt ex⯑traordinary Gentleman I ever beheld, who, with the uglieſt Face, and moſt apiſh Behaviour I ever ſaw, had the moſt amazing Succeſs in his Amours, with Ladies whoſe Appearance deſerved a more amiable Gallant.

My Couſin William told me the Name of this Hero was MR. HARLEQUIN; but as you know Billy has no great Capacity, you will be the leſs ſurpriſed to hear he anſwered not one Queſtion I aſked him to my Satisfaction.

[237] Whom does that Character repreſent, Couſin?

Harlequin.

Pray, of what Nation is the Gentleman?

France.

What is his Buſineſs on the Stage?

To be admired by every Woman who ſets Eyes on him.

Why ſeem they ſo fond of him?

Becauſe he is Harlequin.

Why is his Face black?

Harlequin's was never of any other Colour.

Who is the Lady with whom he appears to be in the ſtricteſt Engagement?

Colombine.

Who is ſhe?

Colombine.

Whence came ſhe, pray, Couſin?

From France.

Is ſhe married, or ſingle?

Moſtly married; and at Harlequin's Service in ſpite of her Huſband's Teeth.

Why ſo?

Becauſe Colombine is to be at his Beck on every Occaſion.

For what Reaſon?

Becauſe they never appear without one another.

Is this Nature?

It is Faſhion, and that's as good.

Why don't theſe worthy Perſons favour us with a Song?

They never ſpeak.

How muſt I underſtand them?

By the Motion of their Heads, Hands and Heels.

Have they no Tongues?

They muſt not uſe them.

Why does he wear a wooden Sword?

[238] 'Tis his Symbol, to which whatever obſtructs his Wiſhes, muſt give way.

Why?

That he may come at Colombine againſt all Obſtruction?

Why muſt they needs be together?

That the People may laugh.

Wherefore ſhould we laugh?

Becauſe they are together.

Why does MR. HARLEQUIN delight ſo much in jumping?

To pleaſe his Miſtreſs.

Why does ſhe admire him for that?

Becauſe he can reach her over other Mens Shoulders.

Is that Wit?

We laugh at it.

So you may; but it is more like to ſet me a crying.

You're a Country Laſs, Couſin.

You, Couſin, are a Town Gentleman.

By this, Madam, you may gueſs at my Enter⯑tainment. We had juſt ſeen Hamlet, as I have ſaid: My Heart was full of Ophelia's Diſtreſs, and the Prince's Fate had ſhook my Soul: In this State of Mind, to ſit two Hours to ſee People run after one another as if they were bewitched, only to cuckold a poor ſimple-looking Huſband, put me ſo much out of Patience, that I ſhall not bear the Sight of the Stage for ſome time. And indeed, having now run thro' the Diverſions of the Town, I begin to be deſirous of caſting myſelf at your Feet, as becomes

LETTER CLX. From a Country Gentleman in Town, to his Brother in the Country, deſcribing a publick Execution in London.

I HAVE this Day been ſatisfying a Curioſity I believe natural to moſt People, by ſeeing an Execution at Tyburn: The Sight has had an extra⯑ordinary Effect upon me, which is more owing to the unexpected Oddneſs of the Scene, than the affecting Concern which is unavoidable in a think⯑ing Perſon, at a Spectacle ſo awful, and ſo intereſt⯑ing, to all who conſider themſelves of the ſame Species with the unhappy Sufferer.

That I might the better view the Priſoners, and eſcape the Preſſure of the Mob, which is prodi⯑gious, nay, almoſt incredible, if we conſider the Frequency of theſe Executions in London, which is once a Month; I mounted my Horſe, and ac⯑companied the melancholy Cavalcade from New⯑gate to the fatal Tree. The Criminals were Five in Number. I was much diſappointed at the Un⯑concern and Careleſneſs that appeared in the Faces of Three of the unhappy Wretches: The Coun⯑tenances of the other Two were ſpread with that Horror and Deſpair which is not to be wonder'd at in Men whoſe Period of Life is ſo near, with the terrible Aggravation of its being haſten'd by their own voluntary Indiſcretion and Miſdeeds. The Exhortation ſpoken by the Bell-man, from the Wall of St. Sepulchre's Church-yard, is well intended; but the Noiſe of the Officers, and the [240] Mob, was ſo great, and the ſilly Curioſity of People climbing into the Cart to take leave of the Crimi⯑nals, made ſuch a confuſed Noiſe, that I could not hear the Words of the Exhortation when ſpoken; tho' they are as follow:

‘"All good People, pray heartily to GOD for theſe poor Sinners, who now are going to their Deaths; for whom this great Bell doth toll."’

‘"You that are condemn'd to die, repent with lamentable Tears. Aſk Mercy of the Lord for the Salvation of your own Souls, thro' the Merits, Death, and Paſſion of Jeſus Chriſt, who now ſits at the Right-hand of God, to make Interceſſion for as many of you as peni⯑tently return unto him."’

‘"Lord have Mercy upon you! Chriſt have Mercy upon you!"’—Which laſt Words the Bell-man repeats three times.

All the way up Holborn the Croud was ſo great, as at every twenty or thirty Yards, to obſtruct the Paſſage; and Wine, notwithſtanding a late good Order againſt that Practice, was brought the Male⯑factors, who drank greedily of it, which I thought did not ſuit well with their deplorable Circum⯑ſtances: After this, the Three thoughtleſs young Men, who at firſt ſeemed not enough concerned, grew moſt ſhamefully daring and wanton; be⯑having themſelves in a manner that would have been ridiculous in Men in any Circumſtance what⯑ever: They ſwore, laugh'd, and talk'd obſcenely, and wiſh'd their wicked Companions good Luck, with as much Aſſurance as if their Employment had been the moſt lawful.

At the Place of Execution, the Scene grew ſtill more ſhocking; and the Clergyman who attended [241] was more the Subject of Ridicule, than of their ſerious Attention. The Pſalm was ſung amidſt the Curſes and Quarrelling of Hundreds of the moſt abandon'd and profligate of Mankind: Upon whom (ſo ſtupid are they to any Senſe of Decency) all the Preparation of the unhappy Wretches ſeems to ſerve only for Subject of a barbarous kind of Mirth, altogether inconſiſtent with Humanity. And as ſoon as the poor Creatures were half dead, I was much ſurpriſed, before ſuch a Number of Peace-Officers, to ſee the Populace fall to halling and pulling the Carcaſſes with ſo much Earneſt⯑neſs as to occaſion ſeveral warm Rencounters, and broken Heads. Theſe, I was told, were the Friends of the Perſons executed, or ſuch as, for the ſake of Tumult, choſe to appear ſo, and ſome Perſons ſent by private Surgeons to obtain Bodies for Diſſection. The Conteſts between theſe were ſierce and bloody, and frightful to look at: So that I made the beſt of my way out of the Crowd, and, with ſome Difficulty, rode back among a large Number of People, who had been upon the ſame Errand with myſelf. The Face of every one ſpoke a kind of Mirth, as if the Spectacle they had be⯑held had afforded Pleaſure inſtead of Pain, which I am wholly unable to account for.

