LETTER XVII. Mr. WESTWOOD, to H. HANDFORD, Eſq

I RECEIVED your favour of the 14th inſt. and ſhall proceed to give you an account of a phaenomenon that has lately appeared here. A young fellow is arrived from London, to join a brotherhood of players, who uſually make us a periodical viſit at this ſeaſon [2] of the year. His perſon is compleat and elegant, his voice remarkably ſweet and articulate, and his deportment that of a perfect gentleman. It is impoſſible to look on him without feeling an imme⯑diate prepoſſeſſion in his favour, which increaſes the more he is ſeen and heard. He played Romeo laſt Friday evening. It was his firſt appearance, yet I never beheld a performance that gave me ſo much pleaſure; ſuch pathetic tenderneſs; a voice ſo ſweetly plaintive and amo⯑rous, attended with an air of ſo much ſincerity, that it was impoſible for any one who did not feel, or had not felt, the paſſion of love to have been ſo expreſ⯑ſive. But, from what I have obſerved ſince, I have taken it for granted that he is, at this inſtant, under its influence. Whether he is or no, I am certain all the women in Kendal, young or old, that have ſeen him, are; and the reſt ſoon [3] will be. For there is more gazing after him when he makes his appearance in the ſtreet, than there was at the laſt comet. No wonder, he is maſter of every ac⯑compliſhment, without any ſeeming knowledge of ſuperiority.

I prevailed on him to ſup with me after the play. His converſation and behavi⯑our more than confirmed every thing I had conceived in his favour. His abilities ſeem to have no bounds, and, after ſupper, we furniſhed him with a freſh opportunity of diſplaying them, by introducing a little concert, in which he might be ſaid to be the only perform⯑er, ſince he was the only one that was liſtened to. He ſung and played, and with ſo much taſte, paſſion, and expreſ⯑ſion, that every body was amazed, as well as delighted. I dare ſay you think I am drawing a very extravagant picture, but, I can aſſure you, all, who have ſeen [4] him, ſpeak of him as the moſt agreeable and extraordinary young fellow they have ever known.

YOU muſt underſtand I had occa⯑ſion to do him a little ſervice, by riſing up his champion on the night that he played. He is ſo ſenſible of this trifling favour that he thinks he cannot enough admire my generoſity. It was thus: Notwith⯑ſtanding the ſurprize and pleaſure the ſpectators were under, when he came upon the ſtage, at the beauty of his figure, there iſſued from ſome part of the gallery a loud hiſs. The effect this had upon him was very extraordi⯑nary; the blood forſook his cheeks, his limbs tottered, and his whole frame was thrown viſibly into great diſorder. I was ſo ſhocked at their rudeneſs and in⯑juſtice, that I could not conceal my rage, but jumped upon one of the ſeats in the pit and harangued the mob, pretty [5] much, I believe, in that kind of language to which they were accuſtomed; and, as I am rather a favourite, with ſome of them, my declaring on the ſtranger's ſide ſoon overturned the party that was formed againſt him; for, I am certain, that ill-judged attack could proceed from no other cauſe. From this time to the end of the play, nothing but the loudeſt marks of applauſe were heard at every opportunity, which were not beſtowed upon an ingrate; the effect that this encouragement had upon him was viſible, and the diſorder, which the ignorance and malice of the diſſentients had put him into, was a ſtrong proof of his modeſty and ſenſibility.

HE received an invitation to our aſ⯑ſembly, which, he has ſince told me, he believes, from motives of prudence, he muſt be obliged to decline. It ſeems the [6] laſt time the comedians were here, and while I was at college, one of them, who, from his behaviour and talents, was en⯑titled to reſpect, not ſuppoſing it any deviation from the rules of decorum, came, one evening, to the aſſembly, upon which two or three coxcombs, led on by 'Squire Bullhead, a contemptible, overbearing puppy, whom you have heard me ſpeak of, finding them⯑ſelves affronted, inſiſted upon his being turned out of the room. Bullhead was the ſpokeſman, and, coming up to the comedian, ſaid, in a very inſulting man⯑ner, ‘Pray friend, does ſtrolling actors ever larn to dance?’ The abruptneſs of this impudent queſtion, for a moment, diſconcerted the comedian, but, recollect⯑ing himſelf, he anſwered, ‘Some of them, Sir, and as eaſily as ſome rich country boobies learn inſolence.’ ‘Do you call me booby, Sir?’—‘Why Sir, to be [7] ſure I mentioned ſomething about Booby, or Bullhead, it is not material which, I believe they are ſynonimous.’ ‘—Nonimus! Sir, you are a nonimus vagabun, and ſo I deſires that you will quit this here room.’ ‘That I ſhall without farther ceremony, Sir,’ ſaid the player, ‘and I deſire you will do me the favour to follow me.’ Bullhead either did not, or would not underſtand this intimation, but remained, amidſt the titters and ſneers of the company, mut⯑tering ſomething about teaching ſuch im⯑pudent vagabun raſcals to trude themſelves into the ciety gentlepeople. The comedian was not ſo ſatisfied, but wrote a card, the next day, requiring Bullhead to meet him, and either bring his ſword, or a caſe of piſtols. This paper terrified the fool out of his wits, and he ran blub⯑bering with it to his wife. She poſted away to ſhew it to her father, who is an [8] acting juſtice. The man of the quorum ſent immediately for the manager, and threatened to throw him and the whole troop in jail if he did not interfere, and prevent this affair from going any farther. The comedian, at the inter⯑ceſſion of his brethren, dropt his revenge, but not till he had procured a paper, ſigned both by this redoubted 'Squire and his father-in-law, the purport of which was, a promiſe not to moleſt the players, nor, by any means, endeavour to prevent their coming to Kendal as uſual. A night or two after this affair hap⯑pened the Beaux Stratagem was played, and the audience burſt into an uproar of laughter, when Scrub ſays, ‘If our maſters in the country receive a challenge, the firſt thing they do is to tell their wives, &c.’ and 'Squire Bullhead be⯑came the jeſt of the town.

[9]NOTWITHSTANDING this, I hope we ſhall overcome the ſcruples of our young Romeo. The girls are all dying to ſee him dance, and have proteſted they'll none of them refuſe him for a partner; one or two of the Bullhead connection excepted, who affect to turn up the noſe at this extraordinary complaiſance to a player.

LETTER XVIII. T. STENTOR, to J. DRUMSHANDRUGH.

I PROPHESIED what would come to paſs. I knew well enough how it would be. This Alwyn leads the people in a ſtring. I foreſaw it.—Old ſervants are forgot.—I hate ſuch curſt ingratitude, but I never met with any thing elſe from the public, even in my youth, ſo I muſt not be ſurprized at it now. I have been their ſlave long enough for nothing, and now I may ſtarve and be damned, for what they care.—Not but I planned matters pretty well too. The youth was ſtaggered. He was not uſed to ſtand fire, and would have given ground at the firſt diſcharge, if he had not been ſupported by the [11] pit. I have been tolerably cautious, and he has not the leaſt ſuſpicion it was I who directed the battery of hiſſes that was played off at him; though ſome of my good friends in the company took abundance of pains to perſuade him to ſuch a belief.—He's a green⯑horn, a gull that will dive at a red rag inſtead of a herring. I can do what I will with him, for he believes me to be his beſt friend. I would have him con⯑tinue in that miſtake, while he continues in this company. If I am not deceiv⯑ed, I have already found a proper bait for the gudgeon. He thinks me ſo faithful that he will ſay any thing to me, truſt me with any thing, except one. I cannot get out of him, hitherto, what he grieves about. I obſerve he is always melancholy, loves to be alone, and take ſolitary walks; ſighs oftener than a weaver at a Methodiſt ſermon, [12] and looks as mournful as a friar on Good-Friday. Perhaps he is in love, if ſo I'll find it out.

BE that as it may, there is a certain lady, of this town, in love with him. She ſent for me, t'other night, to bribe me to aſſiſt her, ſo you may think ſhe is pretty far gone. It ſeems the youth is ſhy, and the lady impatient; I'm glad I am called in, for, ſince I am to preſcribe, I'll take care not to neglect my fees. She may prove a valuable patient, and promiſes to bleed freely, if I can accompliſh her deſign, which is to find out who the youngſter is in love with; for that he is in love, ſhe takes for granted; and, as I hinted, I'm very much of her opinion. She has given me a trouble⯑ſome taſk, but I have undertaken to perform it, and it ſhall go hard but I will keep my word. Nevertheleſs, as there is no knowing what turn af⯑fairs may take, I have ſent my wife off [13] to join your company, and thank you for the trouble you have taken in the matter. She will give you this, and my beſt wiſhes. The Kendalians are all running wild after this Alwyn, and come in ſhoals every night he plays. They would be d—d before they would come to ſee a better actor. I may play to the benches, now the whim has taken them. A parcel of ſenſeleſs ſheep, that will follow any bell-weather, if ſome fool only ſtarts up and bids them admire his bleating. He was invited to the aſſembly, and I took great pains to perſuade him to go; I knew how it would turn out. Some among them are affronted, and though he's ſupport⯑ed in his vanity by a few of what they call the heads of the town, I'm deviliſhly cheated, if he don't get a rap of the knuckles. The party that is diſpleaſed, talks pretty confidently of his vanity and aſſurance. It was at [14] the aſſembly he made the conqueſt I have mentioned. They ſay he dances to admiration, and ſome are piqued becauſe they thought themſelves ne⯑glected and him too much admired. The fellow is handſome enough, and better bred than the boors of this place; who, notwithſtanding, fancy themſelves great beaus, and have as many ridiculous airs as any other pe⯑tits maitres; which, with their auk⯑ward ruſticity are laughable enough.

ONE of theſe ſparks, a Mr. Staple, is a lover of the lady who is enamoured of our youngſter; and I ſhall take meaſures to inform him what a dan⯑gerous rival he has. He was obliged to be out of town the night of the aſſembly, and Alwyn by dancing with his miſtreſs, ingratiated himſelf ſo far in her favour, that the abſentee will ſtand a fair chance to have his congé. He is one of thoſe brutal, head-ſtrong [15] animals that are very apt to kick, even before they feel the laſh, and two or three cuts will moſt likely make him quite reſty. Let me alone to give them, I'll take care they ſhall ſting. As for the lady, ſhe does not ſeem one of your timid dames; ſhe is a widow, a Weſt-Indian, with all the fire of the climate in her conſtitution; and appears to have contracted a mighty ſtrong antipathy to baſhfulneſs in men. If ſhe can but attain her purpoſe, ſhe does not ſeem to be troubled with any conſcientious ſcruples about the means. —I have provocations enough, and materials are not wanting; therefore, if I don't make him pack up his boxes, I'll forſwear politics, and go into leading-ſtrings. Now I talk of provocations, I muſt tell you, that our d—d fly-by-night raſcal of a manager made me deſcend from Hotſpur to Worceſter, t'other evening; and be⯑cauſe I ventured to remonſtrate, ſwore [16] I ſhould not play another night in the company; aye, and was mighty poſi⯑tive about the matter too, till the young favourite, Alwyn, inliſted on my ſide, and then the old yelping hound was ſoon ſilenced. This fellow, who, becauſe he has had art and roguery enough to ſcrape together a few tinſel rags, and a little daubed canvaſs, is become as impudent and as conſe⯑quential as a petty conſtable, or a new made juſtice, and much about as wiſe too. He takes upon him to inſtruct the actors; decides dogmati⯑cally upon any difficult paſſage, with⯑out being able to read it; ſettles the buſineſs of the ſcene, without a thought concerning propriety, and ſwells at the recollection of his own ſagacity and im⯑portance, like an alderman ſaying grace after meat.—A blunder of his, the other night, in the play of Harry the Fourth, will give you an idea of his capacity.

[17]HIS eldeſt ſon Daniel, who looks as ſtupidly good-natured as a half grown maſtiff, played Sir Walter Blunt, and his fat-headed father perſonated Douglas. The termagant Scot, as Fal⯑ſtaff calls him, is to kill Sir Walter; but when our pudding-headed director enter⯑ed, inſtead of ſlaying the knight his ſon, he only ſtood to receive one thruſt from him, then tumbled upon the ſtage, like an overfed porpoiſe, gave a belch, inſtead of a groan, and pretended to expire. It would have done your heart good to have beheld the ſtupid look of the cub Daniel, who knew he ought to have fallen. The prompter began to ſwear the people behind the ſcenes to laugh, and the mother, who liſps delight⯑fully, hearing an uproar, waddled to ſee what was the matter; ſhe found the miſ⯑take, and clapping her mouth to the ſide [18] of the ſcene, began curſing her huſband Roger in curious and well-choſen lan⯑guage:—"Get up," ſays ſhe, ‘Godth cuth your ſhowl, you old r [...]gething rathcul, get up, don't you know the child ith to die?’—"You lie you b—," ſays Roger, "I am to die." ‘Godth cuth your thoul, I thay, get up, the child ith to die. Dothn't the child do thir Walter, and ith n't Douglath to kill him?’—Roger, however, perſiſt⯑ed, that he was to die, and ſwore he would not get up. After a while the ſpectators began to ſmoke the blunder, and liſten to the curious dialogue that was paſſing between the dead man and his perſecuting wife. You may be ſure they enjoyed it, and the houſe was preſently in an uproar of laughter; this rouzed the butter-brained Roger's recollection, when, finding himſelf in the wrong box, he opened his eyes, and, after a tolerably [19] ſtupid ſtare, which again incited the ri⯑ſibility of the audience, aſſayed to get up. But this was a taſk that he was not able to perform, for he was little leſs than dead drunk, ſo, after two or three unſucceſsful efforts, he caſt a maudlin look towards the wing, and called, in a kind of diſmal hollow tone, ‘Moll! Moll! I can't get up, Moll!’ ‘Godth cuth your old rogethin rathcul's thoul,’ anſwered Moll, ‘Then lie there till the day of reſurrection for what I care.’ ‘Moll, Moll,—do ſend the Prompter on, and let him give Dan a lift with me.’ ‘Godth cuth your thoul, I'll crack your th'kul, I will,’ replied Moll, irritated at the ſhouts that were heard through the houſe.—The prompter, however, went on, and Dan and he once more ſet him on his feet; after which another battle enſued between Douglas and Sir Walter, to the great diverſion of the be⯑holders; [20] and Dan was ſlain, amidſt the clamour and acclamations of canes, hands, heels, and voices.

AS Mrs. Stentor is but a very indiffe⯑rent ſcribe, and not the beſt reader in Europe, I muſt beg of you to take the trouble of aſſiſting her; and, ſometimes, writing for her in the correſpondence which it may be neceſſary for her to hold with me, and place it, on the debtor page, to the account of friendſhip. In return, ſhe, perhaps, may be able to do ſome little matters for you, any thing that ſhe is able I know her too well to doubt of her being willing; for, not⯑withſtanding that ſhe has her whims and freaks, as what woman is without them, ſhe has been a good wife to me, and lent me many a lift. She will be with you at the beginning of the week.

LETTER XIX. Mr STAMFORD, Jun. to Mr. ALWYN.

I HEAR, with great pleaſure, though without ſurprize, of the favourable reception you met with at Kendal; and hope that you will paſs your time very agreeably, during the ſtay of the com⯑pany at that place. The party form⯑ed againſt you on your firſt appearance, for a party it certainly was, gives me ſome concern, as I apprehend, that the little malice of your rivals is capable of affording you more real uneaſineſs than misfortunes of a much more conſequential ſtamp. Fortitude can bear up againſt the latter, but petty [22] inſults, and mean, cowardly injuries are, too often, able to ruffle and ſour the beſt turned diſpoſition. Pray let me have the ſatisfaction of hearing that I am miſtaken, and that you laugh at the mean tricks of your enemies.

THIS ſolitary retreat affords very little matter for a letter, unleſs I was to relate my excurſions, which, though without variety of adventure, are, to me, exquiſitely pleaſing. In theſe de⯑lightful ſcenes I indulge the flow of fancy which the ſolemnity and ſtill⯑neſs of the groves tend greatly to pro⯑mote.

I MAKE no apology for inſerting ſuch a length of verſe in a familiar epiſtle. I think I have a ſufficient one, [27] when I acquaint you, that this retire⯑ment affords few ideas, but thoſe of poetry and ſcience. I ſeem to be ſcarce an inhabitant of this world—or, at leaſt, I fancy myſelf on the verge of another. The paſt ſcenes of hurry and buſineſs ſtrike my imagination as feebly as a dream; and thoſe ſpeculations, which the bulk of mankind regard as viſi⯑onary, appear to me, in my preſent diſpoſition, the only things that have reality. Sometimes, with Mr. Mait⯑land, I viſit the planetary regions, and admire the conjectures which his cre⯑ative fancy makes of their uſes or inhabitants. From thence, according to the enlarged idea of thoſe great men, who, in a leſs enlightened age would have been deified, I graſp in thought the amazing number of ſyſtems that fill the immenſity of ſpace, and loſe myſelf in the grandeur of the concep⯑tion. [28] The vaſt field of natural philo⯑ſophy, is a conſtant ſource of amuſe⯑ment, which, in theſe ſilent vales, wears an aſpect, not dry and ſcientific, but, ſublimely pleaſing.

BUT ſuch elevations bear the mind ſo much beyond its natural pitch, that it is impoſſible they ſhould be continual. Relaxation is neceſſary, and in that re⯑laxation I ſpend moſt of my time.

LETTER XX. Mr. ALWYN, to Mr. STAMFORD, Jun.

I HAVE had ſeveral adventures ſince my laſt to you, which, without any apology, I ſhall take the liberty to relate, from a ſuppoſition, that, as here⯑tofore, they will not be diſagreeable to you; having always obſerved, with plea⯑ſure, the part your paſſions took in the moſt trifling events, when they any way influenced the affairs of thoſe for whom you profeſſed an eſteem.