In other Nations, common Criminal Exec [...]tions are ſaid to be little attended by any beſide the neceſſary Officers, and the mournful Friends; but here, all was Hurry and Confuſion, Racket and Noiſe, Praying and Oaths, Swearing and Singing Pſalms: I am unwilling to impute this Difference in our own to the Practice of other Nations, to the Cruelty of our Natures; to which, Foreigners, however, to our Diſhonour, aſcribe it. In moſt Inſtances, let them ſay what they will, we are hu⯑mane beyond what other Nations can boaſt; but [242] in this, the Behaviour of my Countrymen is paſt my accounting for; every Street and Lane I paſted through, bearing rather the Face of a Holiday, than of that Sorrow which I expected to ſee, for the untimely Deaths of five Members of the Community.

One of the Bodies was carried to the Lodging of his Wife, who not being in the way to receive it, they immediately hawked it about to every Surgeon they could think of; and when none would buy it, they rubb'd Tar all over it, and left it in a Field hardly cover'd with Earth.

This is the beſt Deſcription I can give you of a Scene that was no way entertaining to me, and which I ſhall not again take ſo much Pains to ſee. I am, dear Brother,

LETTER CLXI.

I. The Aunt to the Niece, deſiring her own Opinion of her Two Lovers.

I AM given to underſtand, that you have two new Admirers, of very different Tempers and Profeſſions; the one Capt. Tomkins of the Guards; the other Mr. Ruſhford. As I know Mr. Ruſh⯑ford [243] to be a ſenſible, ſedate, worthy Gentleman; I am a little uneaſy, leſt he ſhould be diſcouraged for the other. And yet, as I know not the Merits or Qualifications of the Captain, I would not cenſure you, or condemn him, right or wrong. This makes me deſire your Sentiments of both, and that you'll acquaint me to which you moſt incline. I have a very high Opinion of your Prudence, and can have no View in this Requeſt, but your Good. Only, I muſt aſſure you, that I have ſuch an Eſteem for Mr. Ruſhford's Character, that the other Gentleman ought to be ſomething more ex⯑traordinary than is to be generally met with in his Profeſſion, to be preferr'd to him. I hope you'll think ſo too; but be this as it will, the frank De⯑claration of your Mind will be very obliging to

LETTER CLXII.

II. The Niece's Anſwer: Deſcribing the Beha⯑viour of the ſenſible Lover.

I HAVE, on ſo many Occaſions, as well of this, as other kinds, been obliged to your kind Con⯑cern for me, that I ſhould be very ingrateful, if I conceal'd from you the leaſt Byaſs of my Mind on ſo important an Occaſion. I think truly with you, that Mr. Ruſhford is a very valuable Gentleman; yet he is over-nice ſometimes as to the Company I ſee; and would take upon him a little too much, if I did not keep him at a Diſtance; and particularly is ſo uneaſy about the Captain, that he wants me to forbear ſeeing him on any Occaſion. Now, I think, this is a little too preſcribing, for the Time [244] of our Acquaintance, and the ſmall Progreſs I have hitherto permitted to the Intimacy between us. For what is this but ſurrendering to him upon his own Terms? and that, too, before I am ſum⯑moned in Form? Nothing but a betrothed Lover, or a Huſband, has ſurely a Right to expect this Ob⯑ſervance; and if I were to oblige him, it is abſo⯑lutely putting myſelf in his Power, before he con⯑vinces me how he will uſe it. O my dear Aunt, theſe Men, I ſee, even the worthieſt of them, are incroaching Creatures!—And a Woman that would not be deſpis'd, muſt not make her Will too cheap an Offering to that of her Admirer. Then, my dear Aunt, I know not how it was with you formerly; but there is a Pleaſure in being admired, that affects one very ſenſibly; and I know not whether even Mr. Ruſhford would ſay half the fine Things he does, if he had not a Competitor that ſays nothing elſe. And I think it a kind of Robbery that a Woman commits upon her Plea⯑ſures, if ſhe too ſoon confines herſelf to one. For ſhe can be but once courted; unleſs ſuch an Event happens, that ſhe muſt have a very bad Heart, that can wiſh for it. And why ſhould a Woman ab⯑ſolutely bind herſelf to the Terms of For Better or For Worſe, before ſhe goes to Church?—I hope, when the Ceremony has paſſed, I ſhall make a very good Wife: But why ſhould I buckle to Honour and Obey, when it is all the Time I ſhall have to be honoured and obeyed myſelf?—Indeed, Aunt, I think, there is a great deal in this. And Mr. Ruſhford gives himſelf wonderful grave Airs already: As I'll give you an Inſtance—But here the Captain is come, and I will give you an Ac⯑count of it in my next. For I will lay before you faithfully all my Proceedings with both Gentle⯑men, and their Behaviour; and you will be en⯑abled [245] to judge from my Account, which I pre⯑fer, were I not to declare myſelf as plainly as I am ſure I ought to do, in every Particular demanded of me by ſo good an Aunt. I am, Madam,

LETTER CLXIII. From the ſame.

III. Containing the Deſcription of the Behaviour of the ſame Gentleman; which occaſions a Love-quarrel.

I HOPE, the Suſpenſe I gave you by my abrupt breaking off in my laſt, will be forgiven. I was going to give you an Inſtance of Mr. Ruſhford's grave Airs. He comes laſt Thurſday with great Formality, and calls himſelf my humble Servant; and I ſaw he was pleaſed to be diſpleaſed at ſome⯑thing, and ſo look'd as grave as he, only bowing my Head, and following my Work; for I was hemming a Handkerchief. You are very buſy, Madam—Yes, Sir—Perhaps I break in upon you—Not much, Sir—I am ſorry if I do at all, Madam—You ſee I am purſuing my Work, as I was before you came.—I do, Madam!—very gravely, ſaid he—But I have known it otherwiſe, when Somebody elſe has been here—Very likely, Sir!—But then I did as I pleaſed—ſo I do now—and who ſhall controul me?—I beg pardon, Madam; but 'tis my Value for you—That makes you troubleſome, ſaid I, interrupting him.—I am ſorry for it, Madam!—Your humble Ser⯑vant.—Yours, Sir.—So away he went.—Well, thought I, if thou art to be loſt for this, and muſt [246] put me into bodily Fear, every time thou haſt a Mind to be grave, Adieu to thee!

In the Evening he comes again—Mrs. Betty, Is your Lady diſingaged? Could I be admitted to ſay one Word to her? I believe ſo, Sir. Madam, Mr. Ruſhford begs to be admitted to ſay one Word to you. He was at the Door, and heard me, as I know. Do you introduce him, ſaid I, (with as much Form as he) to my Preſence. He enter'd. I roſe up, with my Hands before me—I ſee you are angry with me, Madam.—I am ſorry for it, Sir, ſaid I. Sorry for your Anger, I hope, Madam?—I ſhould be ſorry, Sir, ſaid I, if any body ſhould ſee me angry for nothing.—I am ſorry, Madam, that you ſet as nothing one that has ſo much Value for you. Mr. Ruſhford, ſaid I, we have ſo many Sorry's between us, that I ſhould be pleas'd with a few Glad's!—Why, ſaid he, with this ſtiff, ſet Air, do you delight to vex thus an Heart that you can make ſorry or glad at your Pleaſure?—Why am I, Sir, to be treated capriciouſly, and to have my Con⯑duct upbraided, when you think proper to be out of Humour?—I out of Humour, Madam!—I thought ſo—Was it in high good Humour that you inſulted, me with that Somebody elſe?—I own, Madam, I cannot bear to ſee you ſo gay, ſo pleaſed, and lively, when that painted Butterfly is here; and ſo grave, ſo laconick, ſo reſerv'd, when I pay my Reſpects to you. Pr'ythee, pr'ythee, Mr. Ruſhford, none of theſe preſcribing Airs!—What Right have I given you to uſe me thus?—Madam, I hoped my Addreſs was not quite unwelcome.—What⯑ever your Addreſs is, your Preſcriptions are.—I cannot, where I ſo much love, bear ſuch a Difference as I always ſee in your Temper, when that Flutterer is here, to what I experience—The Difference perhaps may be in the Men, not in the Woman. As how, [247] Madam? As how! Why, ſaid I, he makes me laugh, and if I was to give way to't, your grave Airs would make me cry!—Thank you, Madam, ſaid he! What's Sport to you, is Death to me!—And ſo he ſigh'd, and took a Turn or two about the Room—I was ſtanding all this time.

He came, and took my Hand, and look'd ſo ſilly upon me, I half pity'd him: I hope, Madam, I don't keep you ſtanding!—Yes, you do, Sir!—I beg, Madam, you'll not torture me with this con⯑temptuous Formality!—I think I am the moſt com⯑plaiſant Creature breathing!—To ME, Madam, do you mean!—Yes, Sir—You always mean ſomething in your Paradoxes, Madam: May I aſk your Mean⯑ing now?—When I laſt ſat and purſued my Work, you were diſpleaſed. I now ſtand, and have nothing to do but to be entertain'd in ſuch an agreeable manner as you ſhall think propereſt for me—yet you are not pleaſed.

Madam, ſaid he, you put me quite beſide my Pur⯑poſes!—If I thought you would have it ſo, I would ſooner die than be ſo troubleſome to you, as I now have Reaſon to think myſelf—If you have Reaſon to think ſo, I hope you are Maſter of your own Actions, ſaid I—Do you forbid me your Pre⯑ſence for ever, Madam?—I do, if you aſk it, Sir. (Was not this, Madam, daring me to anſwer even worſe?)—I aſk it, Madam! Heaven is my Witneſs, it would be the heavieſt thing that could befal me—You would not thus brave it from me, if you thought ſo, ſaid I, quite nettled.

In this manner we went on, till we had vex'd one another to ſome Purpoſe; and then he was ſo good as to give me Leave to ſit down, and I was ſo gracious as to permit him to ſit by me; and we parted with no Diſpleaſure on either Side. Thus much for Mr. Ruſhford, and his grave Airs. My [248] next ſhall let you into the Qualifications of his Competitor. Till when, I am, honoured Madam,

LETTER CLXIV.

IV. From the ſame: Deſcribing her fluttering Pretender.

INOW give you ſome Account of the Captain. He is a handſome Perſon of a Man, of a good Family: Heir to a good Eſtate: Dreſſes well, ſings well, dances well—So much for his good Qualities. As for his others; he is inſufferably vain; talkative; is always laughing, eſpecially at what he ſays him⯑ſelf; and, ſometimes, at the Conceit of what he is going to ſay, before he ſpeaks: He has ſuch an un⯑daunted Aſſurance, that there is no ſuch thing as putting him out of Countenance. One Inſtance I'll give you—He is always admiring himſelf in the Glaſs; inſomuch that while he is in the Room, I cannot peep into one without ſtaring him in the Face; and one Day rallying him on this, I aſk'd him how the Glaſſes were fixed in a Camp? He reply'd, without Heſitation, O Madam! the Care our Generals take to pitch our Tents by the Banks of ſome tranſparent Stream, ſerves very well for that Purpoſe. And then he laugh'd moſt egre⯑giouſly for five or ſix Minutes together.

You may believe, Madam, from what I have ſaid, that I give no great Encouragement to his Viſits. Yet is there no ſuch thing as getting rid of him; for by all his Conduct, I plainly ſee, he has ſwallow'd the ridiculous Opinion, that the more [249] averſe a Woman appears to a Man's Addreſſes, the more Ground he has to expect Succeſs; and he ſeems ſo aſſured of winning me, that I begin to be appre⯑henſive, every time he puts his Hand in his Pocket, that he will pull out a Licence and a Ring—If I admit him into my Company, I know not how to get rid of him. If I cauſe myſelf to be deny'd, he plants himſelf directly againſt my Window, that the whole Neighbourhood may know his Buſineſs: Thus, with or without my Conſent, he will be either thought my reigning Admirer, or he will, Don Quixote like, have me for his Dulcinea, in ſpite of my Teeth.

He has three or four times ſhew'd away before Mr. Ruſhford, and, as I cannot forbear heartily laughing at the Airs he gives himſelf, tho' for very different Reaſons from thoſe by which his riſible Muſcles are moved, he thinks me pleaſed with him; and, what is more vexatious, Mr. Ruſhford thinks ſo too, and grows ſerious and ſullen, as I inſtanc'd in my former.

Now, Madam, what can I do? I heartily de⯑ſpiſe my Soldier; I greatly regard Mr. Ruſhford's good Senſe, good Breeding, and other good Qua⯑lities: But to forbid this Fop, is what I am ſure will have no Weight with him; for I have as good as done it ſeveral times, and he tells me, he will viſit me whether I will or not, as long as I am unmarried: And to do it profeſſedly in Complai⯑ſance to Mr. Ruſhford, unleſs Matters had gone further between us, is putting myſelf abſolutely in his Power, and declaring myſelf his, before he aſks me the Queſtion. So, may I not laugh on a little at the one, and teize the other's cauſeleſs Jealouſy, do you think, till I bring Mr. Ruſhford to ſpeak out ſo explicitly, that a Woman of ſome Niceneſs, as I pretend to be, may be in no Danger [250] of miſtaking him? Beſides, I think Mr. Ruſhford a little too capricious, and ſhould be glad to break him of it, leſt, if it ever ſhould be our Lot to come together, that Temper ſhould improve upon him; and be more troubleſome from an Huſband, than it is from an humble Servant. I ſhould be glad my Conduct might merit the Appro⯑bation of ſo good a Judge: but if it do not, I will endeavour to conform myſelf to your Advice: For I am, and ever will be, honoured Madam,

LETTER CLXV.

V. From the Aunt, containing ſolid Advice and Caution on this Occaſion.

YOUR laſt Letter pleaſed me much better than your two former: For your firſt held me in great Suſpenſe; your ſecond gave me Concern for your rigorous Treatment of poor Mr. Ruſhford, who, 'tis plain, loves you much; but your third confirms me in the Opinion I always entertain'd of your Prudence, in preferring a Man of Senſe to a Coxcomb.