I THEN informed you of the invita⯑tion I had received to go to the aſſembly; I muſt now tell you of my weakneſs in ſuffering their perſuaſions to overcome [30] the reſolution I had made not to com⯑ply with this invitation. I believe I do wrong to aſcribe it all to the force of perſuaſion. The human heart has its foibles; mine has, however, which I cannot always conquer. I aſcribed the remonſtrances of my brother comedians to their little jealouſies at the preference which had been given me; this pre⯑ference was flattering, and, though I en⯑deavoured to combat that ſelfiſh idea, yet, it triumphed, even while I deſpiſed it. Not that I think any ſervile reſpect is due from the comedians to the inha⯑bitants; the caſe is, the laws have, un⯑juſtly, empowered the daemon of perſe⯑cution to aſſault the profeſſion of a player. Narrow-minded people have taken advantage of this injuſtice, and placed the profeſſors at a diſtance, which ignorance and arrogance, at all times, ſuppoſe they have a right to preſerve; [31] and the want of principle and abilities in the player, too frequently, juſtifies this uſurpation. The moſt uncultivated among the comedians get, habitually, and from the mere repetition of their parts, refined notions, which are ſeveral degrees beyond the ſphere of the lower orders of the people, with whom they are obliged either to aſſociate, or to ſeek the ſociety of the diſſolute and abandon⯑ed among the higher, the reſpectable part of whom are ſtigmatized with want of decorum, if they are known to hold any converſe with men whom the law calls vagabonds. Though this is a kind of life, to which I already perceive I ſhould by no means give the preference, except, as at preſent, from motives of convenience; yet my reſidence among theſe, frequently unfortunate ſons of the muſes, intereſts me greatly in their be⯑half; and I have reaſon to hope, from [33] that philoſophical liberality of ſentiment which prevails, and ſo nobly dignifies the preſent age, to ſee the time when none ſhall have the power, and few the inclination, to oppreſs thoſe people, who, under proper regulations would be our beſt moral teachers.

I DISCOVERED an additional proof of my weakneſs the inſtant I entered the aſſembly-room. It is neceſſary for every one, in ſuch a place, to wear a face of mirth, on the contrary, my heart re⯑proached me. There is a delicacy in the ſenſations of a pure and reſpectful love, to which the light ſports of a mind, not under its influence, is often diſguſt⯑ing. When I heard the ſprightly notes of the pipe and tabor my feelings revolt⯑ed againſt ſuch quick vibrations, and I felt an unconquerable inclination to⯑wards the penſeroſo. I had conſented to [33] go upon no other terms but thoſe of forbearing to dance, if I choſe ſo to do: Mr. Weſtwood, therefore, who intro⯑duced me, had not provided me a part⯑ner, leſt ſhe ſhould be diſappointed. As my evil genius ordained, there was a lady, whoſe partner had by ſome acci⯑dent been detained, and who could not dance for want of one; I, not knowing her motive for ſitting ſtill, had entered into a ſlight converſation with her, which had not continued long before the maſter of the ceremonies, ſuppoſing, probably, I had an inclination to dance, came and preſented her hand to me; and, the lady not expreſſing any reluctance, I could not be ſo unmannerly as to refuſe; though I believe I accepted the compliment with ſuch an awkward, and abſent air, that ſhe muſt certainly perceive it. The minuets were not over; we were called forth, and the lady, though [34] not the youngeſt in the room, moved gracefully enough, and acquired a ſhare of admiration equal to thoſe who had gone before. I perceived ſhe was not entirely ſatisfied with my languor, and made ſeveral good-natured efforts to in⯑ſpire me; for, indeed, a heavy partner, in dancing, is a dull companion, but they were ineffectual. I was wandering through the haunts of Maria, was diſ⯑courſing with her, gazing at her, ſighing for her, and all the fiddles in England could not perſuade me to leave ſuch de⯑lightful company. The lady's name, who did me this honour, is Vincent; ſhe is a widow, a native of the Weſt Indies, and almoſt as great a ſtranger here as I am; ſhe is very handſome, has an eaſy air, a good ſhape, and appears to be about thirty.

[35]DO not laugh, dear Charles, nor think me vain for what I am going to ſay; I wiſh it were otherwiſe, but, in ſpite of my ennui, I had the misfortune to pleaſe Mrs. Vincent. There is no danger to the lady's character from ſaying this to you; and the remembrance of one, whom I ſhall never forget, reproaches me for ſuffering her paſſion, although it is a thing out of my power to prevent, ex⯑cept by a precipitate flight, which I ſhall certainly make, if I hear any more upon this theme. After all, it is an aukward ſituation for a man, to whom love is ten⯑derly and forcibly declared. It ſeems exceedingly unnatural for him, and almoſt ſhameful, to reject the advances of a fine woman. I believe it impoſſible, except where, as in my caſe, the affec⯑tions are totally pre-engaged; for this reaſon, when I have read the ſtory of the young Iſraelite, and the amorous Egyp⯑tian, [36] I have been apt to conclude that, beſide the ſin of ingratitude to his maſter, which, doubtleſs, has great influence over a virtuous mind, yet, conſidering the force of the temptation, which was almoſt too much for nature to ſupport, Joſeph had certainly a miſtreſs of whom he was enamoured.

YOUNG Weſtwood appeared ſome⯑what chagrined about my dancing, though he endeavoured to hide it. He told me, that had I not profeſſed a deſire, little ſhort of a reſolution, not to partake of the amuſement, he would have provided me another partner.

THE report that Mr. Stentor was the perſon who was principally con⯑cerned in the oppoſition I met with on my firſt appearance was, I am ful⯑ly convinced, without foundation. His [37] partiality and attachment to me are evident; and I find myſelf greatly in arrear to him for the attention he pays to my intereſts, by every aſſiduity in his power. I perceive the ſneers of the other members of the company when he does me any little kindneſs; and un⯑derſtand their ſarcaſms, which imply, that he has a farther deſign than is ap⯑parent; but, as he has no point to gain, the ſuppoſition, beſides its malignancy, is ridiculous. I ſee no reaſon that we have to conſtrue a friendly deſire to pleaſe into officiouſneſs; and we all find, in ſome degree, a ſatisfaction in being loved and reſpected, even though the object is beneath any claim of re⯑ciprocal affection. But this is not Mr. Stentor's caſe; his underſtanding, though clouded and embarraſſed by a life of poverty, is much above the level; his temper is tractable, and his [38] addreſs inſinuating; not, it is true, with⯑out a ſmall proportion of flattery, and has, at times, the aſpect of cringing; but the firſt he corrects, where he finds it diſpleaſing; and the latter is not to be wondered at, when we conſider the ſtate of dependence in which he has conſtantly lived.

I CAME here for country air, and the improvement of my health; but, I fear, I ſhall never become the rival of old Parr, none of my waiſtcoats get too tight for me. My cheeks improve, ra⯑ther in length than breadth; and though the colour has not entirely forſook them, yet it ſeems like an ambaſſador on the eve of a war, in hourly expectation of departing. I ought to beg pardon for ſpeaking with ſo much levity, upon a ſubject which, though my ſituation renders it a light one, to me, yet is one [39] that your goodneſs and prejudice in my favour have made intereſting, on your part. But forgive me; ſuffer the ſmile of reſignation and melancholy to, ſometimes, ſteal a viſit. Yes, Charles, I will own, life has no charms without Maria. Death opens a friendly door for a harraſſed fugitive, and welcomes him to the manſion of repoſe. Why then ſhould I dread to enter? Even Maria, the lovely Maria, whom all hearts doat on, all eyes adore, muſt ſoon take refuge there. What is an hour, a year, a century? They are all equal, and Socrates and Shakeſpear are, now, no longer the conſcious vehicles of wiſdom and delight. Where is the dif⯑ference between a moment, and a mil⯑lion of ages, if the cold hand of death muſt, at laſt, put out the lamp? No⯑thing, but Maria, could bribe me to wiſh for life; and death, as Dryden ſays,

GOD bleſs you all. I am going with this letter to the poſt-office, and then to take my uſual, ſolitary walk among the wilds of Weſtmoreland, where pomp and luxury never, yet, had reſidence. There is ſuch a mixture of the grand, terrible, and beautiful, and in ſo rich a ſtyle, among theſe vales and moun⯑tains, that I ſometimes imagine I be⯑hold the ſpirit of Salvator Roſa, ſit⯑ting on a rock, and contemplating the wonders of the ſcene.—Shakeſpear is, you know, my favourite poet; and I never read him with more enthuſiaſm than in this place; the ſcenery is ſo ſuitable to the elevation and gran⯑deur of the ſubject that it ſeems enchantment, and produces every poſ⯑ſible [41] effect.—I have played Hamlet, and am ſhortly to appear in Macbeth, &c. &c. &c. Adieu,

LETTER XXI. Mr. STENTOR to his WIFE.

I AM much obliged to my friend, Drumſhandrugh, for informing me of your arrival. I told you it would be Tueſday night before you could get there, but you always would be poſi⯑tive.

MRS. Vincent is as violent as ever, and meets no obſtruction capable of impeding her career. She has had another tender ſcene with Monſieur Al⯑wyn; but he is made of ſtrange metal, no penetrable ſtuff, according to her ac⯑count. He expreſſes himſelf different⯑ly, [43] and fairly owns that, if it had not been for a lucky interruption, he is fearful his paſſions would have vanquiſh⯑ed his reſolution. But he has eſcaped, and ſeems determined to avoid, from what he calls a conſciouſneſs of weak⯑neſs, ſuch melting interviews for the future. Though I can't help laughing at his ſtupidity, I encourage his virtuous whims, becauſe they anſwer my pur⯑poſes, every way. He wrote, the next morning, to the dying lady, who has ſhewn me his billet. It is a mighty genteel one, full of compliments on her perſon and accompliſhments; but concludes with informing her, that his affections are unalterably fixed; and, that he is fully reſolved to quit Ken⯑dal the moment he hears any thing more about an affair, which were he to purſue, would ſink him, even beneath contempt. Mrs. Vincent [44] finding what ſhe ſuſpected was true, videlicet, that he is in love with ano⯑ther, ſent for me to conſult upon the means of diſcovering who this other could be; and we could hit upon none, but that of purloining his pocket-book, in which he keeps his letters, and which I have often obſerved toſſed in a care⯑leſs, unſuſpecting manner, among his things. I pretended to ſtart at an ac⯑tion like this, and ſtated the ingrati⯑tude, and almoſt impoſſibility of it, though I believe it to be eaſy enough; nor did I ſeem much more flexible, when ſhe mentioned a gratuity of ten guineas; but when ſhe afterwards came up to twenty, I found my virtue mol⯑lified, and pity pleading ſtrongly in her behalf. Accordingly, upon the afore⯑ſaid conditions, I have engaged to make the attempt, and, you may be aſſured, I ſhall not fail to magnify the difficulty [45] of the taſk. I do not, for my part, yet, foreſee what advantage it will be to her, if ſhe ſhould make the diſcovery; but ſhe is a bold deſigner, and revolves vaſt projects in her head.—She deſired to ſee my writing, and, after comparing it with Alwyn's, aſked me, if I thought I could not imitate his hand. You can't help remembering, what a deviliſh ſituation I brought myſelf into, the laſt time I practiſed this manoeuvre; and to tell you the truth, I have been plaguily ſtartled at the recollection ever ſince. Not that this ought to have too much weight with me, for it is a trick that I have frequently practiſed before, and with remarkable ſucceſs. I don't yet know her intention, however, I ſhall conſider circumſtances with ſome cauti⯑tion, in this caſe, and take my meaſures accordingly.

LETTER XXII. Mr. STAMFORD, Jun. to Mr. ALWYN.

YOUR'S of the 24th, was brought by the ſervant, who conveyed my laſt to the poſt-office. Not having, at that time, any thing to communicate relating to my ſiſter, or the intended marriage, I was ſilent on that point. She and my father arrived here laſt Thurſday; he in good health, but poor Maria very much altered. The phyſicians have adviſ⯑ed the country air, and my father intends to leave her for ſome time, as buſineſs requires his preſence in town, next week. Her diſorder, it is feared, will terminate in a conſumption. 'Tis of the mind, and medicine vainly attempts [47] to relieve, while the ſource of diſcontent remains. A calm languor, a ſettled me⯑lancholy has overſpread her features, and, I am too well convinced, will, ſhortly, convey her to the laſt ſtate of repoſe, if means be not found to prevent a union to which ſhe is ſo averſe.

INTIMATE as our friendſhip has ever been, I am apprehenſive of ſhocking her delicacy, if I ſhould preſs her to a diſcovery of her paſſion; but I am re⯑ſolved to communicate my ſentiments on this ſubject to my father, who can, with much more propriety, enquire into the ſtate of her mind. His tenderneſs can ſurely never bear to ſee her miſerable, but will rather favour her inclinations, when fixed on ſo truly eſtimable a cha⯑racter as that of my dear friend.

LETTER XXIII. Miſs STAMFORD, to Miſs GOWLAND.

MY papa and I arrived here laſt night. Ever ſince we parted, my health has been on the decline. I am much altered, ſince I had the pleaſure of your company in town. A liſtleſs dejection, which I am incapable of over⯑coming, has entirely ſunk my ſpirits, and makes every amuſement tedious and diſguſting. Even muſic affords me no pleaſure, and my only conſolation is, that a very ſhort time will put an end to my ſufferings. I am conſtantly haunted with the idea of Alwyn, whom my fancy repreſents as pining with hopeleſs love. Alas! perhaps I flatter [53] myſelf, and the remembrance of Maria is, long ſince, blotted from his mind. I know your friendſhip will make you pity, and not blame, my hapleſs in⯑fatuation.—And ſure, to die is an atone⯑ment ſufficient for my imprudence.

MY papa will come to town next week. He leaves me here for the be⯑nefit of the air, as well as for the pro⯑motion of that union I tremble but to think of. Young Mr. Maitland is here, but does not much trouble me with his company. I believe he thinks it is diſ⯑agreeable, and I am willing he ſhould, if that would tend to prevent our mar⯑riage. My dear brother is always with me. If I walk out he accompanies me, and, by the happy turn of his mind, makes theſe woods and lawns appear to the greateſt advantage. If I am con⯑fined to my chamber, he is continually [54] there, and, by the tenderneſs of his be⯑haviour, gives me, every day, additional reaſons to eſteem him. I ſee he wiſhes me to communicate to him the cauſe of my diſquiet, but forbears to aſk, leſt it ſhould make me uneaſy. And why ſhould I not repoſe the ſecret in his faithful boſom? I never had, till new, a thought that I did not ſhare with him. He is all mildneſs, and I am ſure would rather ſoothe than chide me.—Adieu, my dear, for the preſent. I am quite tired, and will finiſh this in the afternoon.

LETTER XXIV. Mr. STAMFORD, Jun. to Mr. ALWYN.

I HAVE not mentioned my ſuſpi⯑cions of Maria's regard for you to my father; his diſinclination to the pre⯑ſent match having rendered it unneceſ⯑ſary. Beſides, I was apprehenſive of the conſequences, which there is no foreſee⯑ing, in an inſtance of this critical nature. But I have other news to acquaint you with, that will, I am convinced, afford you much pleaſure. Our friendſhip, and the high opinion I have ever enter⯑tained of your honour, makes me tell you, without ſcruple, that Maria loves you, and has confeſſed it. No longer able to ſee her pining with ſecret anguiſh, I preſſed her to diſcloſe the ſecrets of her boſom. She has owned her love, [59] and the apprehenſions ſhe was under from the preſent treaty. I could not diſ⯑approve of a paſſion which I have al⯑ways wiſhed to ſee crowned with ſucceſs; but, on the contrary, informed her that her father was really averſe to conclud⯑ing the buſineſs with Mr. Maitland, and would take the firſt opportunity of breaking it off, with honour. This aſ⯑ſurance has had a happy effect: ſhe has already began to recover her ſpirits, and is quite another perſon, compared to what ſhe was a day or two ago.

THE gloomy appearance of affairs be⯑gins to clear up. Heaven, that ſees your mutual worth, will not ſuffer it to languiſh without ſucceſs. I am elated with the hopes of calling my Alwyn by the endearing name of brother, and of ſeeing my ſiſter in the poſſeſſion of him, whom of all men I moſt eſteem. My [60] next letter will, I doubt not, contain more certain information; and in the mean time I muſt aſſure you, that no circumſtance can place you higher in the eſtimation of

LETTER XXV. Mr. STAMFORD, Sen. to Mr. SELDON.

I THOUGHT to have had the pleaſure of ſeeing you in town, pre⯑vious to my ſetting out for this place; but my daughter's health, which was daily declining, obliged me to haſten my departure. I ſhall be with you in a few days, as Maria, already, begins to improve; and, in the mean time, if you ſhould be inclined to adventure with me, in the way I mentioned in my laſt, our clerk, Mr. Simpſon, has inſtructions to do the needful on my part.

THE connection I was deſirous of completing between the ſon of our old [62] friend Maitland, and my Maria, does not bid fair to produce thoſe good ef⯑fects I hoped would ariſe from it. The young man has many foibles, and, I fear, faults; all which are of that [...]om⯑plexion that do not ſeem likely to wear off with time. He has been at college, where, if I can judge, he employed his time▪ more in diſtinguiſhing himſelf among the bucks of that place, than in acquiring uſeful knowledge; and he ſeems to think, that the greateſt merit conſiſts in ſingularity, and the power of raiſing a laugh. In ſhort, he is a very empty young fellow; and the more he is known, the leſs he is eſteemed. Maria does not like him at all, and, as I am re⯑ſolved not to force her inclinations, I intend to decline forwarding the buſineſs; though I muſt own it gives me much concern, eſpecially when I think how [63] much my good friend Maitland will be hurt by it.

MY ſon is well, and ſeems delighted with this pleaſant country. He makes his reſpects to you, And I remain,

LETTER XXVI. Mr. STENTOR to his WIFE.

I HAVE a budget of news for you. The pocket-book has been rifled, and we have made the fatal diſcovery. I did it mighty neatly; I watched our youngſter's time for his long walk, which is cuſtomary with him every day, then went up to his room, on pretence of looking for him, but with intent to ſee if he had left his cabinet of ſecrets be⯑hind him; I mean his pocket-book, and had the good fortune to find it.

I RAN with my prize to my employer, and ſhe read, while I wrote extracts and memorandums. We were ſo expediti⯑ous [65] that I had replaced the book before the youth returned; and, I believe, ſo carefully diſpoſed the papers, that it is not probable he ſhould have any ſuſ⯑picion. It was exceedingly lucky, for I had gone ſeveral times before, when he was out, and could not find it. I am of opinion that he uſually takes it with him, for it is an obſervation, made by ſeveral in the town, that he is often ſeen muſing, in the fields, over letters and papers, and the purport of what we have read con⯑firms the conjecture.