I muſt tell you, that nothing could give me greater Pleaſure, than to ſee you Mr. Ruſhford's Bride. His Fortune is good, his Perſon manly and agreeable, and his Behaviour polite. But in my Opinion, you have need of all your Prudence and Caution, to avoid giving him a laſting Diſguſt; for I would have you always remember, my Dear, that nothing can give ſuch Diſlike to a Man of Wiſdom and Diſcernment, as to make him imagine a Fool is preferr'd to him.

[251] If Mr. Ruſhford did not love you, he would not be jealous of ſuch a Fop as you deſcribe; and it is enough to keep his Paſſions awake, when he ſees you ſo grave and ſo ſevere, as I may ſay, to him, and ſo facetious and chearful with the other. For many a Woman of Senſe, in other reſpects, has been caught by ſome of thoſe ridiculous Airs that ſuch empty Laughers give themſelves; and if you ſhould carry your Jeſt too ſar, it might make him deſpiſe a Levity, as he would be apt to conſtrue it, which he would think unworthy of his Addreſſes.

I know it is but too natural to our Sex to love to be admired; but this Humour, when not properly bounded and guarded, has many times coſt us dear, even the Happineſs of all our Lives. Don't be afraid of obliging Mr. Ruſhford, in a Point ſo material to his Tranquillity, and your own Repu⯑tation, as the forbidding the Viſits of your Man of Scarlet: For, as you intend not to encourage him, and he has ſo undaunted an Aſſurance, founded on ſo much Folly, I think, if you had no other hum⯑ble Servant, it would not be reputable to receive this; much leſs when you have one of ſo different a Caſt, that Light and Darkneſs are not more op⯑poſite: And a Perſon muſt have a very indifferent Regard to a Man of Merit, who would not give up ſuch a one to his Requeſt; for the very Thought of a Competition with ſuch a Rival, in ſo tender and nice a Point, muſt be diſguſting to a Man of Senſe.

And beſides, you know not, my Dear, but Mr. Ruſhford may be deterr'd from a formal putting the Queſtion to you, by the Apprehenſion that you ſee his Rival with too much Approbation: For can a Man of his Senſe think of giving him⯑ſelf up abſolutely to a Perſon who ſeems to waver in her Judgment, which to prefer of two ſuch [252] Competitors? Muſt not the Mind that can heſitate one Moment on ſuch a Deciſion, appear unworthy of the Character of his Wife?

And then, as to teizing him for his Jealouſy, and breaking him of it aforehand, I doubt this ſavours a little too much of the ungenerous Tem⯑pers of ſome of our Sex, who love to tyrannize, when they can. Prudence in a Lady is the beſt Cure of Jealouſy in a Gentleman; and is the Method you propoſe of laughing on with the Captain, and teizing a worthy Man, who un⯑doubtedly loves you, a Mark of that Prudence?—Indeed, I fear, if you go on thus, you will either loſe Mr. Ruſhford, or will be obliged to keep him at the Expence of a Submiſſion (after you have provok'd him) proportionable to the Inſult he will receive; and this, my dear Kinſwoman, will be but little agreeable to the Pride of our Sex, and a particular Mortification to your own.

One Rule let me give you: That the more obliging you are in the Time of your Power, the more it will move a generous Mind to indulge you, in his; and the Time you may reckon yours, may not be Three Months in Proportion to Thirty Years of his; or the whole Life. And pray, my Dear, remember, that young Ladies aſſume a Taſk they are very little qualify'd for, when they ſet up to break Tempers, and manage Huſbands, before they are married.

Your Prudence will ſuggeſt to you a very pro⯑per Conduct, I am ſure, to ſecure a worthy Huſband, without my writing a Word more. Eſpecially as I know it will teach you to overcome the little low Pleaſure, which ſome of our Sex take, at your Years, in being admired and flattered, and to conquer the little teizing Pride of perplex⯑ing and torturing the Heart of a worthy Ad⯑mirer, [253] when we think we have it in our Power. And ſo, hoping ſoon to hear, that you have ba⯑niſh'd the Captain, and are in the way to change the Name of Fenton for that of Ruſhford, I remain, my dear Niece,

LETTER CLXVI. From a Lady to her falſe Lover, who after having brav'd all his Friends Expoſtula⯑tions, at laſt is perſuaded to abandon her for another of larger Fortune.

'TIS a poor, a very poor Pretence that you make, after what has paſſed between us, that you muſt, in Compliance with the Commands of your Friends, break off Acquaintance with me! How often have I adviſed you to this formerly! How often have you vow'd the Impoſſibility of your doing it? How have you, in purſuance of this Avowal, brav'd your Friends, and defy'd their Reſentments, in ſuch a manner, that gave them no Hope of ſucceeding with you! tho' I always blam'd your diſobliging way of doing it, in regard to them, as your Relations. But juſt as you had brought them to expect you would not be prevail'd upon, and they had ſo far acquieſced in your Choice, that I had received and returned Viſits from the Principals of your Family, for you poorly to plead their Menaces, is ſuch a Jeſt, as is not to be received without Contempt and In⯑dignation.

[254] Well, I can gueſs at your Motives!—tho' you are too mean-ſpirited to acknowledge them, and that they are too mean to be acknowledged. Miſs Holles can explain them all, by the Help of a larger Fortune than I have! I have heard of your Uncle's Propoſal, and your Viſit there.—Go on, Sir, and welcome! I have Spirit enough to deſpiſe the Man that could deceive me.—But could you not, for your own ſake act this perfidious Part in a more manly and more worthy manner? Could you not find a better Reaſon than one you had always re⯑jected, when it was more your Duty to obſerve it? But muſt you, when your Vows to me had made it your Duty to diſpenſe with it, then ſhew your Levity in adhering to it? Yet why do I expoſtulate with a Perſon ſo little deſerving Expoſtulation? You may think me angry, becauſe of my Diſ⯑appointment. 'Tis true, it is a Diſappointment, and I had a better Opinion of you than this Con⯑duct ſhews you deſerved; or Things ſhould never have proceeded ſo far as they did. But 'tis a Diſ⯑appointment, I hope, (tho' no Thanks to any Part of your Conduct, but your Meanneſs) I ſhall ſoon get over. And tho' I wiſh you no Harm, let us ſee, if, Seven Years hence, you will be ſo many hundred Pounds the richer, as makes the Difference to you, between Miſs Holles and Her you have treated ſo unworthily. And if that will make you happier, I truly wiſh you may be ſo! For I am not your Enemy, tho' you deſerve not that I ſhould ſtyle myſelf

LETTER CLXVII. From a Gentleman to his Lady, whoſe Over⯑niceneſs in her Houſe, and uneaſy Temper with her Servants, make their Lives un⯑comfortable.

YOUR kind Concern for my Abſence is very obliging. 'Tis true, I have already out-ſtay'd my Intention by a Week; and I find the Place I am in ſo very engaging, and Mr. Terry and his Siſter ſo agreeable, that, but to come to you, I could wil⯑lingly ſtay a Month longer with them. In ſhort, my Dear, Mr. Terry lives juſt as I would wiſh to live; and his Siſter, who is his Houſe-keeper, is juſt what I would wiſh you to be, in many Parti⯑culars; tho' no one, in my Opinion, can equal you in others.

You muſt know then, that Mr. Terry and I are quite happy in one another; and when he has no Viſitors, are indulg'd in a very pretty Parlour, which neither Pail nor Mop is permitted to enter for two or three Days together. And when we have Company, the Dining-room is at our Service, and the kind Lady lets us ſmoak there without remarking upon the beaſtly Fumes that we give the Furniture. Not only ſo, but if, by a ſudden Turn of the Pipe, any one of us chances to beſtrew the Floor with burnt Tobacco, we are not broken in upon either by Maid or Broom. And yet no Room can be cleaner than we find that, when we return to it from a Walk in the Gardens.

And indeed, I muſt acquaint you, that I never ſaw a Lady more prudently nice than Mrs. Terry. [256] Her Perſon, Furniture, and Houſe, are even Pat⯑terns of Neatneſs and good Oeconomy. I never any-where ſaw the one or the other out-done. Yet how can this be, I marvel!—For I have ſeen her paſs over the Mark of a dirty Shoe-heel, upon a Floor as white as a Curd, and never once rank the Aggreſſor among the worſt of Slovens. Nay, more than that, I have ſeen her Brother drop a few Crums of Bread and Butter under his Feet, with⯑out ſo much as one corrective Frown? Is not this ſtrange, my Dear? Have Batchelors, from a Siſter, more Privileges, than a marry'd Man from his Wife?

More than this, (it is true, upon my Honour! incredible as it may ſeem to you) t'other Day he happen'd to ſpill a Glaſs of Claret upon a fine Damaſk Table-cloth, and broke the Glaſs; yet met with no other Reproof than an agreeable Laugh at his Aukwardneſs, and, It was well it was he that did it, who might do as he pleaſed with his own!. Oh, what a happy Man, thought I, is this good old Batchelor!

But, my Dear, prepare for more ſtrange Things ſtill: Yeſterday, at Dinner, he was cutting up a good fat Gooſe, and, by an unfortunate Splaſh, moſt grievouſly beſpatter'd a rich Gown his Siſter had on. My Heart ached upon this; for, truly, I thought, for a Moment, I was at home. But good Mrs. Terry convinced me of the contrary. Oh, Brother, ſaid ſhe, with a Smile, what a Slip was that!—But, Misfortunes will happen!—And out ſhe pulled her Pocket Hankerchief, to wipe her Gown. I am ſorry for it, Siſter, ſaid he. It can't be help'd, return'd ſhe, with a Smile; but I had a good Mind to put you to ſome Expence for this. This was all ſhe ſaid, and ſhe kept her Seat, and eat her Dinner in perfect good Temper; nay, and look'd as eaſy and as pleaſant as ſhe ſpoke.

[257] I muſt ſtill further obſerve, that, tho' all Things here are conducted with the greateſt Decorum, and every Servant in the Houſe knows their Duty, and does it diſtinguiſhingly well, yet I have never heard one high or angry Word paſs between Mrs. Terry and the Maids. Is not this ſurpriſing, my Dear? What can it be owing to? I thought, for my Share, ſo much have I been uſed to a contrary Manage⯑ment, that no Servant could do their Duty, unleſs the Miſtreſs of the Family put herſelf out of Hu⯑mour with all the Houſe. Either ſhe is more fortunate than you, in lighting of good Servants; or, perhaps, as Perſecution makes Schiſmaticks in the Church, ſo finding Faults creates them in a Family. There may be ſomething in this, my Dear; for I have ſeen your Maid Jane blunder, out of Fear; and blunder a ſecond time, to find ſhe had blunder'd; and a third, becauſe ſhe was put quite out, and could not help it.—Then how has my poor Deary been diſcompoſed! How have her charming Features been even diſtorted with Paſſion! not a Bit of the Lily in her Face; for the crimſon Roſe had ſwallowed it all up; and an Eye darting Flames of Indignation and Woe mixed together! And then, breaking Silence, Nobody ever had ſuch Torments of Servants as I have! Alas! poor Deary! How hard is thy Hap!—How much happier this good Family! For, ſe⯑cure of an Excuſe, rather than Blame, if a ſmall Fault ſhould be committed, in comes each Ser⯑vant, as their Duty requires, all ſerene, pleaſed, chearful, as their Miſtreſs. Their Eye is fixed upon her Eye, with a becoming Confidence of pleaſing; and a Nod, or a Beck, does more with them, than an hundred Words.

How can I, my Dear, think of leaving ſuch a delightful Houſe and Family as this?—Yet I long [258] to ſee my beloved Spouſe; and I will ſet out on Monday next for that Purpoſe, with as great Delight as ever I knew, ſince I had the Happineſs to call you mine. But pray, my dear Love, let what I have ſaid, without the leaſt Deſign to offend or concern you, a little impreſs you, however. Let me have the Satisfaction, for both our ſakes, of ſeeing you get over ſome of thoſe Foibles, that make us as effectually unhappy, at times, as if we had ſubſtantial Evils to encounter with. In ſhort, my Dear, let us think the Houſe made for our Uſe, and not we for that. And let us ſhew our Servants, that while we would have them leſs faulty than they are, we will, ourſelves, try to be more perfect than we have hitherto been; and not, while we condemn their Failings, be guilty of much greater.

Juſtice, Prudence, Eaſe, Pleaſure, Intereſt, Re⯑putation, all require this of us: And could I hope what I have written will be attended to, as I wiſh and mean it, you cannot conceive the Delight that will double upon me on my Return to my Deareſt; for it is my Pride, that I can ſtyle my⯑ſelf

LETTER CLXVIII. From a Gentleman who in a ſmall Fortune ex⯑periences the Slights of his Friends; but being ſuddenly reputed to be rich, is oppreſſed with the fawning Careſſes and Adulation of thoſe who had before neglected him.

I MUST, for once, poſtpone every thing I would ſay to you, in order to make room for an Ac⯑count you little expect.

[259] What will you ſay, when I tell you, that a current Report of my being immenſely rich is the greateſt Misfortune I at preſent labour under? Nor do I find it ſo ſupportable as you may be apt to imagine. The Occaſion was owing to the frequent Slights I had received from the Gentlewoman with whom I lodge, and from others of my Friends, who, believing that I lived up to my ſcanty Fortune, as in Truth I do, (tho' I take care to be beholden to nobody, and pay ready Money for every thing) could not treat me negligently enough. I com⯑plain'd of this to that arch Wag Tony Richards, who told me, he would change every one's Be⯑haviour to me in a few Days. And he has done it effectually: For what does he do, but, as a kind of Secret, acquaints my Landlady, that beſide my poor little Eſtate (which you know to be my All) he had lately diſcovered, that I had Twenty thou⯑ſand Pounds Stock in one of our great Companies!