IT appears, he is in love with his maſter's daughter, with whoſe brother he holds a correſpondence. He has re⯑tired hither without the knowledge of his maſter, who believes him to be with a relation for the recovery of his health. Theſe particulars known, Mrs. Vincent reſolved to ſtrike a bold ſtroke, and in⯑form [66] Mr. Stamford, Alwny's maſter, of his love; but, leſt that ſhould ra⯑ther retard than forward her ſcheme, as, from the milky temper of the old gen⯑tleman, there is no knowing what turn the affair might take, ſhe has accuſed him of infidelity to the young lady and love to her; and, as there was no way ſo poſitive as that of ſhewing it under Alwyn's own hand, ſhe has bribed me, rather unwillingly, I confeſs, to write a counterfeit love-letter, as coming from Alwyn to her. It is done in a bold ſtile; and, as ſhe has managed the affair, cannot fail of producing the deſired effect; which is, to break off all connections be⯑tween the Stamford family and Alwyn, for the future.

SHE has wrote an anonymous letter to old Stamford, and encloſed the coun⯑terfeit love-letter; which is ſo happy an [67] imitation, that Alwyn himſelf would not by the writing diſown it for his. You will hardly ſuppoſe it was compunction for the youth that made me averſe to the taſk; my own, perſonal ſecurity was the only motive of any weight with me; and this kicked the beam, when put in the ſcales of intereſt. I am now the proprietor of ſixty guineas, a ſum that the frowns of that preſecuting bawd Fortunè, who procures only for idiots, has taught me to look up to with as much wonder, as an ignorant ſailor would at a gilt pagoda. Some people, perhaps, who are gravely lolling at their eaſe, would preach to me about conſcience; though, at the ſame time, if I wanted a morſel of bread, would have the con⯑ſcience to eat their dinner with a good appetite, and let me ſtarve. The world has continually aſſaulted me, and I have a right to make repriſals; all men that I [68] have ever heard of agree, that ſelf-pre⯑ſervation precedes every other conſide⯑ration; it does, however, with me. This Alwyn came here, and deprived me of my bread, at leaſt of my fame; and muſt I be the pimp to his triumph, let him look to himſelf, he is miſtaken in his man, if he imagines me ſo fooliſhly tame.

I HAVE another rod in pickle for him; I told you I would take meaſures to inform Mr. Staple, the lover of Mrs. Vincent, what a rapid progreſs the youth has made in the affections of his miſtreſs. I have accompliſhed this buſineſs, and it has had that kind of effect which I ſup⯑poſed. Staple is bent upon miſchief and revenge, but he is none of your fooliſh hot-headed blockheads, who, becauſe they have received an injury, ſeek ſatisfacti⯑on in what is ridiculouſly called an ho⯑nourable [69] way. He is aware, that the armour of honour was never yet found to be bullet-proof. He, therefore, goes me a wiſer way to work, and hires me two or three ſtout fellows, who are to be⯑ſtow the knout, or the baſtinado, or ſome, equally mild, diſcipline upon him; nay, perhaps, proceed a little farther, if there ſhould ſeem a neceſſity for ſuch a pro⯑cedure. My emiſſary, who tells me all this, is to be an aſſiſtant and Ward, the Town Bully, who, you know, is the terror of the Kendalians, the captain of the Blackguards, and the leading man at elections, is another. They are to be re⯑inforced by Staple, and their plan is to hide themſelves among the rocks, where he uſually reſorts; one of them is to be upon the ſcout, and give notice of his arrival; they are then to ſteal upon him, unawares, knock him down, if he makes any reſiſtance, bind him, and puniſh [70] him as their leader ſhall direct. They are provided with diſguiſes, and intend to leave him bound, after they have broken a few of his bones. I hope there will be no murder; becauſe, I confeſs, that would be carrying even my revenge too far. Not that I would have them tender upon the ſubject. If he keeps his bed three weeks, or a month, he will find we ſhall be able to play without him; and our booby of a manager will be obliged, then, to come cap-in-hand, once more, to me.

I CAN never mention this laſt fool without recollecting ſome of his ab⯑ſurdities. He wants to have Shylock, the Jew, in the Merchant of Venice, ſpoken in the dialect of Duke's-place, and ſwears Shakſpur intended it ſo. He is ſeldom perfect enough in his part to be able to repeat two lines together, [71] without the aſſiſtance of the prompter; and, when he blunders, always lays the blame upon others.

YOU know what a happy knack he has at mutilating. The other night, inſtead of angels, he wanted anglers to viſit his Cordelia's dreams.

HE told the duke in Othello, a meſ⯑ſenger was arrived from the gallows, inſtead of the gallies.

AGAIN, inſtead of ſaying to Poſthu⯑mus, in Cymbeline, ‘Thou baſeſt thing avoid; hence from my ſight’ —He came ſpluttering on, and bawled out, ‘Thou baſs ſtring, hence in a fright.’

HE ſeemed in an excellent mood in this play, for diſcovering his talent; [72] for, when he ſhould have ſaid to Cloten, ‘Attend you here, the door of our ſtern daughter?’ he aſked, ‘Attend you here, our daughter's ſtern door?’ —But this to you, who are ſo well acquainted with the booby, is ſuper⯑fluous.—Adieu,

LETTER XXVII. Mrs. VINCENT, to Mr. STAMFORD, Sen.

THOUGH I have not the honour of a perſonal acquaintance with you, yet, as I have, from many circum⯑ſtances, reaſon to think highly of your character, I deem it a duty incumbent upon me to inform you, how much your reputation is injured by one, whom, if I am not deceived, it ill becomes to ſpeak with diſreſpect of any part of your family.

THE perſon alluded to is Mr. Al⯑wyn, who boaſts of connexions and intereſts with your children, particular⯑ly your daughter, which, even if true, [74] are of that nature, which neither pru⯑dence nor gratitude admit of revealing. His ingratitude is, indeed, too appa⯑rent; and, though want of prudence is almoſt venial, in youth, yet, when it affects the peace and reputation of families, the perſon who, from motives of concern, ſhall warn the unſuſpecting of their danger, will act conſiſtently to thoſe ties which ought to regulate ſo⯑ciety.

I HAVE an additional reaſon for my conduct. Being a party concerned, I think myſelf inſulted by the folly and vanity of this young man.

THAT you may not ſuſpect me of having any private pique, any ſiniſter deſign, or mean reſentment to gratify, I have ſent ſufficient proof of the charge I make. The encloſed letter, addreſſed [75] to me, under his own hand, is an irre⯑fragable witneſs. His ingratitude in of⯑fering to expoſe the letters of his friend, your ſon, for which he had no reaſon, but to convince me that your daughter was, as he termed it, dying for him, put me beyond all patience. Not that I am ſurprized at the young lady's par⯑tiality in his favour; he has many ſpe⯑cious qualities, and art enough to en⯑ſnare the affections of an inexperienced heart, eſpecially one, whoſe own recti⯑tude will not let it miſtruſt the ſincerity of others. Before I was aware of his character, or intentions, I ſuffered him to viſit at my houſe, in conſequence of the protection his plauſibility had gained him among the young gentlemen of Kendal; and ſuppoſing him, from what obſervations a firſt, or ſecond interview had furniſhed me with, deſerving of bet⯑ter fortune than his connexion with a [76] company of travelling players could af⯑ford. I am ſorry, ſince, by his own ac⯑count, you have an intereſt in his welfare, that I was ſo ſoon obliged to alter my opinion. Indeed I did not imagine that, becauſe I treated him with reſpect, he would, therefore, declare himſelf my lover; nor, when I found him ſo auda⯑cious, that he would, by ſuch ungenerous means as thoſe of pretending to ſacri⯑fice another, and, perhaps, far more de⯑ſerving lady, to me, endeavour to re⯑commend himſelf to my favour.

I DO not mean to write a diſſertation upon his conduct; but as I have, from what I deem proper motives, undertaken to inform you of it, I thought it neceſ⯑ſary to give my reaſons for ſo doing. His letter will beſt direct your feelings, and a conſciouſneſs of having diſcharg⯑ed my duty will ſatisfy mine.

[77]I SHOULD have ſubſcribed my name, but that I think it a diſgrace to have any future knowledge of ſuch an affair, and would avoid all tranſactions, of every kind, hereafter, with Mr. Alwyn; neither is there any neceſſity, where the circum⯑ſtances are ſo full and obvious. For the ſame reaſon, I have eraſed the ſuperſcrip⯑tion from the encloſed letter.—I am, Sir, as I would wiſh to be, till a more eligible opportunity offers, your un⯑known, but, reſpectful, humble ſervant.

LETTER XXVIII^*. To Mrs. —.

WHY will you ſuffer the humbleſt, the moſt ſincere of your adorers, to languiſh in deſpair? The repulſe you, laſt night, gave my ardent and ungovernable paſſion has, almoſt, de⯑prived me of reaſon. Why, too cruel fair, do you delight in the miſery of your faithful ſlave? Yet, why do I complain? Had I ten thouſand lives, I would ſurrender them, in obedience to your commands. Suffer me to hope for an abatement of your rigour.

IS it poſſible that my paſſion can be a matter of ſurprize to you? To [79] you, who are formed to inſpire the moſt ardent love? Can you reproach me with baſeneſs, in ſacrificing another to the in⯑fluence of your matchleſs charms? Is not your irreſiſtible beauty an excuſe for a breach, even of the moſt ſo⯑lemn engagements? Ah, ceaſe, angelic creature, to blame me for the effects of a paſſion that is too ſtrong for op⯑poſition.

I CONFESS, I was, once, ſlightly en⯑amoured with a girl; but never knew the force of love, till I beheld your unrivall'd perfections. She was the gen⯑tleman's daughter with whom I reſided in London; but ſhe was forward, and I was fooliſh. It was a ſilly affair that, I was apprehenſive, might become too ſerious; for which reaſon, I pretended that my health was declining, and made that excuſe to avoid a perſecution from [80] the poor thing, who, I found, expected me to tie an Hymeneal knot with her, to which, till this inſtant, I have ever had the utmoſt averſion.

IT is no wonder that I now feel myſelf all love, all conſtancy, all ecſtacy and truth. Who can think of another that looks upon you?

TO convince you of my ſincerity, I will ſhew you, this evening, extracts, or whole letters if you pleaſe, from the brother of the above lady, from which it will appear how eaſily I might ſucceed, were fortune the only object of my pur⯑ſuit. Do but look with pity on my paſ⯑ſion, and I will inſtantly let this brother know how much he is miſtaken, when he fancies I love his ſiſter; which I ſhould have done long ago, but for ſome pru⯑dential reaſons.

[81]I AM unhappy till I hear my doom from your dear lips; and, ſurely, if they pronounce it, I cannot doubt its kind⯑neſs. They were formed for pleaſure, and cannot, twice, give pain.

THE bearer of this is my friend, and of approved fidelity. By him I hope to receive your permiſſion to caſt my⯑ſelf at your feet, and to prove how en⯑tirely I am,

LETTER XXIX. Mr. ALWYN to Mr. HILKIRK.

NOTWITHSTANDING the depreſſion of ſpirits which I labour under, an adventure has happened to me, which has ſurprized me ſo much, that I find an impulſe ſtrong enough to make me thus ſoon reſume my pen, and ſend you an account of it.

THE romantic ſcenes which are ſo numerous in this country, being ex⯑ceedingly delightful, and in uniſon with that kind of temper, which I, more particularly at preſent, poſſeſs, it had become cuſtomary with me to ramble [83] among them, uſually, every day. This I find has been taken notice of.

WANDERING, this morning, by the ſide of a rivulet, my accuſtomed haunt, that waſhes a thouſand rocky fragments, and is kept in almoſt perpetual agitation by the obſtruction it meets with, I ob⯑ſerved a natural cave, in a rock upon its bank, which had a winding, narrow entrance. The warmth of the day, the gloom of the cavern, and my inclina⯑tion for repoſe, all invited me to reſt, and I ſat down in it. Appearances made me conjecture this had, heretofore, been the ſilent retreat of ſome one, who, like me, was devoted to melancholy. In the ſpot that fronted it the bed of the brook was deep, and its waters un⯑ruffled; within was a ſeat upon the ſhelving of the rock, a little worn, where one might recline, unſeen, and [84] liſten to the warblings of the inhabi⯑tants of the lonely valley. The light, through ſeveral cavities, juſt found ſuf⯑ficient entrance to enable me to read; the roof permitted me to ſit, or ſtand, upright, and I began to regret that I had not ſooner diſcovered a place ſo conſonant to my taſte.

I HAD amuſed myſelf, here, for ſome time, when I heard the voices of men; and, as I had no deſire to be ſeen, I ſat ſtill, ſuppoſing they would ſoon be paſt. They approached nearer, and their language became diſtinct. Judge of my ſurprize, when I found myſelf the ſubject of the following converſation.

‘DAMN him, I'll be the death of him—I'll murder him.’

‘WHOY, if we murder him, he'll [85] be ſure never to foind us out; dead men, you know, tell no tales.’

‘NO, no, I'll ha no conſarn in mur⯑der, noather. Yow ſay he has affront⯑ed you; and if yow want to be even with him, by giving him a good, ſound beating, why ſo, I'll lend you a hond, an I think he'll ſcarce be an overmatch for us aw three.’

‘AW three! dom thee for a coward, whoy I, myſel, would ſpin him tween my finger and thum, loike a two-penny top. An, I ſuppooas, if we were to give him two or three hard knucks, that ſhould chance to do his buſineſs, thou aſt ſich a queeazy conſcience thou'dſt peach.’

‘NO—dom the liars.—But, howſom⯑dever, I doan't ought to be conſarn'd in his death, cauſe he gum me a [86] guinea to pay my quarter's rent, and boy my woife a pare a-ſhoon, t'other day; and which, thou knowſt, thou holp me ſpend, cauſe my landlord, here, promiſed to forgee me th'rent, and ſumat beſide, for this job.’

‘AYE, aye—I'll forgive thee th'rent, provided thou doſt not ſpare his bones; for by — I'll ſcarce leave life in him—I'll teach him to come to aſſemblies, and dance with other folks miſtreſſes, an make love out of play⯑books; damn him, I'll 'noint his carcaſe.’

‘AS ſoon as we ſee him cumin, we'll put creeap o'er our feaces, and hoide till we can fall on him; and then, if we think he kens us, weeſt coot his tongue out, to mar his telling who hurt him.’

[87] ‘HIS tongue! what matters his tongue, he can write, can he not?—I'll warrant he can write love-letters— Make an end of him, damn him, make an end of him—I'd ſtick my knife to his heart, for a farthing. I'd kill him with a better heart than ever a butcher kill'd a calf.’

FROM two or three circumſtances in their diſcourſe it was that I diſcovered myſelf to be the ſubject of it. I looked through an aperture of the rock, and perceived they were armed with ſhort bludgeons, which, I ſuppoſe, they had precaution enough to hide under their coats, while they thought there was any danger of being ſeen; and, conſider⯑ing the intentions and ſtrength of the enemy, I concluded myſelf happy in being thus ſecreted from their ſight. This, however, was no ſecurity; they [88] were acquainted with the place; and one of them perceiving ſomebody coming, along the winding of the valley, which they ſuppoſed to be me, they proceeded to enter the cave. What added to the horror of my ſituation, was, that their leader, being intent upon an evil action, and ſubject, I ſuppoſe, to a thouſand ap⯑prehenſions, drew a large knife, and was the firſt that approached the cavern.

THE moment I beheld my enemy ad⯑vancing, my anger at the perfidious manner in which he ſought revenge, for a ſuppoſed injury of which I was inno⯑cent, added to the abhorrence of being murdered, made me forget all fear, and darting from my ſeat, I ſeized the knife, and with one effort laid him at my feet. The guilt of his conſcience, and my unexpected appearance and aſſault, ter⯑rified him ſo much, that, inſtead of [89] giving any proofs of ferocity, he roared for mercy in the moſt abject manner.

I DID not ſtay any longer with him, but, ſnatching his club, attacked his aſ⯑ſociates, and, by a ſucceſsful blow, level⯑led one of them with the earth. The more deſperate talker, and him who was ſo ready to accuſe the other of cowardice, took to his heels. He did not eſcape thus; I ſprang over the fallen aſſaſſin, and purſued him, and his foot tripping, I caught him almoſt inſtantly. He roſe, and endeavoured to make ſome reſiſt⯑ance, but I had the good fortune to prove victorious.

I HAD ſcarce made this conqueſt, when I perceived young Mr. Weſtwood, with his fiſhing rod; who ſeeing me thus engaged, [90] ran, immediately, to my aſſiſtance. I de⯑ſired him to guard this ruffian, while I went to ſecure Mr. Staple, the leader of this glorious enterprize: the other aſſociate, I perceived, had fled out of my reach, and has not been heard of ſince.

AS I came to the cavern, I heard Staple groan, ſhockingly; I, therefore, deſired Mr. Weſtwood to come up, and aſſiſt me in bringing him from the mouth of the cave, he being juſt in that part of it where there was not light enough to diſcover in what condition he was: ac⯑cordingly, having bound the other with a rope, which was tied round his own waiſt, and which, I ſuppoſe, was intended for my uſe, we went to Staple, who con⯑tinued utttering groans, and exclaimed that he was a dead man.

[91]WHEN we had brought him to the light, we found he had a contuſion on the eye, which, from the violence of the blow, had ſwelled, prodigiouſly; but, what was worſe, in falling, his arm was broken, by pitching in the crevice of a rock.

I NOW found all my anger turned to pity, and, therefore, forebore to upbraid him. I was not inclined to be quite ſo merciful to the accomplice. I knew if I accuſed him before a magiſtrate the af⯑fair muſt become public; I, therefore, be⯑ſtowed a little diſcipline upon him, though not quite to the ſatisfaction of Mr. Weſtwood, and ſuffered him to depart.

WE conveyed Staple almoſt to Ken⯑dal, in the beſt manner we were able; [92] and he made ſo many mean conceſſions, and begged of me to forgive him ſo often, that I told him he might invent what tale he pleaſed, and tell it his own way, for that I ſhould not contradict it; and prevailed, at laſt, on Weſtwood to make the like promiſe; accordingly, I hear, he reports that he has been robbed and ill treated by a thief, among the mountains.

JEALOUSY, it ſeems, prompted him to commit this outrage; I had danced with his miſtreſs at an aſſembly, and ſhe has been unkind to him ſince, which he attributes to her partiality for me; but, as I have by no means encouraged her in ſuch a partiality, I am not to be ac⯑countable for her caprice; however, as it is an affair that I did not wiſh to hear any thing about in the preſence of Mr. Weſtwood, I did not aſk for any explan⯑ation, [93] nor did he offer any, unleſs his apologies for his conduct may be ſo termed.

I AM not ſo violently attached to my preſent employment as I imagined I ſhould be. There is ſo much of the labour of a ſchool-boy requiſite, that, before the words are learnt by rote, the imagination is wearied, the enthuſi⯑aſtic fire, which the firſt reading of the poet inſpires, is evaporated, and the fancy becomes jaded by repetition. The falſe, or dull conception, too, of the ge⯑nerality of the performers, is exceedingly teizing. I do not think to continue here, long, and the above adventure will rather quicken than retard my departure. I have flattering accounts from young Mr. Stamford, that would almoſt make me think of returning to the family. [94] My heart is with them, but I dare not indulge my hopes: ſhould they prove falſe, it would only increaſe a diſorder that is, already, too violent. Adieu.

LETTER XXX. Mr STAMFORD, Sen. to Mr. ALWYN.

IF I were conſcious of having ever acted, in the leaſt reſpect, otherwiſe to you than as a father, I ſhould have been leſs ſurprized at the tranſaction that compels me to trouble you with this. Your father was the worthieſt of men, and the thought that I was repay⯑ing, in a ſlight degree, the obligation I owe to his friendſhip, added to the merit, I fancied, I ſaw in you, gave me a ſatisfaction, that more than amply counterbalanced the benefits you re⯑ceived from my protection and care. I can never expreſs the pleaſure I daily experienced, in beholding the image of [96] my dear Alwyn renewed in his ſon. With a truly paternal joy, I perceived the ſeeds of every virtue unfolding themſelves under my inſtruction, and cheriſhed the fond hope of ſeeing them come to maturity. But I am forced to give up the expectation.

THINK, Alwyn, if your ſoul is not grown callous to every ſentiment, to every feeling that dignifies mankind— Think what I ſuffer in relinquiſhing the darling wiſh. I am now old; my con⯑nexions drop off; few of the friends of my youth remain; but I indulged the hope of ſeeing Alwyn among my children, one of the ſupports of my age. I can ill afford to loſe the bleſ⯑ſing; but perfect felicity is not attain⯑able in this life, and I muſt ſubmit. But I muſt confeſs, that I ſubmit with pain and reluctance.

[97]OH, Alwyn, much rather would I have followed thee to the grave than ſeen the proofs of yeſterday! When did I injure you? What has Maria done? Baſe, ungrateful wretch! To wound me in the tendereſt part! If I had not foſtered you in my boſom you had wanted power to ſting! Could not your vile ſchemes be carried on without ſacrificing your father and your friend!

MY children are diſtracted at your perfidy; and nothing but the moſt di⯑rect, the moſt poſitive proof of your baſeneſs could have prevailed on me to adopt the belief.

OH, thou fair outſide, painted ſhew of every virtue, but real ſink of every vice! In future, no villainy, however great, ſhall ſhock my belief; for, if [98] Alwyn can ſmile at the fond credulity of the friend that loves him—If he can blaſt the fame of an innocent girl, whoſe greateſt fault is to eſteem him— If he can wound the heart of an old man, whoſe ſolicitude for his welfare has equalled that which he had for his own children, what wickedneſs will he not readily accompliſh?

GO, falſe wretch, if thou haſt a con⯑ſcience, hell is within thee; and if that monitor exiſts not, proceed in thy career. Heaven is juſt, and hypocriſy and in⯑gratitude, ſo complete, cannot, long, miſs their proper reward.

LETTER XXXI. Mr. ALWYN, to Mr. STAMFORD, Jun.

FOR God's ſake, my dear friend, let me know what I have done? Have I really loſt every friend I eſteem⯑ed in the world? Pray ſend me word without loſs of time. This ſtroke ex⯑ceeds the utmoſt miſery my imagina⯑tion ever painted. O, rather, far, rather would I have choſen the ſilent grave, and my dear, more than father's lamentations, than this dreadful, this myſterious let⯑ter. I am ſure 'tis his hand—He calls me baſe, ungrateful wretch. But heaven is my witneſs how much he is deceived. Can I wrong your angel ſiſter? The man lives not that could do it.—Her [100] native virtue is a guard not to be ſinned againſt. And, Oh my friend, is it poſ⯑ſible for me to ſmile at your ſimplicity? Believe me, I could weep at your miſ⯑fortunes, I could give my life to ſerve you; but never was capable of deriding the friend of my heart.

BE faithful to me in this excruciating inſtance. Explain to me the dreadful proofs of yeſterday.

I HAVE read the letter ſo often, that the intenſity of the thought has quite overcome me, and yet can make no⯑thing of it.—If your father is angry at my becoming a player, ſtill the crime is unequal to the reproach.—Maria!— My friend!—My father!—Sacrificed! Is it poſſible? Oh, no, no. I am diſtract⯑ed with the hurry of paſſion in my [101] breaſt. Love, friendſhip, gratitude, have I offended all? Miſerable wretch that I am! If the moſt unremitted ar⯑dour, the moſt reſpectful, ſilent, ſuf⯑fering paſſion, be to blaſt the fame of the divine Maria—then, alas, I am guilty. If perfect eſteem, and the con⯑fidence of every, the leaſt, movement of my ſoul, be to betray my friend, then have I done it. And if daily to im⯑plore heaven to ſhower its choiceſt bleſſings on the head of my benefactor —if that be to wound his heart, then am I ungrateful.

NEVER did I think, my dear Stam⯑ford, to receive ſo keen a torment from the hand of my deareſt friend and pa⯑tron. The lightening of heaven would have been a more welcome viſitant. Let me hear from you; if friendſhip [102] has no plea, at leaſt for pity let me have a line.

LETTER XXXII. Mr. ALWYN to Mr. HILKIRK.

I AM overwhelmed with misfortunes, I have received a letter, a fatal one to me, that informs me, I have totally loſt the friendſhip of the Stamford family. I am unacquainted with the cauſe, and bewildered in amazement and ſorrow. It is wrote by Mr. Stamford, ſenior, and complains bitterly and pathetically of my ingratitude. Nothing could add to my unhappineſs but a conſciouſneſs of guilt. God only knows my heart, and how much I would undertake to ſerve, or convince them of my affection, or how induſtriouſly I would avoid injur⯑ing, or giving them pain. I am accuſed [104] of breach of friendſhip, and want of love and delicacy for Maria, but in ſuch a vague and enigmatical, though poſſi⯑tive ſtile, that I am at a loſs in what manner to interpret it. Perhaps the old gentleman is offended at my becoming a comedian, without informing him of my intention. Yet ſurely this offence could not merit, nor authorize the ac⯑cuſations I have received.

THE more I reflect, the more I am ſurprized and afflicted. Mr. Stamford is cautious, to a degree, how he believes any thing to the diſadvantage of another; and, when convinced, is ever ready to make the moſt generous allowances for the infirmities of human nature. He has found out my love for his daughter, perhaps: this, doubtleſs, is diſagreeable to him; but I am certain, this, nor no [105] other motive could induce him to ſwerve from the path of integrity; nothing but poſitive conviction could make him accuſe me in the manner he has done, and yet it was impoſſible he ſhould have that. What can be the cauſe? I have no enmity to any one. I obſtruct no one in his proſpects of hap⯑pineſs or pleaſure. I am not of im⯑portance enough, in this ambitious world, to annoy any one, ſufficiently to make him my enemy: or, if I were, who could give malice a colour ſtrong enough to convince the good, the generous Stamfords, of the reality of my ſuppoſed guilt? It is the utmoſt weakneſs to har⯑bour ſuch a ſuſpicion, and nothing but my preſent incertitude and diſtreſs could excuſe me in making ſuch reflections.

I HAVE wrote to Mr. Stamford, junior, but, as I am certain of the juſtice of his [106] father's proceedings, and how thorough⯑ly he believes himſelf convinced of the truth of his aſſertions (by what ſtrange means I know nor) I expect only a further confirmation of my miſ⯑fortunes. — Oh Maria! — Forgive me dear Hilkirk — my tears will not let me proceed.

I COULD not finiſh this letter yeſterday. I found myſelf ſo ill, and my brain ſo near a ſtate of frenzy, that I was obliged to uſe my utmoſt endeavours to calm my diſturbed imagination. I am little better to day. I have received a letter, from young Mr. Stamford, in anſwer to mine, that thoroughly confirms my prediction. The thing that I am moſt uneaſy at, is, they have not told me what their allegations are founded on. Per⯑haps the explanation is what they ſeek [107] to avoid; and I will rather ſuffer in ſilence, than urge them to any thing that would give them pain. It is enough for me that I am innocent. I ſhall ſoon have no remembrance of injuries, or the injured. I find myſelf in the road that leads to everlaſting reſt, and this, only, is my hope, my conſolation. It is impoſſible I ſhould ever poſſeſs the only object that could make the ſmall remain⯑der of time, my youth might promiſe, glide away in tranquillity and joy; and, ſurely, to be releaſed from miſery is a pleaſure.

I SHALL quit this place directly, and travel, on foot, acroſs the country to my dear mother in Oxfordſhire. I am daily receiving proofs of her maternal tender⯑neſs, and I wiſh to die in her arms; I ſhall endeavour to hide my griefs from [108] her, and from the world; in which, while I continue, you, my dear Hilkirk, ſhall be certain of a place in the grieved heart of

LETTER XXXIII. Mr. STAMFORD, Jun. to Mr. ALWYN.

WHY do you continue to laugh at us? You cannot, ſurely, pre⯑tend to ſay that my father's letter is enigmatical to you. It is not neceſſary to inform you by what means we re⯑ceived the intelligence of your perfidy: it is enough that you cannot but be conſcious of having betrayed your friend; and that in the point on which the peace of our family, in a great meaſure, muſt depend.

YOUR proceedings are diſcovered. You can, therefore, have no end to ſerve; and an attempt to deceive muſt, now, be the effect of mere wantonneſs. [110] But the peace of families is not a thing to be ſported with; eſpecially after ſuch tranſactions as have paſſed between you and us. It hurts me to be reduced to the neceſſity of noticing this, which nothing, but the ſhamefulneſs of your behaviour, could have forced from me: but, to prevent any correſpondence on ſo diſagreeable a ſubject, I am to inform you that my father and myſelf deſire to have no farther connexion with, or application from you; and that Maria is poſſeſſed of ſtrength of mind enough to blot from her remembrance ſo un⯑worthy a character.

LETTER XXXIV. Mr. MAITLAND, Junior, to STAFFORD OSBORNE, Eſquire.

I AM much concerned to find that your letter, in anſwer to my two long ones, is not come to hand; and can at⯑tribute it to no other reaſon than its not being yet wrote. If that is the caſe, I muſt make bold to inform you, that I ſhall not turn hiſtorian gratis but ſhall expect an ample return for the narratives I tranſmit to you from time to time. But I don't believe I ſhall trouble you with many, while I continue in this place. We hold ſcarce any ſublunary intelligence. I could favour you with an account of the number of patches the ſun had on his face when he roſe this [112] morning, or let you know the length of Venus's horns; which, by the bye, ſhews how different the mode in that country is from ours. I ſhould have ex⯑pected to have ſeen the patches upon Venus, and the horns upon Mars.

BUT, if theſe ſublime diſquiſitions are above your comprehenſion, you are to know that we are not always ſuper ethera. We have a hen or two that are conſtantly employed in the buſineſs of incubation, by whoſe aſſiſtance, though we are not ſanguine enough to hope we ſhall ever arrive at the art of making chickens, yet, we think much may be done by way of meliorating the ſpecies. My father thinks it neceſſary to proceed uſque ab ovo, on account of a difficulty he found, laſt winter, in attempting to produce hair, inſtead of feathers, on their bodies. To accompliſh which deſirable effect, they were diveſted of their natural habili⯑ments, [113] and kept, for ſome weeks, in a room, on a graſs diet; a regimen that is ſaid to have produced the ſame phaeno⯑menon in the perſon of king Nebuchad⯑nezzar. But whether to the inclemency of the ſeaſon, which prevented the ex⯑periment ſucceeding ſo well here as at Babylon, or to what other cauſe the failure might be attributed, certain it is, that they all died, juſt at the time when there was all the reaſon in the world to expect a favourable concluſion of the buſineſs.

THESE are misfortunes, you'll ſay, and ſo they are; but we bear them with philoſophic reſignation.

MY father has made a capital ac⯑quiſition in young Stamford, who ac⯑companies him in all his projects and enquiries; and I aſſiſt, very often, for want of better employment.

[114]A LITTLE below our houſe, on the other ſide of the river, the bank riſes with an aſcent, rather ſteep, and is co⯑vered with hazle and other trees. At this time of the year, after rain, the ig⯑nes fatui, or will-with-the-wiſps, are fre⯑quently ſeen deſcending towards the wa⯑ter, and, you may be ſure, do not paſs unobſerved by us. The other night we were all three ſtanding on the bank, when a particularly brilliant one made its appearance. My father, who is very active for his years, ſkipped from ſtone to ſtone, and was on the other ſide in a trice. Mr. Stamford followed; and I, not willing to be ſingular, went after; but my evil genius had ſo contrived it that, ſtepping on a ſmooth ſtone, I ſlip⯑ped into the water over head and ears. This ſudden immerſion effectually cooled the ardour of our purſuit, Stamford helped me out with ſome trepidation; [115] and my father, returning, aſſured me, that my misfortune was entirely owing to a due equilibrium of the center not being preſerved. However happy this elucida⯑tion might be, I did not find myſelf diſ⯑poſed to admire it, but walked home, ra⯑ther out of temper, reſolving to ſet his philoſophical acumen to work on other buſineſs. For which purpoſe I ordered Sam to accommodate my dog Pompey in the ſtile of an ignis fatuus, and lead him about the lower grove at the time my father generally repairs to his obſer⯑vatory. He, accordingly, fixed ſix ſmall lamps to a kind of ſaddle, which he faſt⯑ened to the dog's back, and made a moſt ſhining appearance.

GADSO, ſays my father, turning the large, reflecting teleſcope towards it, a very peculiar kind of meteor!

[116]WHAT is it like, ſays Stamford? There ſeem to be three, diſtinct lights, following each other at a very ſmall diſ⯑tance apart.

LET us go to it, ſaid I; and there⯑upon we ſallied forth.

OUR purſuit laſted full two hours, at the end of which we preſſed Sam and his meteor ſo hard that he was under the neceſſity of extinguiſhing his illumina⯑tions, which, of courſe, obliged us to return home unſatisfied.

YOU ſee what ſhifts I am reduced to, to keep myſelf alive, and, likewiſe, the difficulty of furniſhing matter for a let⯑ter; but you, who are in the midſt of whim and jollity, can have no excuſe for delaying to write. Adieu.

LETTER XXXV. Mr. MAITLAND, to STAFFORD OSBORNE, Eſquire.

WE have ſeveral times hunted the meteor ſince my laſt, and are, now, juſt returned from the chace, which has been unſucceſsful, more ways than one.

THOUGH Pompey may be juſtly called a dog of a liberal education, and ſome genius, which is evident from his peculiar addreſs at fetching, carrying, and other operations of that nature; yet it muſt be confeſſed, that his talents are by no means univerſal. For this reaſon it was, I ſuppoſe, that he did not ſucceed, capitally, in exhibiting the [118] ignis fatuus. I am even inclined to ſuſpect that Sam was the ſuperior agent of the two; or, to expreſs myſelf more ſcholaſtically, he was the ſoul of the machine, and Pompey the body, or vi⯑ſible ſubſtance. The learned tell us, ſouls and bodies are ſometimes apt to fall out, and this remark was exempli⯑fied in the preſent inſtance. In ſpite of Sam's attention and care, his animal part, to wit, the dog, was actuated with a ſtrong deſire to emancipate itſelf from controul, which it has accordingly ef⯑fected.

I AM apprehenſive that he will come home with all his meteorological ap⯑paratus about him, and, by that means, diſcover our plot; but have ordered Sam to wait an hour for his arrival. Adieu. Supper waits. I'll finiſh the reſt in the morning.

LETTER XXXVI. Mr. STAMFORD, Sen. to Mr. SELDON.

A TERRIBLE accident has pre⯑vented my coming to town this week, as I intended. Maitland-hall is burnt to the ground. Happily, no lives were loſt; but Mr. Maitland has ſuf⯑fered very much in his property, to the amount of, nearly, all he was worth. The fire began in his elaboratory, by Tom Maitland's means, but in what particu⯑lar manner I have not yet had time to enquire.

ABOUT one o'clock in the morning we were alarmed by a neighbour, who was providentially croſſing a foot-path that leads by the houſe. I ſtarted up, imme⯑diately, [122] but the ſuffocating ſmoke, with which my chamber was filled, overpower⯑ed my ſenſes, and I fell, again, on the bed. What followed I was unconſcious of, but, about an hour after, I found myſelf in a chamber at the vicar's, and Charles ſitting beſide me.

THE idea of the fire was ſtill predo⯑minant in my mind; but I was unable to determine whether I had dreamt, or the misfortune had really happened. Where am I, exclaimed I, where's my Maria? Let me know, Charles, is my poor child loſt? How came I here? Compoſe yourſelf, dear Sir, replied he, Maria is ſafe, a ſtranger preſerved her life at the riſque of his own.

AND where is this heavenly ſtranger? Bring him to me. Let me at leaſt ac⯑knowledge the debt, ſince I never can [123] repay it. He knows not the value of the bleſſing he has beſtowed. But tell me, Charles, how all this happened. I re⯑member the alarm of fire, when the ſmoke overcame me, but have no know⯑ledge of the reſt.

I WAS rouzed, ſaid he, by the out⯑cries of the ſervants, and the thought of your danger ruſhed, inſtantly, into my mind. I flew to your chamber, one ſide of which the flames had already ſeized. The urgency of the occaſion gave me a ſtrength, which, at another time, it would have been impoſſible for me to have exerted. I ſeized you in my arms, and conveyed you hither. When my terror and apprehenſions, for your ſafety, were, ſomewhat, ſubſided, I recol⯑lected Maria, and, in the utmoſt anguiſh, haſtened back to the ſcene of deſolation. Two of Mr. Moreton's ſervants, accom⯑panied [124] by my man Will, were bringing her to this place, in a chair. My dear Will, ſaid I, in a tranſport, how can I reward you for ſaving my ſiſter. ‘No, Sir,’ replied he, ‘it was not I. It was an angel that ſnatched her from the middle of the fire; for, to be ſure, he was ſent by heaven to ſave my miſtreſs. The roof fell in the moment after. I aſked him to ſtay, but he would not, he went away towards next town’. Will is now gone, by my order, to intreat him to return.