Such was the Force of his whimſical Deluſion, that, the very next Morning, I had a clean Towel hung over my Water-bottle, tho' I never before had more than one a Week during the Twenty Years I have lodged here.

About a Week after this, my Couſin Tom, who, for the two Years he has been in the Temple, has let me ſee him but three times, came, in a moſt complaiſant manner, plainer dreſſed than ever I had before ſeen him; and begg'd, if the Length of the Evening was in any Degree burdenſome, I would permit him to wait upon me with ſuch Pieces of Wit, Humour, or Entertainment, as the Town afforded; the reading of which under my Ear, he was ſure, would be a great Advantage to him; and aſſured me, that, for a Beginning, he had preſumed to bring the laſt new Tragedy in his Pocket: I thank'd my young Spark. Upon which [260] he is ſo much in earneſt in his Obſervances, that three Nights in a Week he thus entertains me: Which will at leaſt be of ſo much Service, as to keep him out of more expenſive Company. And you cannot think what Pains the Rogue takes to read with the Cadence he knows I admire, and ſits till his Teeth chatter before he offers to look towards the Fire.

What you will ſtill more wonder at, Sir John Hookhim called upon me before Chriſtmas; and tho' I have not had a Viſit from him theſe Five Years, was ſo obliging, as to run away with me in his Cha⯑riot into Hertfordſhire, to keep the Holidays in his Family; where his Lady treated me with the utmoſt Reſpect, and her Daughters paid me their Morning Devoirs, with the ſame Deference as if I had been their Grand Papa. No Dinner was concluded upon, without conſulting my Palate; and the young Gentlemen, his Sons, are as ambi⯑tious of my hearing their Exerciſes, as if their Fortunes depended upon my Approbation.

Sir John acquainted me with every Improvement he had made in his Eſtate, and aſſured me, that his ſecond Son Will. my Nameſake, has a Genius ſingularly turned for managing Country Buſineſs, had he not had the Misfortune of having a Brother born before him; and gave me ſeveral Reaſons to believe, that a fine Eſtate, which lay in the Neigh⯑bourhood, and was then to be ſold, would be a great Pennyworth. I took the Hint; but ſaid, I had no Inclination to purchaſe: He ſhook his Head at my Thouſands, and told me, that, in his Opi⯑nion, a Land Eſtate was preferable to the beſt Stock in the Kingdom.

When I came to Town the 4th of January, I was no ſooner out of Sir John's Chariot, but my Landlady, in Perſon, informed me, that ſince I [261] had been abſent, I had ſo many Preſents ſent me, that ſhe had been in an hundred Fears for their ſpoiling: I aſked her the Particulars, and found Five Turkeys, Three Chines, Three Hampers of Ma⯑deira for the Gout, Two Collars of Brawn, Geeſe, Chickens, Hares, and Wild-fowl, to a large Amount.

At Night I was welcom'd to Town by all my old Acquaintance, and about Twenty almoſt new ones: I was a little tired with my Journey; and had a ſlight Cold beſides; which being obſerved, one was running for a Phyſician, another for a Surgeon, to bleed me: One thought an Emetick not improper: Another recommended a gentle Sweat, or compoſing Draught; and, amidſt the general Officiouſneſs, I could hear it whiſper'd, that if my Will was not made, Delays might prove dangerous: And, in the Morning, five Meſſengers after my Welfare arrived before Day.

Thus, Sir, you ſee my Peace is gone, my Tongue is of no Uſe; for no one believes me, when I declare my real Circumſtances: And, under the Happineſs of a very ſmall Fortune, I ſuffer all the Afflictions attending a Man immoderately rich; and if you keep not your uſual Behaviour, I ſhall not know myſelf, nor any Man elſe; ſince all my Companions are become Flatterers, and all around me are ſo obſequious, that it is impoſſible for me to know when I do right or wrong. I am, dear Sir, tho' thus whimſically ſituated,

LETTER CLXIX. From one Brother to another, on the raſh Mar⯑riage of a beloved Daughter of one of them, to a profligate young Fellow.

I AM exceedingly concerned for the raſh Step your Daughter Thomaſin has made: I know how it muſt affect you, and I am myſelf not a little troubled at it. But we ſee how unfit we are to chuſe for ourſelves! And, oh! how often are we puniſhed by the Enjoyment of our own Wiſhes!—You ſay, you would rather have follow'd her Corpſe to the Grave, than that ſhe ſhould have thus thrown herſelf away on a Rake, a Prodigal, a Sot, and a Fool, as I, as well as you, know to be the Cha⯑racter of the Perſon ſhe has choſen. I would not afflict you, my dear Brother, inſtead of pouring Balm on the Wounds of your Mind. But you will remember, that it is ſcarce two Years ago, when you were no leſs anxiouſly diſturbed on Occa⯑ſion of the violent Fever, which then endangered her Life. What Vows did you not put up for her Recovery! What Tumults of Grief then agitated your afflicted Mind! And how do you know, that then ſhe was only reſtor'd at your inceſſant and im⯑portunate Prayers; but that otherwiſe, God Al⯑mighty, knowing what was beſt for you both, would have taken her away from this heavy Evil! This ſhould teach us Reſignation to the Divine Will, and that we are moſt unfit to chuſe for our⯑ſelves: And even this Affliction, heavy as it is, may be ſent, in order to wean you from a Delight that you had too much ſet your Heart upon.

[263] Mean time, you muſt not, by too violent a Re⯑ſentment and Reprobation of her, which I find you are reſolv'd upon, add to the Miſeries ſhe has choſen. The poor Creature, will, I fear, too ſoon find her Puniſhment in her Choice; and already, I underſtand, ſhe is driven to great Diſtreſs. You know ſhe has ſtrong Paſſions, and your too great Severity may precipitate her on her everlaſting Ruin, when ſhe becomes thoroughly ſenſible of the Condition ſhe has brought herſelf to, from as happy Proſpects as any young Lady could promiſe her⯑ſelf.

Let this prevail upon you to allow her Neceſſa⯑ries; for, oh! 'tis a ſad thing for meagre Want to ſtare in the Face a young Creature uſed to the fulleſt Plenty! eſpecially when 'tis aggravated by the Reflection, that it is all owing to her own Raſhneſs. And as it may not ſuit with your Liking, to appear yourſelf to allow her any thing, at leaſt till you ſee what Uſe will be made of your Fa⯑vours, I will undertake, as from myſelf, and on my own Head, to furniſh, if you pleaſe, what is immediately neceſſary; and from time to time give you a faithful Account of the Diſpoſition in which ſhe receives it, and how her wretched De⯑luder is affected by it.

This is a Taſk I ſhould not be fond of, but to prevent worſe Conſequences; and I muſt intreat you, Brother, to weigh ſeriouſly the Matter; and as you abound, let not the unhappy Wretch, who, after all, is your Daughter, want thoſe Neceſſaries of Life, which all your Servants have in ſuch Plenty.