WHILE Charles was ſpeaking, his ſervant entered the room.

"HE won't come," ſaid Will, ‘he won't come. I told him my maſter long'd to ſee him, but he hung his head, and ſighed as if he would break his heart. Poor, young gentleman! [125] I thought, mayhap, he believed ſome⯑body was burnt; ſo I told him all was ſafe, and that 'Squire Maitland was ſafe, and you, Sir was ſafe, and every body was ſafe; but, for all that, he would not ſpeak. At laſt he ſaid it was impoſſible, and that he was a wretch, and had loſt all his friends, but that he hoped he ſhould die ſoon, and forget his miſeries. And ſo I be⯑lieve he will, for he looked ſo pale, and ſo thin, and his eyes were ſo hol⯑low, that my heart aches to think of it. I could not help crying, when he walked away, he ſeemed ſo diſconſo⯑late. What a pity he ſhould be ſad or ſorry! I wiſh I could help him! I'd go to the end of the world to help him.’

POOR Will's heart was full. He could not proceed; and Charles, who [126] had ſat, ſilent, with the tears in his eyes, ſeemed loſt in the ſympathy of his af⯑fections.

‘MERCIFUL heaven, exclaimed he, riſing, are the ſevereſt calamities re⯑ſerved for thy favourites! O that he had returned! How happy we ſhould have been to have ſupplied the place of his loſt friends, and alleviated his ſorrows!’

TO prevent his dwelling on an object which afflicted him, without being of ſervice to our benefactor, I deſired him to enquire how Mr. Maitland and his ſon did, while I roſe and went to Ma⯑ria. She was ſitting in the arms of Miſs Moreton, and her maid, who, with ſome difficulty, kept her in bed.

[127]"WHERE's my papa?" Cried ſhe, ſtruggling, ‘you would let me ſee him if he were ſafe. No, no, he is dead, and I will die too. We will go to⯑gether.’

"MY child," ſaid I, ſitting down, beſide her, ‘look at me, I have eſcaped the flames.’

"IS it true?" Replied ſhe, looking at me with great earneſtneſs,— ‘no, you deceive me, you are not my papa.’

A ſeaſonable flood of tears enſued, which reſtored her ſo much that ſhe knew me, and enquired after Charles. I related the particulars of the event, as conciſely as poſſible, and, adviſing her to reſt, left her in the care of Miſs Moreton.

[128]I, THEN, walked to the ſite, on which Maitland-hall had ſtood, where I found Mr. Maitland and Charles ſurveying the ruins. From the compoſure which ap⯑peared in the countenance of my old friend, I did not apprehend his loſs to exceed that of the houſe and furniture; but, on enquiry, he informed me his ſtrong box, containing notes and ſecu⯑rities for upwards of fifty thouſand pounds, being almoſt all he was worth, was miſſing. But, ſaid he, to a philoſo⯑pher, this is of little conſequence. I can bound my appetites, and enough is left. If I loſe my tranquillity, it will be a greater loſs than that I have juſt now ſuſtained. Tom muſt chooſe one of the profeſſions to live by; and it is not im⯑poſſible but the employment of raiſing a fortune, may prove much more inno⯑cent than that of ſpending one.

[129]I TOOK this occaſion to tell him, that I had no intention of breaking off the treaty, on account of the alteration this misfortune would make in his ſon's circumſtances; and he, in anſwer, ſaid, he expected no leſs, from the confidence he repoſed in my integrity. When I conſider the ſincerity of his friendſhip to me, and the proofs he has given me of it, I cannot bear the thought of refuſing my daughter, at this time. It carries with it a mark of baſeneſs not to be endured. Perhaps, this diſaſter may give a new turn to Tom's mind, and make him more worthy of my girl. If ſo, all will be well, and this ſhocking cir⯑cumſtance will bet productive of good. I hope to hear that your affairs go on to your ſatisfaction, and am, with perfect eſteem, Sir,

P. S. My ſon is gone to town, to give notice of Mr. Maitland's loſs at the public offices, and will be with you be⯑fore this letter comes to hand.

LETTER XXXVII. Mr. ALWYN to Mr. HILKIRK.

I ARRIVED at my dear mother's this day week, and, if I were ca⯑pable of pleaſure, ſhould receive it from the joy and tenderneſs ſhe expreſſed, and her aſſiduity to make me hap⯑py.—You can ſcarce imagine what my feelings are, or what ſuch a mother deſerves. I am afraid ſhe ſhould re⯑mark the gloom that poſſeſſes my mind. I know how much it would diſtreſs her. I, therefore, make very ſevere ſtruggles to ſmother my ſighs, and am reſolved, as much as is in my power, to carry my griefs abroad, and, without a figure, complain to the pitileſs winds.

[132]MY life ſeems fruitful in adventures, and ſtrange incidents. I am, at this moment, oppreſſed and agitated with the recollection of one, which has hap⯑pened to me on my journey. I know you will excuſe my impertinence in continually talking thus of myſelf. I am not, at preſent, in a ſtate of ſuffi⯑cient tranquillity to make obſervations on objects which uſed to amuſe me. I find myſelf, at moments, not many de⯑grees from inſanity; and the affliction this would coſt my mother, even more than the horror attending it, makes me uſe my utmoſt endeavour to forget my troubles, and ward off the blow. My efforts, I fear, will be ineffectual; though, I aſſure you, I have tried every method. I read, I run, I walk, and make various efforts, to divert my ideas from the channel in which they ſo con⯑ſtantly flow. My mother appears diſ⯑truſtful, [133] at times; tells me how fre⯑quently I talk in an incoherent man⯑ner, eſpecially in the night; and I have caught myſelf, more than once, ſinging, aloud, without any meaning. I hope, however, I ſhall conquer this diſpoſition. —Could I forget Maria!—Alas!—It is impoſſible!—Oh, memory!—Oh, Ma⯑ria!—

I WILL endeavour to tell my ſtory; Maria has a part in it.

I DEPARTED from Kendal, on the day, and in the manner that I had pro⯑poſed. I travelled four days without being, ſcarcely, able to recollect, whether I had paſſed through towns or villages, had met men, women, or other objects, except ſuch as immediate neceſſity had obliged me to notice; and was walking very late on the fifth, I ſuppoſe it might [134] be almoſt midnight; for I knew the country, and was ſo loſt in thought, that I did not think of reſt; when, caſt⯑ing my eyes accidentally up, at the noiſe of an owl, that flew by me, with a diſ⯑mal howl, I perceived, at a leſs diſtance than a quarter of a mile from the road⯑ſide, a houſe in flames. I had forgot, at that moment, where I was; but made the beſt of my way towards the place. The ſhrieks of the people were piercing, and made the natural ſtillneſs of the night awfully ſhocking. It was ex⯑ceedingly dark, and the wind rather tempeſtuous, with a ſharp cutting rain; while the blaze caſt a horrid gleam upon every object around. I don't remember to have ever been ſtruck with ſo much terror. I ran, I flew, I intermixed with the frightened ſufferers, who were running to and fro, in the utmoſt confuſion; and, I thought, [135] I ſaw, by the pale glare, ſome faces that I knew.

IMAGINE what my ſenſations were, when I beheld a young gentleman bear⯑ing an old one, in his arms, through the flames, and, immediately, knew them for young and old Mr. Stamford; but how was my horror increaſed, when I heard a voice crying, aloud,

‘OH, my miſtreſs, my miſtreſs, my poor young miſtreſs, ſhe will be burnt, ſhe muſt be burnt, her cham⯑ber is on fire!’—

"WHOSE chamber," ſaid I, ‘Maria's chamber?’—

‘OH, yes, yes, my poor, dear, young lady’—

[136]"WHERE is it? ſhew me the way," ſaid I, in the moſt horrid agitation.—

THE ſervant flew to conduct me; and, regardleſs of the flames, which had ſpread over the apartment, I burſt open the door, darted through them, ſnatched up my dear Maria in my arms, and, without feeling any thing from the fire, bore her down ſtairs, harmleſs, and out of danger.

OH God! how can I deſcribe what I felt?—I could hardly perſuade my⯑ſelf, at firſt, that ſhe was ſafe.—I viewed the ſpreading blaze! I turned to Maria! I ſighed with exceſs of emotion! I held my Maria in my arms!—She had ſwoon⯑ed in the fright, and did not know me; no one was near us, the ſervant had ran for water.—In the tranſport of my joy [137] and paſſion, I imprinted a kiſs upon her lips.—How could I ſupport it?— I was under the power of a wild and tumultuous extacy, and ſurely the ſin was venial.—Oh that I had died at that inſtant!

THE ſervant returned, Maria began to revive, I was unwilling to be known and committed her to his care. I had preſerved the jewel of my ſoul, and perceived I could be of no farther ſer⯑vice. I heard the younger Stamford uttering diſtracted cries for his ſiſter, and reſolved that he ſhould not know his benefactor, if I could prevent it; I, therefore, made the beſt of my way into the high road again. His ſiſter was reſtored to his arms, and he was [138] impatient to thank, and reward, the author of her ſafety.—I am acquainted with his grateful diſpoſition.—He diſ⯑patched the ſervant, who had obſerved the route I took, and who preſently came up with me. The poor fellow had an honeſt, and a tender heart, and begged of me, with tears in his eyes, to go back with him to Maitland-hall.

"DEAR Sir," ſaid he, ‘come with me, do, Sir—Let my old maſter, and my young maſter thank you—My dear, young miſtreſs will thank you too—I am ſure ſhe will—She is the deareſt, beſt, young lady in the world.’

MY eyes overflowed—I uttered ſome⯑thing incoherently, about impoſſibili⯑ties, and unhappineſs; and the honeſt ſervant appeared very much affected [139] with my manner, which, I dare ſay, was rather wild.—I was agitated—I wiſhed ten thouſand things, that I per⯑ceived the folly of; and the tumults of my mind occaſioned me to betray ſome weakneſs.

IT was not without difficulty, that I perſuaded the ſervant to return; and, when he parted from me, he ſaid, he was ſure, his young maſter, and his old maſter, and his dear lady, too, would be very ſorry; for they had charged him to bring me back, if he could find me.

I FELL into ſo profound a reverie in ruminating upon this accident, that, when I came into the road, I never obſerved which way I turned; and, in⯑ſtead of proceeding on my journey, [140] travelled back again. I did not diſcover my miſtake till day-light appeared, and I had got near twelve miles; when find⯑ing the ſervants up at a waggoner's inn, and myſelf exceedingly weary, I went to bed, and reſted myſelf till eleven the next day. The news of the fire was, preſently, ſpread all over the coun⯑try, and, almoſt, every one told a dif⯑ferent tale. They all, however, agreed in ſome particulars, namely, that Mait⯑land-hall was burnt to the ground; that old Mr. Maitland had loſt an iron cheſt, in which was contained bank notes to a great amount; and, that a ſtranger had ſaved the daughter of Mr. Stamford from being burnt alive, by carrying her down the ſtairs, when they were all in a flame of fire. You may be certain I took all the precautions, in my power, to avoid being known; and, [141] for that purpoſe, left the road, and travelled, along, by a path, among ſome villages, on the contrary ſide from Mait⯑land-hall. Adieu, dear Hilkirk,

LETTER XXXVIII. Mr. SELDON, to Mr. STAMFORD, Sen.

YOUR account of the dreadful fire at Maitland-hall, affected me ex⯑ceedingly. I rejoice, however, to obſerve, that you all eſcaped ſafe, as the other misfortune admits of a remedy, in afford⯑ing which I ſhall be happy to aſſiſt. Pleaſe to let Mr. Maitland know how ſincerely I condole with him on this un⯑happy buſineſs, and that I only wait his directions to do all in my power for his ſervice.

I AM in your debt for a former letter, in which you deplore the baſeneſs and in⯑gratitude of young Alwyn. It is a [143] piece of news that I aſſure you I heard with ſome regret, for I always entertained the higheſt opinion of the young man's principles. But you and I have lived long enough in the world to be ſurprized at nothing. It might have been better, but uſeleſs grief can only make it worſe, therefore, let him go unlamented. If conſcience has no power to torment him, yet, we may take it for granted that, in the end, his ingratitude will meet its reward.

YOU ſay he is become a player. A profeſſion that, in my opinion, contains the extremes of good and bad. The ſublime and forcible leſſons of morality with which our dramatic pieces abound, ſcarcely permit the inculcator to ſtand neuter. He muſt either aſſent to them, with that warmth which characterizes the good and great man, or, by a moſt [144] deſpicable exceſs of hypocriſy, counter⯑feit, and ſeem to feel, that virtue to which his mind is a ſtranger. According to this latter mode, Alwyn, I believe, will make a good player; and, I think, it is fortunate that this ſituation in life will not allow him to exerciſe his talents for deception in a ſphere of greater con⯑ſequence.

NOW I talk of players, you are to know that I have received a very good account of my youth in the country; which helps to convince me that my plan is good, though it has had the miſ⯑fortune not to meet with your appro⯑bation. Weak plants, you ſay, muſt be brought forward with care. The keen blaſt of adverſity blights them, and they never come to maturity. My phi⯑loſophy ſays otherwiſe; it is that very care that makes them weak, both in mind [145] and conſtitution. My boy will arrive at affluence, with a mind that has with⯑ſtood the ſhocks of misfortune; and will enjoy his independence with the more pleaſure, as he is better acquainted with its value. I am impatient to ſee him, and to make Julia happy. Her ready acquieſcence, in every thing I propoſed for her advantage, deſerves whatever re⯑compenſe I can beſtow, and her merit will ſecure the happineſs of my ſon.

LETTER XXXIX. H. HANDFORD, Eſq to Mr. WESTWOOD.

WHAT right had you to impoſe ſuch a tax upon your good-na⯑ture, as to promiſe to hold correſpon⯑dence with, and pay viſits to an old humouriſt. A fellow who has taken it into his head that all the world, him⯑ſelf excepted, are little better than blockheads, joſtling in the dark, run⯑ning their noſes in each others faces, and ſwearing there is no room for them to walk, with eaſe and dignity, as it befits their worſhips; nay, who con⯑feſſes he himſelf cannot ſee, becauſe of a profuſion of light; but like an owl, [147] can fly fartheſt by twilight. You have ſome degree of rationality. How could you be ſuch a booby? I am a techty old batchelor, Sir, and you knew it. I have neither wife nor daughter for you to ſeduce. I am rich; but I told you, and I tell you again, I ſhall never give to thoſe who don't want.

‘I WONDER what ſuch fellows as I do crawling between heaven and earth.’ No child, no relation to flatter my old age, and make me be⯑lieve I ſhall exiſt after I am dead.—If I were to build churches, or endow hoſpitals, men would ſwear vanity was my only motive.—Well, if they did— there would be no perjury—I wiſh they could always indulge their envy with as little danger to their conſciences.—Be⯑tween you and me, we are little better than a ſet of ſad dogs—Raſcals—Liars [148] —I'll take my oath to hypocrites.— You are a young man, and by what I have obſerved—damn flattery—one of the beſt of the age you live in.—But, mind what I ſay—You'll find yourſelf out, in time—I reiterate—you'll diſcover, by and by, that you are little better than a ſad dog.—I have made this com⯑fortable obſervation upon myſelf for ſome years paſt.—A parcel of curſt, mean, pitiful, paltry paſſions, teazing, teazing my heart out.—One wants one thing, another another.—Build me a palace, ſays pride.—Kill me ſome fifty thouſand beggars, in red coats, ſays ambition, and get me a name.—Pull this bully by the noſe, ſays revenge.—Take away that man's character, ſays envy.— Get to the Devil with you all, ſay I.

I LIE—I lie—as you may perceive— I liſten to them—I ſooth them—I pro⯑miſe [149] to ſatisfy them, if they will but let me alone, aye and I have been raſcal enough to keep my promiſe, more than once—Why, hey day!—What the Devil am I about?—Writing my own panegy⯑ric?— Stuffing myſelf with my own praiſe? —Glib—Glib—I can ſwallow it as eaſily as blanc-manger, and digeſt it faſter than a ploughman does haſty-pudding. —Now would I, in a fit of moſt Anti-Muſſulman rage, deſtroy the paper that bears ſuch marks of my weakneſs; but that I am rejoiced to procure freſh evi⯑dence againſt myſelf.

BUT, hark you, Sir, what is the reaſon that I have never received a ſyllable from you, for upwards of three weeks? —If you imagine you are to treat me thus, with impunity, I muſt be ſo free as to inform you, you are miſtaken. Therefore, on Tueſday next, the 17th [150] of the preſent month, I order and com⯑mand you, after mending your pen, putting ſmall-beer to your ink, traver⯑ſing your room five minutes and fifteen ſeconds, and ſcratching your head, not leſs than half a ſcore times, to take a folio ſheet of plain ten-penny writing-paper; and, without compliments, which are only waſting of time, and being, more⯑over, little better than lies, ſtuff me three ſides of the ſaid ſheet of plain, ten-penny writing-paper, as full as it can hold, of the firſt materials your pro⯑lific brain ſhall offer.—I'll have no pick⯑ing and chuſing—No battering of brows, no wrinkles in the forehead, when you once begin. — Strait forward—Helter ſkelter—Shandy for ever—The more unſtudied the more natural.—If I ſhould diſcover one eraſure, be it ever ſo tri⯑vial, with knife, or pen, dread the con⯑ſequence.—I'll peſter you with nonſenſe, [151] worſe than a mad poeteſs does her huſ⯑band.

I HAVE left the old pedants of Ox⯑ford to correct their pride and their pupils at their leiſure; yet am I much miſtaken if either undergo any conſide⯑rable reform, in a hurry.—I wonder what could poſſeſs my fooliſh brain with the ſuppoſition of finding genius and learning, combined, in this place.— I might as well have ſearched for chaſ⯑tity in a brothel, or reaſon in a Me⯑thodiſt ſermon.—But this was among my whims.—I will go and live in the ſeat of the Muſes, ſaid I, on the banks of the Iſis, more famous than the mount of Parnaſſus, or the waters of Heli⯑con.—What a booby!—I will ſpend my ſubſtance among the ſons of philoſo⯑phy, I ſhall be delighted and informed —they are enlightened and diſpaſſionate, [152] open to conviction, and in love with truth.—What a numſkull!—I ſhall find, among theſe ſons of genius, ſome one who wants a patron, and a friend, to bring his merits forward, and ſhew them to the world. I ſhall be happy to pro⯑duce the fruits of ingenuity in the mart of ſcience.—It will atone, in ſome de⯑gree, for my own want of talents, or miſ⯑application of them.—What a dunder⯑pate!—

I SHOULD be ſorry, raſhly, to affirm, that there are no ſuch perſons as I was in ſearch of amongſt theſe learned and reverend wranglers; but this I will af⯑firm, that, inſtead of finding the teach⯑ers devoted to the diſcovery of truth, I found them dogmatical to diſguſt, and reſolved to maintain what they have once advanced or believed, though refuted to ſilence.—Theſe were the fel⯑lows, [153] who encouraged every author that oppoſed our divine Newton—not be⯑cauſe they believed him wrong, but be⯑cauſe he was educated at Cambridge.— As for their pupils, inſtead of being in love with ſtudy, vigilant, and ingeni⯑ous, they are loſt in riot and debau⯑chery—

BUT I have left them, and am, now, at Swanley; where, dear George, I expect ſhortly to ſee you, who are a valuable compenſation, by the friendſhip I con⯑tracted with you, at Oxford, for the diſap⯑pointment my ſanguine temper led me into.

PRAY what is become of your favou⯑rite comedian, in whoſe praiſe your laſt was ſo eloquent?—What, you are deceiv⯑ed?—Come, confeſs—You are aſhamed of a too haſty prepoſſeſſion?—Aye, aye—I have [154] ſuffered that kind of chagrin fifty times in my life.—A fellow with a good ad⯑dreſs, a placid countenance, and a certain knack at ſaying no, and yes, could get into my good graces preſently; I would idolize him, become his trumpeter, or, as a certain noble author has it, his puff; ſwear to all my acquaintance, he was a miracle of virtue; recommend him, and aſſiſt him in his purſuits; preſently, Sir, when my gentleman imagines he has neither much to hope or fear from me, he becomes proud, deſpiſes my friendſhip, ridicules the peculiarities which his narrow mind is capable of obſerving, and, as far as he is able, makes me the jeſt of thoſe who are as ſhallow as himſelf.—But I have done with them —I have an oath—an oath in heaven —I'll be no more the dupe of fools and knaves.—

[155]I MUST be exerciſing my pity upon ſome diſtreſſed devil or another—I have taken a freſh freak—I know you'll laugh, but I don't care—I have turned my houſe into an hoſpital.—For what, ſay you?— The lame or the lazy?—I'll tell you, Sir—I have at this inſtant—nine dog-horſes, ſeven of them blind, forty young puppies, almoſt as many kittens, a toler⯑able flock of rotten ſheep, which the raſcally owners made me pay as much for, when they found my humour, as if they had been ſound ones; an infinite number of young birds, which I was oblig⯑ed to purchaſe, or ſee them devoted to de⯑ſtruction, beſides one and twenty old cows, that are paſt calving.—

YOU have, doubtleſs, heard of the hu⯑manity of the good Indians of Bombay, who have erected and endowed an hoſ⯑pital [156] for reptiles and inſects, and give any man a gratuity, who will conſent to be bound down, and ſuffer theſe inſects to feed upon him for the ſpace of a night. —What a bleſt inſtitution!—With what pleaſure would I devote my blood to their ſervice, in my turn, were I there!— Indians are rational beings, whereas, in this Chriſtian country, as it is called, I am laughed at for undertaking ſome⯑thing of a ſimilar nature, though upon a much more confined plan. They have raiſed a report that I am inſane, and my name is become a by word to frighten children with.—But, no matter—If a man were to be laughed out of virtue, I know not what would become of even thoſe which they have dignified by the name of cardinal.

I HAVE had this ſcheme in agitation for ſome time, but I would not tell you, [157] becauſe I knew you would immediately have ſet your wits to work to put me out of conceit with it; and my temper is ſo open to conviction, that I dare not defend a good cauſe againſt ſuch an an⯑tagoniſt.—I ſee but one ſide of a queſtion, at one time, and it is always that which is repreſented, at the inſtant, to my ima⯑gination.

MY family increaſes daily. The ſick, the lame, and the blind are brought to me from all quarters; and I have the ſa⯑tisfaction to hear the poor people bleſs me, when I have made a new purchaſe of them.—Since I have wrote this laſt pa⯑ragraph, and while I was at breakfaſt, I have had three litters of blind puppies, and an old boar-ſtag that's paſt ſervice, added to my ſtock.—The venders have all gone away ſatisfied, and praying [158] heaven to proſper me.—One wicked, young dog, indeed, who has brought me a broken-legged cat, tittered while I was paying him, and burſt into a laugh, as ſoon as his foot was over the threſhold; but how can I expect a boy to make juſt re⯑flections, when ſo few men are capable of them.—I fancy myſelf ſometimes the pa⯑triarch Noah, ſurrounded with my beaſts in the ark; and the whim pleaſes me ſo much, that I have employed the barber of the village to weave me a white beard, that ſhall reach down to the waiſtband of my breeches, and give me the true antediluvian lock.—I don't intend to uſe this in concert, it ſhall be a ſolo inſtru⯑ment, for my own private amuſement— or to indulge a very particular friend.

I AM ſtill in ſome pain about your player.—You had fired my fancy, and I began to have hopes there was really [159] ſome foundation for your praiſe.—If you have had no occaſion to alter your opi⯑nion write directly—ſend me a letter expreſs—I would rather hear this news than that of ten battles, all fought by another Bajazet, or any other grand Turk. Vale,

LETTER XL. Mr. STAMFORD, Sen. to Mr. SELDON.

MY Maria is much better, but Tom Maitland has been very ill, ever ſince the fire: it is not thought he will live. This dreadful accident, oc⯑caſioned by his giddineſs, is a great op⯑preſſion to his ſpirits, and he diſcovers much contrition for his paſt follies. As he believes his end to be approaching, he laments, in the moſt pathetic man⯑ner, the waſte he has made of the beſt part of his time. I ſincerely wiſh he may recover, and make my girl happy. This ſtroke has opened his eyes. The calmneſs with which he expects the cloſe of life, the ſtrong flow of good ſenſe that appears in his converſation, and [161] the ſenſibility he expreſſes for his afflict⯑ed father, convince me that I was miſ⯑taken in attributing his faults to a de⯑pravity of mind, inſtead of a levity of diſpoſition.

MR. MAITLAND, who was perfectly ſuperior to the loſs of his fortune, is un⯑able to withſtand this ſecond calamity. Yeſterday morning we were ſitting to⯑gether by Tom's bed-ſide: his languid eyes were fixed on his father, whoſe coun⯑tenance expreſſed the ſtruggle between his grief and the firmneſs of his mind. His ſon graſped his hand, and looked at him with a tenderneſs that ſeemed to intreat him not to grieve, but which, naturally produced the contrary effect. ‘I underſtand you, Tom, ſaid he, I will compoſe myſelf—I will endea⯑vour to bear my afflictions, and ſub⯑mit to the decrees of heaven with [162] fortitude—but I muſt feel that I am a father.’ So ſaying he roſe, and went out, being no longer able to con⯑ceal his emotions. The dying youth followed him with his eyes, and then turning to me, with a deep ſigh, ‘Oh Mr. Stamford,’ ſaid he, ‘'tis I that have done this—I have oppreſſed my father's age with want and ſorrow— Oh that my death would reſtore his peace! with what pleaſure ſhould I welcome the gloomy power! Your friendſhip may do much — go, dear Sir, follow him, and prevent his waſting the hours in uſeleſs grief. 'Tis a ſatisfaction to me when I think, your friendſhip will aſſiſt him to bear his afflictions.’

I LEFT him, and went in ſearch of Mr. Maitland, whom I found, ſitting, with his head reclined, in a muſing poſ⯑ture. [163] His mind was ſo intent on his misfortunes that he did not, at firſt, per⯑ceive my approach.

"AT length," ſaid he, looking up, ‘I have conquered, and can ſubmit to join in the general order of the ſyſtem, without reluctance. Whatever the all-wiſe Regent of the univerſe permits to be is beſt. His attributes, which we diſcover by a proceſs of rea⯑ſon, as nearly approaching to demon⯑ſtration as our faculties will admit, immenſity of power and goodneſs, cannot admit of the exiſtence of real evil. It is from the errors of beings, neceſſarily, imperfect, that the appear⯑ance of partial evil ariſes; and that partial evil is, doubtleſs, conſtituted as the means of acquiring a greater, and, otherwiſe, not attainable, good. The retroſpect on paſt life adds experiment [164] to proof; and, in ſome future age, I ſhall rejoice at what is now conſider⯑ed as the greateſt calamity. Then, my ſon, we ſhall look back with plea⯑ſure on our preſent ſeparation. But, ah my child’ ſaid he, his voice ſoften⯑ing as he ſpoke, ‘'Tis not with tran⯑quillity, I can bear thy loſs. O my friend, my Stamford, how vain is the reliance we place on the fortitude of our minds! Can it be philoſophy to bear the torture of the ſoul with in⯑difference? Are the tender affections faults which a wiſe man ought to en⯑deavour to overcome? Are they not, rather, the diſtinguiſhing characters of humanity, which to eraſe is to be⯑come worſe than inanimate? I am convinced they are. The arguments of the underſtanding are too weak to check the flow of the heart. I feel their inſufficiency. O, my boy, how [165] are my hopes blaſted! I muſt grieve. Never, again, ſhall I delight in the ſportive vivacity of my dear child. O, thou great power,’ continued he, raiſing his hands, in an agony of paſſion, ‘I am become a blank in the univerſe. Miſery is my lot. Remove me from this hated ſcene. Let me accompany my ſon, or reſtore him to me.’

AFTER a little pauſe, growing more calm, "I thank you, my dear friend," ſaid ne, addreſſing himſelf to me, ‘you ſym⯑pathiſe with me. I am perplexed, I am bewildered in doubts. The object of my cares, of my affections, is ſnatched from me, and I want fortitude to ſuſtain the loſs. The ſcheme of providence, which I vainly thought to have compre⯑hended, is fled, and darkneſs hangs over the proſpect. Why are we taught to re⯑gard delicacy of ſentiment and ſen⯑ſibility [166] of mind, as marks heaven's of benevolence to man? Are they not be⯑ſtowed to render us more completely wretched?—to make us capable of pain, infinitely more intenſe than that which ariſes from external cauſes— that we may envy the happier brute? Yet, ſuch is my ſtate. At once de⯑prived of my fortune, my ſon, and the chearing view of a benevolent firſt Power, I find myſelf ſeated in the midſt of a dreadful void. Every ſup⯑port, on which my ſoul repoſed, is re⯑moved, far from me; and I wiſh for annihilation to eaſe me from the bur⯑then of exiſtence.’

I WAS glad to obſerve that the activi⯑ty of his mind had not forſaken him, at this criſis, and that he was able to rea⯑ſon ſo abſtractedly on the ſubject. I aſſumed the bright ſide of the queſtion, [167] and attempted to prove him wrong in re⯑linquiſhing the idea of univerſal order. The converſation having reſtored his tranquillity, in a great degree, we went to ſee Tom. The phyſicians had prog⯑noſticated his death on this day; inſtead of which, to our great joy, he was juſt awakened from a found ſleep, as we entered. The effect was ſo conſiderable that we have ſome hopes of his recovery, though the danger is far from being entirely removed.

I CANNOT think of leaving my friend, ſo long as the probability of his loſing his ſon remains; but ſhall come to town as ſoon as he is thought out of danger, which, I hope, will be in a day or two.

LETTER XLI. Mr. WESTWOOD to H. HANDFORD, Eſq

I SHALL attempt no apology for the ſilence you charge me with—It is ſufficient excuſe, to you, to ſay, I was lazy, or ſtupid, or both, which, you know, are no uncommon accidents in life.

YOUR player, that I intereſted you ſo much about, is gone.—Don't be alarm⯑ed—He has been guilty of no meanneſs, committed no outrage—His character is ſacred to virtue—His exit has been with greater eclat than his entrance— But I have loſt him—I never conceived a greater partiality for any man, I will [169] not even except yourſelf.—What a world would this be were men all like him and you!—Don't be angry—You muſt muſt permit me to ſpeak the truth.

I TOLD you the women were all in love with him; I'll now tell you the conſequence; the men were all jealous of him.—One of them, a mean raſcal, who yet bears the title of gentleman, attempted, I believe, to aſſaſſinate him. —Be that as it will, he hired two ruf⯑fians to aſſiſt him in taking that re⯑venge, which he had not the courage to attempt by himſelf.—With this inno⯑cent view did theſe three worthies way⯑lay him; and God knows what would have been the conſequence, had they had any common man to deal with; for the aſſiſtants were fellows remark⯑able for their proweſs.—But our hero fairly vanquiſhed them all.—I happened [170] to come up juſt as he was finiſhing his conqueſt.—I beheld him deal ſome half dozen blows.—Never, before, did I ſee ſuch firmneſs and agility, nor ſo much lenity, after the victory, to ſuch vile raſcals.—

IT was this affair that occaſioned his departure, I ſuppoſe.—He ſupped with us on Sunday evening, when, in ſpite of his endeavours to the contrary, he appeared exceedingly dejected.—He told us, it was probable, he ſhould never have that pleaſure again; and was ſo much affected, while he ſaid this, that the tears guſhed into his eyes, and he was obliged to turn his head away.— I perceived the ſhame and confuſion that theſe emotions excited in him, and delicacy obliged me to deſiſt from en⯑quiring into the cauſe of his grief.— He ſeemed rather to wave any hints [171] that were thrown out to him, to tell where he was going, and I was loath to urge him.—My mother, who almoſt doated on his company, could hardly be reſtrained from aſking him queſtions, which, I perceived, would have em⯑barraſſed him.—But he promiſed, at parting, that if ever he were happy once more, which he believed impoſſible, he ſhould take great pleaſure in commu⯑nicating it to us.

SINCE he has been gone, we have heard ſeveral particulars, which only ſerve to increaſe our admiration.—Two or three poor families have declared that he has given them aſſiſtance; and among the reſt, the wife of one of the aſſaſſins confeſſed he gave her a guinea, upon hearing ſhe was diſtreſſed for her rent.—The raſcal, her huſband, has fled the country.

[172]I HAVE never found you offended, when I have happened to differ in opi⯑nion with you; I ſhall, therefore, ven⯑ture to diſſent from your picture of that ſeminary where I had the good fortune firſt to become acquainted with you.—That the outline is juſt, I will readily grant, but the ſhadings are too deep. This is only momentary with you, and while you recollect particular inſtances.—Neither have we any cauſe to wonder that learned men are not al⯑ways rational men.—There is a degree of genius requiſite to this, which falls to the ſhare of a few only.—The me⯑mory may be capable of bearing a great⯑er burthen than the imagination, and this produces plodders.—The reverſe of the propoſition is equally true, and from hence ſprings enthuſiaſm.—I beg pardon—I lift the ferula, when I ought to kiſs the rod.—I aſſume the tone of a [173] a teacher, when I ought to look up at the maſter.

THE impracticability of your hoſpi⯑tal, at leaſt, the impoſitions you are liable to ſuſtain, are ſo evident, that I ſhall not attempt to reaſon with you concerning, it. Time will prove the beſt logician in this caſe. The motive does honour to your heart; and, if I did not ſee the inconveniencies attend⯑ing your ſcheme, ſhould wiſh to aſſiſt you in the purſuit.

I SHALL be at Oxford next term, and, you may be certain, ſhall not fail to pay you a viſit. By that time your ménagerîe will either be demoliſhed, or conſiderably augmented. I ſhall re⯑joice in the length of your beard; the hint of which, I preſume, you borrow⯑ed from ſome of your family appertain⯑ing [174] to the antient fraternity of goats. I think I ſee your puppies gnawing your ſhoes, and your kittens wanton⯑ing round you, while the ſenior cats enjoy the privilege of repoſing in the venerable ſhade of your beard. Though, perhaps, that patriarchal implement may be the deſtined aſylum for animals of another ſpecies, à la mode de Bombay. The golden age will, certainly, be re⯑newed in your ſeminary, provided you can but keep the peace among your ſubjects. I ſuppoſe you have, ſeveral times, had your pockets filled with mice, who had fled thither to eſcape the army of cats you have purchaſed. The worn-out horſe will, I hope, be in the firſt rank of your favourites. You may conde⯑ſcend to ſelect a rozinante for your own uſe; and, even if it ſhould have but three legs, I would adviſe you not to fear. Euclid, for your encourage⯑ment, [175] has wrote a theorem to prove that, three-legged ſtools ſtand firmeſt; and, if ſo, why not horſes, which are much nobler animals? I could ſay a great deal more concerning your pro⯑ject, but do not wiſh to inſult your judgment, by inſtances ſo obvious.

LETTER XLII. H. HANDFORD, Eſq to Mr. WESTWOOD.

I REJOICE that your player has not deceived you, but I am ſorry that it is out of my power to become acquainted with him.—Had he conti⯑nued at Kendal, I would have poſted away directly.— I am vexed — Why ſhould the fellow run away from me in this manner?—And yet, perhaps, it is as well as it is.—Want of faith and gratitude are ſo recent in my memo⯑ry—There—there, now—You ſee what a damned, vile dog I am—Condemning a man, whom I have never known any ill of, but heard a great deal of good, becauſe I have met with raſcals in my [177] life.—I am always finding myſelf but at theſe tricks.—

I WISH I had ſeen him.—Perhaps he was poor, and too proud to own it — And he relieved ſome families in diſ⯑treſs?—I wiſh I had known him.—I dare ſay they did not come to tell their wants to him.—No, no — How ſhould they ſuppoſe a poor player had any thing to ſpare.—I have known thoſe raſcals, myſelf, thoſe players, I mean, for all they have been guilty of ſome little, paltry tricks, do ſome very good ac⯑tions.—And, I have been told that, they are always willing to aſſiſt any of their fraternity, who are travelling, or out of employ, although they are as poor as a country curate's horſe themſelves. —I love the dogs for that.—I dare ſay this fellow, that you tell me of, had a thouſand good qualities that you had [178] not time to diſcover.—And ſo he had genius too you ſay?—Damn him, what did he run away in ſuch a hurry for?— I would have come over to have ſeen him, inſtantly.—I would ride a thou⯑ſand miles to be acquainted with the villain.—Its curſt hard, that I ſhould be in continual purſuit of theſe raſcals, who are an honour to us, and that they ſhould, always, ſteal away from me in ſuch a manner.—But that is the caſe with them; they are all aſhamed of do⯑ing good, and, like young ſinners, bluſh at what they love.—They are afraid of being detected, and laughed at.—Well they may—Its a damned vile world, that's the truth on't.—

I AM peſtered, plagued, teized, tor⯑mented to death.—I believe all the cats in chriſtendom are aſſembled in Ox⯑fordſhire. I am obliged to hire a clerk [179] to pay the people, and the village, where I live, is become a conſtant fair.—A fellow has ſet up the ſign of the three Blind Kittens, and has the impudence to tell my neighbours, if my whims and my money will only hold out for one twelvemonth, he ſhan't care a fig for the king.—I thought to prevent this inundation, by buying up all the old cats, and ſecluding them in con⯑vents and monaſteries of my own; but the value of the breeders is increaſed, to ſuch a degree that, I do not believe my whole fortune is capable of the pur⯑chaſe.—Beſides, I am made an aſs of.— A raſcal, who is a known ſharper, in theſe parts, hearing of the averſion I had to cruelty, bought an old, one-eyed horſe, that was going to the dogs, for five ſhillings. Then, taking a hammer in his hand, watched an opportunity of finding me alone, and addreſſed me [180] in the following manner.—‘Look you, maſter, I know that you don't love to ſee any dumb creter abuſed, and ſo, if you don't give me ten pounds, directly, why I ſhall ſcoop out this old rip's odd eye, with the ſharp end of this here hammer, now, before your face.’—Aye, and the damned villain would have done it, too, if I had not, inſtantly, complied; but, what was worſe, the abominable ſcoundrel had the auda⯑city to tell me, when I wanted him to deliver the horſe, firſt, for fear he ſhould extort a farther ſum from me, that he had more honour than to break his word.