I could not bear to be a Witneſs of the great Griefs, which muſt tear aſunder your Heart, ſtrug⯑gling between paternal Affection, and juſt Indig⯑nation; which makes me chuſe to write to you; [264] and ſhall wait your Reſolution on this Subject. I am, dear Brother,

LETTER CLXX. The afflicted Father, in Anſwer to the preceding.

YOU are very kind in your Intention, yet very affecting in your juſt Reproofs of my miſ⯑placed Fondneſs for a Creature ſo unworthy. Re⯑ſignation to the Divine Will, a noble, a needful Leſſon! is the Doctrine you raiſe from it. God give it me, as I ought to have it. Time and His Grace, I hope, will effect it. But at preſent—Oh! Brother! you know not how I ſet my Heart on this Wretch. That was my Crime, you'll ſay: And 'tis but juſt it ſhould be my Puniſhment. Do you, as you pleaſe, in what you propoſe. I deſire not the ingrateful Creature ſhould want, yet let her too be pinch'd: Nothing elſe will make her ſenſible of her great Offence—But don't let her be precipitated on any worſe Fate, if a worſe can be poſſible, as it may with regard to another Life. Yet let not her Seducer be the better for the Aſ⯑ſiſtance. He ſhall never riot in my Subſtance. Let me know what you have done three Months hence; that I may retrench, or add to what you ſhall ad⯑vance, as I ſhall ſee her Behaviour. I ſay in three Months, for another Reaſon: becauſe I may by that time, I hope, get more Strength of Mind and Patience, than at preſent poſſeſſes the Heart of

LETTER CLXXI. To a Father on the Loſs of his Son, who died under Age.

YOUR Lot, I confeſs, is hard, exceeding hard, to loſe ſo promiſing and ſo hopeful a Child as that dear Boy was, who ſo much engroſſed the Af⯑fections of yourſelf and Spouſe: and a ſuitable Grief on ſo trying an Occaſion ought to be indulged. But yet not ſo, as if you were bereft of all Com⯑fort, and inſenſible to thoſe other great Mercies, which God has beſtowed upon you. This, my dear Friend, would be a ſinful Rejection of thoſe Bleſſings which remain to you, as if, like froward Children, you would have nothing, becauſe you could not have every thing you wiſh'd.

Look upon all the great Families of the Earth, upon all your Neighbours round you; and ſee if they have not almoſt every one ſhed. Tears on this very Occaſion, and then judge of the Unreaſon⯑ableneſs of too great a Grief, and what Pretenſion you have to be exempted from thoſe Accidents, to which Royalty itſelf is liable. I will not, to alleviate your Grief, remind you of a Topick, which is however no leſs important than too frequently the Caſe, that he might not always have been ſo hope⯑ful; but might, as he grew up, many ways have ad⯑miniſtered Bitterneſs to you. But I think it ſur⯑paſſes all other Comforts, even thoſe you hoped for from him, that he is taken away at an Age, at which God's Mercy renders his eternal Happineſs unqueſtionably certain; and you and your mourn⯑ing Spouſe have the Pleaſure to reflect, that ye have been the happy Means of adding one to the Number of the Bleſt above; and that he is gone be⯑fore you, but a little while, to that Place, where [266] all Tears ſhall be wiped away, and whither, thro' the ſame infinite Mercy, you will in time follow him, and enjoy him for ever.

You have this Comfort, that he dy'd a natural Death; that the Work was God Almighty's, who gave him to you, and has but taken back what he lent you: That you ſaw every thing done for his Recovery, that could be done; and that it pleaſed God not to grant him to your Prayers; and why ſhould you repine at the Diſpenſation, when you know the Diſpenſer? Let it therefore be your Duty, on this trying Occaſion, to ſhew an intire Acquieſcence to the Divine Will; ſuch an Ac⯑quieſcence as may be exemplary to your good Spouſe, whoſe weaker Sex and Mind want all the Conſo⯑lation your ſtronger Reaſon can give her. And at the ſame time, it behoves you to ſhew a thankful Spirit for the Mercies yet continued to you, (Mer⯑cies that Thouſands have not to rejoice in!) leſt God Almighty ſhould, as a Puniſhment, deprive you of thoſe you have ſtill left.

I beg you will take in good Part theſe few Lines, which my Affection for you has drawn from my Pen; and that you'll believe me to be, dear Sir,

LETTER CLXXII. To a Father on the Loſs of a hopeful Son, who died at Man's Eſtate.

I AM truly ſorry for your Loſs. So hopeful a Son juſt arrived at Man's Eſtate, and who was ſo great a Comfort and Aſſiſtance to you, to be [267] ſnatched away, is what muſt adminiſter to you the greateſt Grief of any thing that could poſſibly befal you.

But, alas! yours is no new Caſe. The greateſt Fa⯑milies have been thus afflicted, and with the Aggra⯑vation to ſome of them, that perhaps they have been deprived of their Heirs, and have not a Son left to continue their Name and Honours. The late Queen Anne, when Princeſs of Denmark, loſt her beloved Duke of Glouceſter, not only her Hopes, but the Hopes of the Nation; and the Crown, to which he ſeem'd not only born, but faſhioned, was obliged to be ſettled, on that Occaſion, upon a diſtant Branch of the Royal Line.

The great Duke of MARLBOROUGH, who by his Merit, and his Victories, had raiſed a princely Eſtate, as well as Titles, had but one Son, the Marquis of Blandford, on whom he and his Ducheſs built all their Hopes, for the perpetuating of thoſe new Honours in their Family; and he was ſnatched away by Death, when he was at the Uni⯑verſity, training up to become the Dignities, to which he was intitled.

Still more recent was the unhappy Fate of a Lady of the firſt Quality in England. Her Lord had a Son lent to his advanced Years. This Son was the laſt of that noble Family, and on his Life depended all his Father's and his Mother's Hopes; and on his living till of Age, a valuable Part of the Eſtate itſelf, which otherwiſe was to fall to an ille⯑gitimate Offspring. What Care was not uſed to preſerve the noble Youth! An eminent Phyſician was taken into the Family, to be made a conſtant Watchman, as it were, over his Health and Exer⯑ciſes. The young Nobleman himſelf was hopeful, dutiful, and as diſtinguiſhed in the Graces of his Mind, as by his Birth. He travelled; his indul⯑gent Mother travelled with him: He made a Cam⯑paign [268] under his Uncle, the greateſt General then ſurviving in an Age of Generals. He again travelled to reſtore and confirm his Health, and all the noble Mother's Hopes and Views were employ'd on the finding for her beloved Son, on his Return, a Wife ſuitable to his Quality, and who might be a Means to preſerve one of the firſt Families in the King⯑dom, from utter Extinction.

What was the Event of all her Cares, her Hopes, her Vows, her Proſpects?—Why, juſt as the young Nobleman had (within a few Months) arrived at Age, and could have made thoſe Family Settle⯑ments, which were moſt deſirable ſhould be made, and the Want of which involved his noble Mother in perplexing Law-ſuits, which, too, turn'd againſt her; it pleaſed God to deprive her of him, and he died in a foreign Land, far diſtant from his fond Mother; who, (ſtill more grievous, if true!) for Reaſons of State, as was ſaid, had been deny'd to accompany and attend him; and ſo ended all her Hopes of above twenty Years ſtanding, and in him his Family likewiſe.