I PERCEIVE it is in vain for me to, at⯑tempt the carrying on this ſcheme much longer.—My poor invalids muſt be abandoned.—I ſuppoſe, when they are turned upon this moſt merciful world [181] again, the boys will make hunting-matches with the cats, tie tin-cans, and old kettles to their tails, and clothe their feet in walnut-ſhells; my poor puppies will be fleaed for their ſkins, and my old cattle driven to the next kennel of hounds.—No, no, they ſhan't be ſo abuſed neither.—It would have been better, for many of them, had I never interpoſed in their behalf, than ſuffer them to be thus tormented.—The cruel raſcals would take a delight in inventing puniſhments, if it were only to torture me.—

A WHELP of a boy, yeſterday, had caught a young urchin, and, perceiving me, threw it in water to make it extend its legs; then, with the rough ſide of a knotty ſtick, ſawed upon its ham, till the creature cried like a child; and when I ordered him to deſiſt, told me he would [182] not, till I had given him ſix-pence.— Another over-wiſe fellow, a farmer of the pariſh, ſwears he will lay an indict⯑ment, next quarter-ſeſſions, againſt me, for an encourager and breeder of var⯑mint; and a pettifogging ſon of a whore's raſcal, of an attorney told me, to my face, that if he could find out my heir, he would perſuade him to ſue for his in⯑heritance, under the ſtatute of lunacy.

THERE is ſomething worſe than all this. The avaricious raſcals, when they can find nothing that they think will ex⯑cite my pity, diſable the firſt animal which is not dignified with the title of Chriſtian; and then bring it to me as an object worthy of my commiſeration; ſo that, in fact, inſtead of protecting, I deſtroy. The women have entertained a notion that I hate two-legged animals; and one of them called after me, the [183] other day, to tell me I was an old rogue, and that I had better give my money to the poor, and maintain my own baſtards, than keep a parcel of dogs and cats that eat up the village.—Adieu— I have wearied you—and I am certain I have wearied myſelf.

LETTER XLIII. H. HANDFORD, Eſq to Mr. WESTWOOD.

I HAVE rare news for you—I am impatient till I have related it, but am reſolved to begin my ſtory, and tell it methodically.

YOU are not unacquainted with my paſſion for traverſing the fields, and lying about, in ſummer-time, upon green banks, under trees, or by the ſide of rivers.—Theſe are my poetical moods, and I delight in indulging them. About a fortnight ago, in the midſt of one of them, I was diſturbed by the ruſtling of the leaves, and the ſudden appearance of a youth, that leaped, with the utmoſt eaſe and agility, over a deviliſh [185] high hedge, and whiſked by me, without noticing me, with the fleetneſs of a ſtag that has juſt broke cover.—I was amazed at the ſymmetry of the fellow's perſon, as well as his ſwiftneſs; and, my imagina⯑tion having been warmed by Monſieur Homer's deſcription of the race, in which Clytonius was victor, my fancy ran as faſt as his legs.—The ſpirit of curioſity was raiſed, and I made twenty fruitleſs enquiries concerning this appa⯑rition.

A DAY or two after it appeared again, but in a quite different manner.—The mercurial ſpirit was evaporated, inſtead of l'Allegro, he was quite il Penſeroſo.— His arms were folded, his eyes fixed, and his cheeks bedewed with tears.—I would give you a deſcription of his perſon, but that it is needleſs.—I only ſay, I never ſaw one that pleaſed me ſo much before. [186] I can't tell what ailed me, but his ſlow and ſteady walk, his ſighs, which were deep and frequent; the melancholy to apparent in his viſage, and the large tears that dropped, unobſerved as it were, down his face, gave me ſenſations of the moſt forcible kind.—I wanted to diſ⯑courſe with him, in hopes I might have it in my power to alleviate his grief; and, for that purpoſe, walked by the ſide of him for the whole length of a meadow, without his taking the leaſt notice of me.—Juſt before he came to the gate, he ſtopped, ſuddenly, for a moment, lifted up his eyes to heaven, uttered a diſmal groan, and, after calling out aloud, Oh love! love! ſtarted from where he ſtood, gave a bound over the gate, and vaniſh⯑ed again like lightning.

I WISH I could tell you, George, how I behaved.—For ſome time I remained [187] ſtupified, entranced, rivetted to the ſpot. —As ſoon as I could get looſe, I whiſtled, I danced, I curſed, I prayed, and, at laſt, fairly cried for vexation.— I never ſaw ſo fine a fellow.—His grief, too, was ſo noble, ſo manly—It was fixed, rooted—

WELL, Sir, in this condition was I obliged to return home, chagrined enough, you may be ſure, and heard nothing of him for ſeveral days.—About a week afterwards, as I was going my rounds, I approached a place where a parcel of young villains were bathing. —Before I was got up to them, the whole pack ſet up a yelping to tell me, one of the puppies, their playfellows, was drowning. I hobbled up to the raſcals, as faſt as I could, and, though I can ſwim no more than the leaden gooſe in my Lord Viſto's garden, ſouſed in without [188] dread of danger, or ſaying one ſhort prayer.—The lying dogs, to be ſure, had told me that they did not believe it was out of my depth.—I ſoon found to the contrary, though, and diſcovered, more⯑over, like Falſtaff, that I had an admirable alacrity at ſinking.—Yes, yes, Sir—I was at the bottom in a twinkling, and there I might have lain, in ſure and cer⯑tain hope of being dragged out by a boat hook, when I had taken in ſufficient water for the voyage, had not this—aye, this Alwyn—the individual, identical, player—your Alwyn, my Alwyn— The melancholy youth, the runner— but you ſhall hear more anon.—He leapt in—Sir, he ſtood as little upon ceremony as I had done.—But then he is a different fellow—a very different fellow.—A man and a boy drowned, ſaid he, God forbid!— Sir, he brought us [189] up, he landed us with a finger and a thumb!—

WHAT do you ſuppoſe I ſaid, when, after ſome half hour's rubbing and tumbling, for I was old, and preſently gone—What, I ſay, do you think I ſaid when I firſt opened my eyes, and ſaw this Alwyn, with a look like an angel over a condemned ſoul, ſtanding by me, and heard him aſk, in the moſt expreſ⯑ſive and ſofteſt tone poſſible, how I did? —I'll tell you what I ſaid Sir—I ſaid nothing.—But I would be content to be drowned every day of my life, to feel what I felt.—

HOW the devil ſhall I contrive to tell you the reſt of this ſtory, to make you caper, and ſing, and wipe your eyes, and rub your ſhins as a Chriſtian ought [190] to do.—Take notice, however, that though I tell you, now, it was your Al⯑wyn, the player, the fellow that I would have rid ſo far to ſee, I knew nothing of that, then.—No, no—I only looked upon him, at that inſtant, as a kind of heavenly being, a ſort of angel of be⯑nevolence, and my deliverer—I did not half know him.—Well, Sir, he told me that his mother lived hard by, and beg⯑ged of me to ſuffer myſelf to be put to bed, in her houſe, and take a little cordial, which ſhe would give me.—And I told him, that though I did not be⯑lieve I ſhould go to bed, I would go, with his help, that is, and take ſome of his mother's cordial, with all my heart.—

DEAR George, forgive my weakneſs —I can ſcarcely proceed—I can trifle no longer.—Is it any wonder that I am [191] affected, when I tell you that, the mo⯑ment I put my foot over the threſhold, I beheld, in Mrs. Alwyn, the perſon of a dear, and long-loſt ſiſter.

MY joy and ſurprize at finding the neareſt, and, my parents excepted, the deareſt relation I ever knew; a ſiſter, whom, in my youth, I had loved with an unbounded affection; to ſee her the happy mother of ſuch a ſon; one, too, who, but the moment before, had pre⯑ſerved my life; the effect this had upon me is paſt my power to deſcribe.—

YES, my dear friend, heaven has ſent me a ſiſter and a nephew, to whom riches will be eſtimable, becauſe they will contribute to their happineſs. Not [192] from the value they put upon wealth, they, both, have minds ſuperior to ſuch influence, but from other circumſtances. The cauſe of my poor Alwyn's melan⯑choly, is love—The youth, from too great a conſciouſneſs of inferiority, in point of wealth, has not ventured to declare his paſſion, except to the bro⯑ther of the lady.—Maria is the daughter of his father's friend, Mr. Stamford, a capital merchant.—He tells me he is in diſgrace with the family, and, by what I can collect, has had ſome foul play.— Not from them—Their character is greatly beyond it; but my boy's health, the exerciſe of his reaſon, depends upon this affair being cleared up, and there is no time so be loſt.

OH, George, what pleaſure do I ex⯑perience when I pronounce the words my boy.—I, who, yeſterday, had no friend, [193] no relation, whom I could ſuppoſe a part of myſelf, to find an Alwyn, and to find him mine, the idea is too luxu⯑rious!—His account of Maria, too, is ſo romantic, and ſo pleaſing, that I burn with impatience to ſee them united. —God forbid that any croſs accident ſhould intervene and prevent their uni⯑on—I hope not.—And yet the terrors of the youth are communicated, in part, to me.—But I will hope the beſt.

YOU long to know how I and my ſiſter came to ſuppoſe each other dead— I will tell you.—

BY my approbation and advice, ſhe married a young officer, a moſt amiable man, and one of my intimate friends. Alwyn, her huſband, and myſelf, were both young, and both ad⯑venturers. He laid out the greateſt [194] part of his own, and my ſiſter's for⯑tune, the aggregate of which was no porter's burthen, in purchaſing from an enſign to a captain. I croſſed the Equi⯑noctial, and, in a few years, without, I flatter myſelf, deſerving the appella⯑tion of Nabob, as the word is at preſent applied, became almoſt as rich as one. —My ſiſter went abroad with her huſ⯑band, who was obliged to attend his regiment.—That we might be certain not to loſe the knowledge of each other's reſidence, we determined to correſpond by favour of a third perſon, who was a couſin, and the only relation we had.— Our caution proved our want of pre⯑ſcience, more ways than one.—This couſin was a villain.—He heard I was likely to grow rich, and, inſtead of forwarding my ſiſter's letters, wrote me an account of her and her huſband's death, and of mine to her. I read, in [195] the public papers, of my poor friend Alwyn's fall in the field of bat⯑tle, and had, therefore, the leſs rea⯑ſon to doubt the truth of the whole ſtory.—When we, reſpectively, arrived in England, he found means to con⯑tinue the deception, and was ſnatched off ſuddenly, in the midſt of his wicked career, by an apoplectic fit.—She has lived in this retreat for ſome years. I have only bought the eſtate, at which I now live, lately, and have not reſided here till within this month. 'Tis true, my name is become pretty familiar among the villages hereabout, from circumſtances which I have before re⯑lated; but ſhe lives ſo retired, and has been under ſo much concern for her poor Alwyn, that her not having heard of me is no miracle.

[196]MY boy's caſe will admit of no de⯑lay; we muſt, therefore, be up in Lon⯑don in a few days. This, I am afraid, will deprive us of the pleaſure of ſee⯑ing you, when you come next into Oxfordſhire. I need not tell you how heartily you are beloved by your Ken⯑dal comedian, your poor player. He will tell it you himſelf by this ſame poſt.—You know the averſion I bear to large profeſſions, but, believe me when I ſay, no man eſteems you— well, well—loves you better than

MY ſiſter will thank you for herſelf. —She adores you for the part you took in the cauſe of her hero, her young Romeo, her dear Harry.

LETTER XLIV. Mr. STAMFORD, Sen. to Mr. MAITLAND, Senior.

WE arrived here ſafe, and hope for the pleaſure of your com⯑pany, as ſoon as your ſon is in a condi⯑tion to bear the journey. Our mutual friend, Seldon, deſires his reſpects, and expreſſes a great inclination to ſerve you; but I told him, I had a prior claim. 'Tis the higheſt ſatiſ⯑faction to me, that I have it in my power: not for the ſelfiſh view of counterbalancing the obligation I owe you, but, ſincerely, out of regard for thoſe virtues that firſt attached me to you. I aſſure you, my dear Maitland, I ſhall think it pride, and not philoſo⯑phy, if you continue to refuſe my offers. [198] 'Tis true, a philoſopher can ſubſiſt on a little. Exclude artificial wants, and a ſmall income will be ſufficient. But there are two prerogatives the rich en⯑joy, which I am confident you would miſs exceedingly. The power of do⯑ing good, and the company of people of enlarged underſtandings. The firſt you will readily allow to be concomi⯑tant with riches; and, though genius and intelligence are not confined to ſtation, it is no wonder that we find they flouriſh, moſt, in the ſoil beſt adapted to their improvement. Want of leiſure, and want of inſtruction, prevent many a bright mind from unfolding its powers.

BUT, arguments apart, I beg you will recollect, with how little ceremony I requeſted your aſſiſtance, on a former occaſion, when my future welfare en⯑tirely depended on it. I did your [199] friendſhip juſtice. I believed you ſin⯑cere. I even expected you would re⯑joice in the opportunity of ſerving me. Nor was I deceived. I did you a fa⯑vour in permitting you to exert yourſelf for my advantage; and I intreat, nay, I inſiſt, that you will let me enjoy the ſame ſatisfaction in my turn. I ſhall think you doubt my friendſhip, if you refuſe me the privilege of rebuilding Maitland-hall; and of adding my little eſtate to your farm in Eſſex, to which it is contiguous. I ſhould be aſhamed to urge, as an argument, that I can ſpare it, becauſe that would be the leaſt conſideration in the affair: but, how⯑ever, it is ſo, and, if that will be any inducement to your acceptance, I beg you will not demur on that account.

WHILE I am writing, a letter is ar⯑rived from a Mr. Hilkirk, who is the [200] ſon of our friend Seldon. He has adopted a ſtrange mode of education for him, which, in my opinion, is ra⯑ther dangerous. To enhance the va⯑lue and enjoyment of proſperity, and to give, at the ſame time, fortitude of mind, and a knowledge of the world, he turned him adrift, ſome years ago, and the event has anſwered his expecta⯑tions; thanks to the natural diſpoſition of the youth, more than to the pru⯑dence of the ſcheme itſelf.

BUT more of this when we meet. At preſent I am to acquaint you, the purport of his letter is, that, in conſequence of an advertiſement, in⯑ſerted in the papers, he has appre⯑hended your late ſervant, Stokes, at Taunton-Dean, in Somerſetſhire, who offered an inland bill of exchange, to diſcount, to a friend of his. He has [201] ſent him under a guard; and we ex⯑pect him in on Saturday. As for Hil⯑kirk himſelf, he ſays, he has reaſons to avoid coming to town; which, I ſuppoſe, are the mortifications he has experienced here; but his father writes, by this poſt, to command his attend⯑ance.

I AM in hopes that we ſhall obtain intelligence, which will tend to recover your loſs, in a great meaſure; and ſhall write again on the ſubject, if your ar⯑rival in town ſhould not render it un⯑neceſſary. I am, dear Sir,

LETTER XLV. Mr. WESTWOOD to H. HANDFORD, Eſq

IT is impoſſible to deſcribe the effect your laſt letter had in our family. I never beheld my mother ſo affected before. You cannot imagine how much Mr. Alwyn is beloved by us all. For my part, I was almoſt aſhamed of my weakneſs, and was obliged to retire to give a decent vent to my paſ⯑ſions.—

MY father and mother, as well as your humble ſervant, have all wrote to con⯑gratulate Mr. Alwyn.—My father is particularly glad, to find himſelf ſo good [203] a prophet.—When Mr. Alwyn left Kendal, he gave it as his opinion, that my young friend was a gentleman of a moſt amiable character, in diſguiſe; and that, from the civilities which had paſſed between our family and him, we ſhould hear of him again; to which he added, that, he ſuſpected, he was croſſed in love. —We have done nothing but talk of you. We have imagined fifty ways in which the groupe was diſpoſed, at the meeting of you and your ſiſter.—My mother is certain you both fainted away, and wiſhes ſhe had been preſent, to ad⯑miniſter ſal volatile. My father, who has been made acquainted with your character, gives it as his opinion, that poor Mrs. Alwyn moſt aſſuredly gave a loud ſhriek, and inſtantly fell into hyſ⯑terics, while you whiſtled and capered; and that Mr. Alwyn aſſumed exactly, the ſame attitude that he ſaw Him in at [204] the appearance of the Ghoſt, when he played Hamlet.—In ſhort, you hardly felt your own ſituation, more forcibly, than we have done after you.—But we are all eager to ſee you, and are exceed⯑ingly anxious concerning Mr. Alwyn's love-affair.—We have formed very ro⯑mantic ideas of the young lady.—If ſhe equals her lover, they will be the moſt extraordinary pair in the univerſe.—I am called away—I'll come back and fi⯑niſh my letter before the poſt goes out.