A ſtill more recent Calamity to a great Family, I might mention; in the Death of two hopeful Children, the only Sons of their Father, and the only Heirs Male of one of the firſt Families in the Kingdom, both ſnatch'd away, in the Space of a few Hours of one another, from healthy Conſti⯑tutions, and no Ailments previous to the ſudden one that carry'd them off, which was only believed to be a ſore Throat. In vain were the Conſulta⯑tions of the moſt eminent Phyſicians and Surgeons, who gave Attendance all Night, minutely to watch every Change of the Diſtemper; in vain prov'd the Aſſurance of the Skilful to the fond Parents, that there was no Danger. Death mocked all their Hopes; and when the firſt dy'd, in vain was he opened, in order to find out, if poſſible, the [269] Cauſe of the fatal Malady, in order to adminiſter, with greater Hopes of Succeſs, Remedies againſt it, to preſerve the other. That other hopeful Youth followed his Brother, and their Fate deeply wounded the Hearts of half a dozen noble Families, whoſe intimate Relationſhip gave them a very near Intereſt in the awful Event.

Like Inſtances of the Loſs of hopeful Sons, and of the only Male Heirs, might be produced in other Families of prime Diſtinction in the Liſt of the Britiſh Nobility; but I need not enumerate more to a Mind conſiderate as yours, which will reflect that Death is a common Lot, from which no Rank or Degree is exempted. And I hope theſe Reflections, and ſuch as you will be able to add to them, by your own Reaſon and Piety, will ſerve to rebuke the Overflowings of your Grief, and con⯑fine it to the natural Channels, into which both God and Nature will indulge it to flow.

I mention not to your enlighten'd Mind, you ſee, the Motives, that, nevertheleſs, might be in⯑ſiſted on with great Propriety, on ſo grievous an Occaſion; ſuch as, The Uncertainty of Life: The Gratitude you ought to ſhew for having had your Son ſo long continu'd to you, as he was: The great Probability of his being happy in God's Mer⯑cies, by reaſon of his Hopefulneſs and Duty: The early Releaſe he has met with from the Troubles and Chances of a changeable and tranſitory Life: His Eſcape from the Danger of the Temptations which his Virtue might have been tried with, had he lived to maturer Years: That this your Depriva⯑tion is God's Work: That he dy'd not in a diſtant Land, and by an untimely Death: But that you had the Satisfaction of knowing that every thing was done for him that could be done: That his Morals were ſtill untainted, and he was not cut off in the Purſuit of ſome capital Sin, as has too [270] often been the Caſe with bold and daring Spirits in the Heat of their youthful Paſſions: And that he eſcap'd the Snares uſually laid for young Men by idle Companions, and vicious Women, which too often entangle and catch the unthinking Mind. Theſe will be all ſuggeſted to you from your own better Reaſon; and to that ſecondarily, as to a due Reſignation to the Divine Will primarily, let me reſer you, on this trying Occaſion: Who am, with a ſympathizing Affection, dear Sir,

LETTER CLXXIII. To a ^* Widow on the Death of her Husband.

ALLOW me the Liberty of condoling with you on the truly great and heavy Loſs you have ſuſtain'd of an excellent Huſband. All we, who had the Pleaſure of his Friendſhip, mourn with you, the irretrievable Misfortune to us as well as to you. But as there is no recalling it, and as it is God's doing, we muſt not repine at the Diſpenſation, but acquieſce in it. And yet to ſay, that neither you nor we ought to grieve for it, would be abſurd and unnatural. Sinful Grief, however, we are commanded to ſhun: And we ought to bleſs God, that he was graciouſly pleaſed to continue him with us ſo long, inſtead of mourning too heavily, that we had not longer the Pleaſure of his agreeable Con⯑verſation. We were not born together, and ſome of us muſt have gone firſt; and I have ſometimes [271] been ready to think, (beſides the Life of Glory, that, thro' God's Mercies, awaits the Good) that he is far happier, than thoſe he leaves behind him, in this Point, That he is ſaved from the Regret (which fills the wounded Hearts of his ſurviving Friends) of ſeeing them go before him, as they have ſeen him go before them. Had he not dy'd now, a few Years would have determin'd his uſeful Life; for the longeſt Life is but a Span; and then the Matter, had he gone before us, would have been as it is now.

We may make our own Lives miſerable in be⯑wailing his Loſs; but we cannot do him good, nor (were he to know it) Pleaſure. You, in particu⯑lar, Madam, who are now called upon to be both Father and Mother to the dear Pledges of your mutual Affection, ought to take double Care, how you ſuffer immoderate Grief to incapacitate you from this new, and more arduous and neceſſary Taſk. For by this means, you would not only do yourſelf Hurt, but double the Loſs which his dear Children have already ſuſtain'd in that of their Father. And would you, Madam, make them motherleſs as well as fatherleſs?—God forbid! Conſider, tho' this is a heavy Caſe, yet it is a com⯑mon Caſe. And we muſt not repine, that God Almighty thought him ripe for Heaven, and put an End to his probatory State.

With melancholy Pleaſure have I often, on the Loſs of Friends, contemplated the excellent Advice of the Son of Sirach, who tells us how we ought to mourn on theſe Occaſions, and how we ought to govern our Mourning; and reminds us moſt excellently, that while we are grieving for our departed Friends, our own Lives paſs away, and we are not. You'll permit me to tranſcribe his own excellent Words, as moſt ſuitable to the Sub⯑ject before us.

[272] ‘"My Son, ſays he, let Tears fall down over the Dead, and begin to lament; and then cover his Body according to the Cuſtom, and neglect not his Burial. Weep bitterly, and make great Moan, and uſe Lamentation as he is worthy—and then comfort thyſelf for thy Heavineſs; for of Heavineſs cometh Death; and the Heavineſs of the Heart breaketh Strength. In Affliction alſo Sorrow remaineth; and the Life of the Poor [or Miſerable, or of thoſe who make themſelves ſo by Mourning] is the Curſe of the Heart. Take [therefore] no Heavineſs to Heart: Drive it away; and remember [thy own] laſt End. For⯑get it not; for there is no turning again: Thou ſhalt not do him Good, but hurt thyſelf. Re⯑member MY Judgment [ſaith the wiſe Man, ſpeaking as if in the Perſon of our late dear Friend] for THINE alſo ſhall be ſo. Yeſterday for ME, and To-day for THEE. When the Dead is at Reſt, let his Remembrance reſt; and be com⯑forted for him, when his Spirit is departed from him."’

To add any thing to this excellent Advice, would be, in ſome meaſure, to depreciate it. I will therefore conclude with my Prayers, that God will enable you to bear as you ought, and as all your Friends wiſh and expect from you, this truly heavy Diſpenſation, and that moſt particularly for the ſake of your dear Children by him; and with aſſure⯑ing you of my Service, to the utmoſt of my Ability: For I am, Madam, as well for theirs and your own ſake, as for his Memory's ſake,