I AM returned, in amazement at the villainy of man, and the concern Mr. Alwyn has in the diſcovery I have juſt made! A perſon of the name of Stentor, belonging to the players, ſent for me in a violent hurry. The breath has juſt departed his body. It was to do Mr. Alwyn juſtice, in his laſt moments. A violent fever dried up the ſmall remain⯑der [205] of his blood ſo faſt, that I did but juſt arrive in time to receive a paper, which he was exceedingly deſirous of delivering to me, with his own hands, before he died.—Read the contents, and learn how much you are all intereſted in them.

I RECEIVED the above from him, in his laſt agonies. His countenance was [208] alternately moſt pitiably expreſſive of hope and horror.—I have not time to make comments.—The everlaſting peace of my friends depends, perhaps, upon a ſingle moment; I, therefore, ſend it ex⯑preſs, and with orders to follow you to London, if you are ſet our, which is moſt probable.

LETTER XLVI. Mr. SELDON to Mr. HILKIRK.

I COULD no longer forbear to ac⯑quaint you with the reaſons that have made us ſo long ſtrangers to each other. Your own conduct was, in⯑deed, one; but your behaviour, in many inſtances, ſince, none of which are un⯑known to me, has been ſo becoming and manly, that I rejoice in the events that gave occaſion for the exerciſing your fortitude and virtue. I parted with you with the leſs regret, as I fore⯑ſaw the conſequence; yet my care and affection has not ceaſed to follow your ſteps. Mr. Turnbull has, at intervals, attended your progreſs; and was witneſs [210] to the diligence and ſkill you exerted, in apprehending the villain who had robbed Mr. Maitland. By his intelli⯑gence, I find it time to place you in a ſituation that better becomes you, than your preſent one. You will have the ſatisfaction of enjoying, as a conſequence of your merit, that affluence, which, had you known ſooner, might have proved the means of rendering you idle, debauched, and uſeleſs to ſociety. I mean no reproach, when I ſpeak this. It has happened to men of leſs lively paſſions than yourſelf. But, as it is at preſent, you are poſſeſſed of my beſt opinion. I long to ſee you, to explain every thing; therefore do not fail to come, immediately, to town. I write, this poſt, to Mr. Turnbull, who will call upon you, and ſupply you with mo⯑ney, and every thing you may be in need of.

[211]YOUR Julia, whoſe coldneſs to you was the conſequence of my poſitive commands, is, likewiſe, impatient to ſee you. If ſhe is ſtill dear to you, you will haſten hither; and I ſhall be happy to ſee you united to her, by the moſt ſacred ties.

DO not ſuffer this unexpected in⯑telligence to deprive you of that for⯑titude you have acquired. Bear the ſame, firm mind you have, hitherto, proved yourſelf maſter of; and believe me to be, notwithſtanding the neceſſary ſeverity of my conduct,

LETTER XLVII. H. HANDFORD, Eſq to Mr. WESTWOOD.

HERE we are George!—Here we are!—My dear ſiſter, and I, and my dear Alwyn, and—but no matter for that—I hope to be the happieſt raſcal alive—ſometime within this fortnight, that is—

WE arrived in London, Sir, at five in the evening, and alighted at—pooh —what the plague ſignifies where we alighted.—Our buſineſs was in Harley-ſtreet, where Mr. Stamford has a houſe— You can't imagine how I was teized.— Sir, I could not get that good, graceleſs dog, Alwyn, along.—I was obliged to collar the fellow in the ſtreet, when he found where I was going, and ſhould [213] not have moved him then, had I not called in the aſſiſtance of half a dozen chairmen.—The villain's proud—plaguy proud—and yet I love the dog for it.

‘MR. Stamford had accuſed him of ingratitude and guilt though he was not conſcious of the charge, yet he was too well acquainted with Mr. Stamford's character not to be aſ⯑ſured that he proceeded upon con⯑viction.’

‘Why then; my dear Alwyn, ſays I, it is your duty, ſirrah, to go and vindicate your innocence.’

‘Innocence, replied my delicate gentleman, may be too aſſuming, dear uncle.—To avoid Mr. Stam⯑ford, while depreſſed with poverty, as well as grief, and to run precipi⯑tately [214] into his preſence, becauſe I have found a protecting uncle—’

SIR, he was going on, with his fine reaſons, and I was obliged to ſtop his mouth▪—I found I ſhould be convinced; and, as I told him, I thought it damned ill-natured of him, to convince a man in ſpite of his teeth, when he would rather remain in ignorance.—I had de⯑coyed the dear rogue to that end of the town, on pretence of ſeeing the new buildings. — The dog ſuſpected me, though, and gave me ſeveral hints, which I could not find in my heart to underſtand.—I ſhould have told you, though, for I ſuppoſe you don't know it, that the fellow has ſaved more lives than mine—He reſcued his miſtreſs from the flames.—

[215]WELL, Sir, while we were wrang⯑ling, who ſhould come by but the foot⯑man of young Stamford, a ſervant, that is lately come to the family, and knew nothing more of Alwyn than that, he had ſeen him, on the night of the fire, preſerve his young lady.—This fellow, this ſervant, no ſooner beheld my boy, than, after ſtaring for a moment, with joy and aſtoniſhment, he ſprang towards him, ſeized his hand, and with a con⯑vulſive kind of tranſport, pronounced —God bleſs you!—God almighty bleſs your honour!—I am glad I have found you —You are the gentleman that ſaved my dear lady—I am ſure on't—I ſhall never forget you.—Don't go —Pray don't go, Sir, till I have called my old maſter, and my young maſter, and my my lady—They'll never forgive me if I let you go.—

[216]THE fellow did not wait for an anſwer, but with three ſtrides reached the door, gave a thundering clatter upon the knocker, bounced into the drawing-room, ſeized young Stamford's hand, and, pulling him along, kept exclaim⯑ing, "Here he is, Sir, here he is—I have found him, I have found him, I have found him!"—

‘WHO?—What's the matter? who have you found?’

‘THE ſtranger—The angel that ſaved my young lady, that carried her through the flaming fire.’—

"GRACIOUS God! exclaimed young Stamford,—was it you, Mr. Alwyn, that ſaved the life of my ſiſter!—Is it poſ⯑ſible—It is, it is—I hope it is—I be⯑lieve it is, I am ſure it is."—

[217]WE got them into the houſe, and then it was, that the pathos of the ſcene was exhibited.—Maria happened to be in her own chamber: ſhe heard the voice of Alwyn, ſhe flew, ſhe found her hope confirmed, ſhe ſunk into the arms of her lover.—

"HOW have we been deceived," ſaid Mr. Stamford, ſenior!—‘Did you ſave my child, Alwyn?—Was it you, my boy?’ continued the old gentleman, while the tears trickled down his face. ‘Are you the ſtranger?—It is not poſſible you could write ſuch letters.’

"WHAT letters," ſaid Alwyn.—

‘NAY, think no more of them, an⯑ſwered he—We will forget them— They were not your's—They could not be your's.—’

[218] ‘I DON'T know what you mean, upon my honour, replied the youth —I never wrote any letters to you that’—

‘NO, no, they were not to me—But let us forget them—If I did not know your hand—And yet—It is impoſſible! —Why ſhould you riſque your life, for one whom you deſpiſed?—I have been deceived.—They could not be your's—Your are too amiable—It is to you that I am indebted for my life, for every comfort. But for you Maria had periſhed’

WHILE they were in the midſt of this ambiguous diſcourſe, which was entirely incomprehenſible to Alwyn, your let⯑ter, moſt fortunately, arrived.—My ſiſter, when ſhe found it came expreſs, ſent my man with it immediately.—I open⯑ed, [219] and read aloud, the laſt dying ſpeech and confeſſion of the expert Mr. Sten⯑tor.—Shall I deſcribe the effect, or ſhall I leave you to imagine it?—You can't. —Nor can I deſcribe it.—Language is unequal to the taſk.—I can add nothing, but that we are happy, and, I hope, you are ſo.

LETTER XLVIII. Mr. STAMFORD to Mr. MAITLAND.

I RECEIVED your favour, by which I have the pleaſure to obſerve that your ſon's health is much improved. The natural conſequence is that I ex⯑pect your company in a few days. Per⯑haps this letter may be too late to find you in Warwickſhire, but the news I have to communicate is too important to ſuffer any delay in ſending it to you. In ſhort, your ſtrong box is found, and is, now, in my cuſtody. You will re⯑ceive, incloſed, an inventory of its con⯑tents, which, I hope, on compariſon with your accounts, will not appear, conſide⯑rably, [221] deficient. The manner of its re⯑covery was as follows.

I INFORMED you, in my laſt, that Mr. Hilkirk, or, more properly, Mr. Seldon, junior, had apprehended your late ſer⯑vant, Stokes. He arrived here yeſterday, under the conduct of a Mr. Turnbull; Mr. Hilkirk being prevented from coming up on account of his ſituation as manager of the company of players, which he cannot quit on the inſtant, without doing irreparable damage to the concern.

BY Stokes's direction, a party of Sir John Fielding's men were diſpatched to a houſe in Duke's-Place, where, after a ſtrict ſearch, your box was found. It appears, by his confeſſion, that he was connected with a gang of thoſe villains who uſe their utmoſt endeavours to gain [222] intelligence, by the means of ſervants, of the property in any houſe they are de⯑ſirous of pillaging. He was but too capable of affording them that informa⯑tion, and, as the number of your peo⯑ple prevented their attempting to break into Maitland-hall, they contrived to ſet it on fire. We all know the ſucceſs of their attempt, and, it is to be hoped, the reward will follow; ſuch methods being, now, ſet on foot, as promiſe to bring the offenders within the reach of juſtice.

THE whole ſtory being long, I ſhall defer it till your arrival, and, in the interim, have another piece of buſineſs to communicate, which gives me ſome pain, though, I am aſſured, you know me too well to ſuppoſe me actuated by any motives but thoſe of the ſtricteſt inte⯑grity and regard for you.

[223]I DARE ſay you are ſurprized at this preamble, and, I am convinced, it is un⯑neceſſary; therefore, without more words, you are to know, that it is impoſſible for our children to be united, as we, once, flattered ourſelves. I have diſcovered that my Maria's affections were fixed be⯑fore ſhe ſaw your ſon, and am ſincerely concerned that I was not ſooner apprized of it. There is reaſon to think your ſon is not violently bent on the match; at leaſt I hope ſo. I make no apologies for my frankneſs and ſincerity. Your candour will not require them, when you are acquainted with the affair. On the contrary, I rely on having the pleaſure of your company, and that of your ſon, at my daughter's marriage.

IT is now four years ſince I received into my counting-houſe a young gentle⯑man, of the name of Alwyn, the ſon of [224] that Alwyn whom you have ſo often heard me mention with affection and re⯑gret. You may, perhaps, remember ſeeing him when you were in town, about two years ago. The trifling property his father left, was barely ſufficient to maintain his mother in a country retreat; ſo that I had the pleaſure of doing him a ſingular ſervice, by introducing him to the world. My care was not loſt on an ungrateful charge. I had the ſatisfaction to ſee him daily improve in every ac⯑compliſhment, and to behold the virtues of my friend revive in the perſon of his ſon. A native ſincerity and openneſs of conduct, added to the moſt mild and obliging diſpoſition, commanded the eſteem of all, who knew him; and, for my part, I regarded him, almoſt, as my own child. At the beginning of this ſummer he went into the country, for the benefit of his health, as he then [225] informed me; but, as I now find, to avoid the preſence of my daughter, for whom he entertained a paſſion, that did not, as he rightly judged, ſuit his circum⯑ſtances. Maria was, at the ſame time, equal⯑ly prejudiced in his favour, which makes his retreat more generous and diſintereſt⯑ed. While he was in the country, I received a letter, charging him with a degree of perfidy and baſeneſs, that I ſhould never have credited, had not the proof appeared of the moſt incontro⯑vertible, nature. I wrote to him, on the ſubject, as, I thought, the crime deſerv⯑ed; and his innocence would, proba⯑bly, never have been vindicated, but for a fortunate concurrence of circum⯑ſtances, that have cleared up the whole myſtery.

THE relation is too long to be in⯑ſerted in this letter, and muſt be de⯑ferred [226] till your arrival. He has been vilely traduced. He is incapable of the leaſt meaneſs. Come to us, my dear Maitland, I know you will love him. 'Twas he that ſaved my daughter from the flames, and delivered me from a life of ſorrow. She is due to his care. He has merited her. I know my dear friend will think ſo, and rejoice with us. I am quite elated. We are all happy. My Maria is hardly recovered, from the ſurprize and joy this event has occaſioned. Charles is in raptures to find his Alwyn the amiable charac⯑ter he once thought him; and Alwyn is in a ſtate that can better be ima⯑gined than expreſſed.

THE company of yourſelf and ſon will be an addition to our happineſs, with which we hope you will ſoon [227] favour us. For that reaſon I conclude, without ceremony, by aſſuring you that I am,

LETTER XLIX. Mr. ALWYN, to Mr. WESTWOOD.

FORGIVE, dear Sir, my having, till now, delayed to write you an account of the completion of my feli⯑city. I have been ſo long accuſtomed to conſider the preſent happy turn of my fate as a thing utterly impoſſible, that I ſcarce can, yet, believe it real. Thanks to my worthy patron, my kind father; thanks to my honoured uncle, and my dear, dear Maria, I am, at length, convinced. Laſt Friday was the diſtinguiſhed day that gave the moſt amiable, the lovelieſt of her ſex to my arms. I cannot deſcribe the joy which reigns univerſally among us. I am en⯑circled by friends, by relations, I had almoſt ſaid, by angels.

[229]FORTUNE ſeems reſolved no longer to let virtue and genius languiſh in ob⯑ſcurity. This appears by an event which has increaſed our happineſs. My friend, and former companion, Mr. Hil⯑kirk, came to town on Thurſday. You may remember, when I was at Kendal, I gave you the hiſtory of his adven⯑tures, and how much you found your⯑ſelf intereſted. You thought the con⯑duct of Mr. Seldon quite aenigmatical: but what will you ſay when you are informed that he is the only ſon of that gentleman; that he is beloved with a moſt parental tenderneſs; and that his father has contrived, not only to give him a very peculiar kind of education, but that he has, alſo, brought up Julia with an expreſs intention of her becom⯑ing his wife: that their love for each other was, in ſome degree, the effect of ſtratagem, on the part of Mr. Seldon, [230] who had nothing ſo much at heart as the making them both happy; and that he has aſſiſted misfortune, as it were, in the perſecution of his ſon, ſtill taking care to keep, by various contrivances, an eye over his actions, and not per⯑mitting him to be entirely depreſſed? Mr. Seldon had ſuffered almoſt every kind of hardſhip in his youth; but, by the force of good ſenſe and induſtry, had, with amazing fortitude, ſurmount⯑ed every difficulty, and is, at preſent, not only a very worthy, but a very con⯑ſequential member of ſociety. His ſon, whoſe name is William Hilkirk Seldon, was born before the old gentleman had emerged from obſcurity; and, his mo⯑ther dying, was placed at a peaſant's in the country, and, afterwards, ſent to a grammar-ſchool. But, as the father had already reſolved upon a plan of educa⯑tion, he did not let even the people [231] with whom his ſon was know to whom he belonged.

YOU have heard the reſidue of the ſtory, except that Mr. Hilkirk has been the principal agent in diſcovering the villain who fired Maitland-hall, and purloined the ſtrong box. Mr. Seldon applauds himſelf, exceedingly, upon the ſucceſs of his plan. He beholds him with the combined advantages that edu⯑cation and an active life beſtow. He affirms that, if, by any miſchance, his ſon ſhould become poor, he will ſupport the change with fortitude: that the com⯑mon accidents of life will not have power to deprive him of temper: that his know⯑ledge of mankind will, not only make him diſcern the motives of their actions, but, likewiſe, give him an aſcendancy over them.—Indeed, he adduces a thou⯑ſand reaſons, which, at leaſt, are exceed⯑ingly [232] ſpecious, and, in ſome inſtances, true; but, I dare ſay, you think with me, that, had the experiment been made up⯑on a weaker mind, it would ſcarcely have ſucceeded ſo well.

WHEN my friend Hilkirk, for ſo I muſt ſtill call him, arrived in town, his beloved Julia was with us, at Mr. Stam⯑ford's, whither he immediately flew. The interview was tender and affecting. The young lady, who had put the ut⯑moſt reſtraint upon her inclinations, in obedience to Mr. Seldon, who is her uncle, was incapable of ſuppreſſing her emotions. She was fearful, leſt her for⯑mer treatment of Hilkirk, whom ſhe tenderly loved, and which was the ef⯑fect of her uncle's commands, ſhould be remembered by him, and could not conceal her anxiety. Hilkirk felt the delicacy of her paſſion, without the [233] power of alleviating her fears, except by repeated declarations of his love.

THE ſame day that Mr. Hilkirk ar⯑rived, Mr. Maitland, the young gentle⯑man who was deſigned for Maria, and his father, came to town. Mr. Mait⯑land ſenior, who is a moſt amiable man, inſtead of being chagrined at his ſon's diſappointment, expreſſed the warmeſt ſenſe of our felicity; and, I aſſure you, was remarkably liberal of good-natured reflections, in favour of your humble ſervant. The vivacity of the young gentleman, too, has been of ſingular ſervice, in giving the converſation, which has been apt to take too ſenti⯑mental a turn, a degree of eaſe and brilliancy that have had a very pleaſing effect, and which has been much height⯑ened by the benevolent diſpoſition of the father, as well as the friendſhip and [234] attachment he diſcovers for the Stam⯑ford family, of which I am, now, become a part. He aſſiſted, at the marriage ce⯑remony, with a degree of chearfulneſs and pleaſure that proved the ſatisfaction he received. Never, before, did I be⯑hold ſo happy a day. My dear Maria, with a profuſion of charms, a multitude of virtues, made inevitably mine; my friend receiving the reward of his con⯑ſtancy, the hand of his Julia, at the ſame time: ſurrounded by my mother, whoſe heart was replete with tenderneſs and joy; by my uncle, whoſe eyes and ac⯑tions proved how much he was inter⯑eſted; careſſed by my dear friend, the brother of my Maria, and rewarded by her father; it was an exceſs of tranſport that can only be imagined.

I MUST forbear. The ideas are too luxuriant, too inexpreſſible. Pray give [235] my moſt ſincere reſpects to your wor⯑thy parents, and tell them, when they come to town during the approaching winter, they will find a ſmall ſociety, who hope frequently to enjoy the plea⯑ſure of their company; of which honour no one is more deſirous than,