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THE PUPIL OF PLEASURE.

VOL. II.

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THE PUPIL OF PLEASURE: OR, The New Syſtem Illuſtrated. INSCRIBED To Mrs. EUGENIA STANHOPE, EDITOR OF LORD CHESTERFIELD's LETTERS. By COURTNEY MELMOTH. Verſatile ingenium.

VOL. II.

LONDON, Printed for G. ROBINSON, and J. BEW, in Pater-Noſter-Row. 1776.

THE PUPIL OF PLEASURE, &c.

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LETTER LIX. Mrs. LA MOTTE to Mrs. HOMESPUN.

Madam,

I AM ſorry to refuſe to the worthy Mr. HOMESPUN (who hath, I perceive, been obliged to return without his wife) a requeſt, which I very plainly ſee [2] was made to me in the tenderneſs of his heart.

You do me but juſtice in ſuppoſing that I will keep your unhappy ſecret, as you very properly call it; for it is no ſmall infelicity to make a ſecret of any ſort neceſſary to the fame of a woman, and the peace of a whole family, whoſe connections would all be diſhonoured by a diſcloſure of it.

As far, therefore, as my ſilence can contribute to your domeſtic tranquility, you may depend upon me; though I cannot but think, ſhe who hath confidence enough to abuſe her huſband, ſhould have policy enough to conceal the particulars of her crime from a confident; ſince I know not whether the very knowledge of ſuch circumſtances is not an inſult to her virtue.

[3]Your poor huſband gave us, yeſterday, as uſual, an admirable diſcourſe, but there was in it ſome ſoftening ſentiments relating to the pure pleaſures of married felicity, which I could not but imagine were ſuggeſted by his own ſituation: he loves you, HARRIET, moſt fondly, and I could not avoid giving to ſentiments, which I connected with certain others, the tribute of a tender tear.—All the pariſhioners, and eſpecially the talkative part of them, expreſs their aſtoniſhment, ſome by whiſpers, others by winks, and all by looks, that Mrs. HOMESPUN ſhould continue, where ſhe has neither relations nor acquaintances; and it is eaſy to ſee that Mr. HOMESPUN is the only unſuſpicious perſon in the village; while he, wrapt up in the integrity of his ſoul, and guarded by his good opinion of you, ſuppoſes you [4] will ſoon regret his abſence, and return to him.

After ſervice he drank tea with me, and with tears in his eyes firſt urged my going to BUXTON, and then, (finding my refuſal eſtabliſhed,) that I ſhould at leaſt try the effect of my entreaties to invite you back: he even went ſo far as to hint, with all a father's glow upon his cheek, at the little neceſſary preparations againſt the day in which you are expected to preſent him with a teſtimony of your tenderneſs. There are various maternal cautions, ſaid he, you know, my dear Mrs. LA MOTTE, to be taken in ſuch intereſting ſituations; and, perhaps, the conſtant buſtles of that watering-place, may for awhile, lull to ſleep, or rather agitate her into forgetfulneſs of thoſe cares that generally alarm the provident apprehenſion [5] of her, who is, in a very few weeks, to be a mother.

This was too powerful a painting: I roſe to conceal my ſympathy: he preſſed me by the hand, in viſible diſorder, and, proteſting that he left his fate to my management, ſaluted me, in his honeſt way, and went to perform the laſt offices to a poor woman (ALICE WELDON) who died laſt Wedneſday in child-bed of the babe, whoſe father is not yet acknowledged. I told your huſband, HARRIET, I would exert my power, without telling him that I had long loſt my influence over you.

As you were not touched by my former letters—particularly one of them— I deſpair of moving you by the preſent, having no new arguments to offer: nor ſhould I, indeed, have troubled you at all, [6] but that I did it in compliance to your much-injured, and my ever-eſteemed friend, Mr. HOMESPUN, whom I admire, chiefly, for the very ſimplicity, to which you have made objection. By the ardour with which he ſpeaks of that Mr. SEDLEY, upon all occaſions, I perceive that you have not been ſeduced by a novice, and yet I cannot poſſibly imagine how he has contrived to make the huſband his friend, at the very time that he has betrayed the wife into the thorny paths of perſonal impurity. Be this as it may, he muſt be a very artful creature, and, excluſively of my not going into the ſame lodging with the polluted HARRIET, I would not chuſe to lay myſelf liable, even to the inſult of being the ridicule of a man, who, doubtleſs, aſperſes, even more than he deſtroys.

[7]It may not, however, be amiſs to obſerve, in the concluſion of this letter, that, if your return to this place is not ſpeedy, it will probably be attended with conſequences, which no after-penitence can poſſibly atone for.

I am, Madam, Your humble ſervant, C. LA MOTTE.

LETTER LX. From the Same to the Same.

[8]
Dear Madam,

MR. HOMESPUN is extremely ill, and much diſtreſſed by your refuſal to return. I have revolved the affair over in my mind, and I ſee, that, if you come on the receipt of this letter, very probable excuſes may yet be made, and all may be happy again.

You are ſtill dear to me, HARRIET, and I wiſh for nothing ſo warmly as to embrace you, to go with you to our accuſtomed walk in the meadow, oppoſite [9] your paradiſe of a cottage. I miſs you more and more every day—every hour. Come then, my dear, name the time, and Mr. HOMESPUN and I will both meet you at the half-way hut, where we were ſo happy in a party laſt ſummer; he deſires you will take a chaiſe (after you have acquainted us) to that place.

I can no longer be without you; I want you to ſit by my ſide, near your favourite window, round which the jeſſamine clambers—and it is now in full blow—to work with me, while HORACE reads, as he uſed to do, ſome agreeable author. We have made alterations in my garden: there is a new ſummer-houſe, actually ſurrounded with roſes, ſweet-briar, and eglantine; and I want you to approve of this. In ſhort, I wiſh for you, on all accounts, both moral and entertaining. Haſten then, dear HARRIET, to your

C. LA MOTTE,

LETTER LXI. From the Same to the Same.

[10]
Mrs. HOMESPUN,

YOUR huſband is in his bed, brought thither by the evident indifference of a wife, on whom he doats. What courſe this illneſs may take, or where it may end, I know not: the people here, however, do not ſcruple to attribute it to the abſence and ſtrange conduct of Mrs. HOMESPUN. Since his ſickneſs, which I do aſſure you is real, I have conſidered well the part I am to take in this affair; and, in the hope of reſtoring a worthy member to the community, by [11] opening his eyes to the demerit of the object for which he ſighs, I am not certain whether I ſhall not be juſtified in diſcloſing to him that which will induce him to change his anxiety into contempt.

I beg you will think of this, and (as I ſhall wait your anſwer before I reſolve) allow yourſelf to prevent what muſt make your infamy public. As to your equivocations, they have no weight with me, and are really too tranſparent to cheat a child. It is evident you doat on your ſeducer.

Farewel. C. LA MOTTE.

LETTER LXII. Miſs DELIA DELMORE to Lady LUCY SAXBY.

[12]

FANNY is not worſe, and therefore my ſpirits (which always riſe and fall with the pains and pleaſures of my friends) are equal to the delightful taſk of correſponding with my very dear Lady LUCY.

In my laſt I only ſlightly, and in general terms, mentioned the patrons of my happineſs: let me now become particular. My father has formed himſelf by ſuch a ſtandard, that his excellencies have a dignity peculiar to the dignity of his manners. He hath ever thought proper to include the friendly in the paternal character; [13] and he inculcates, even to the loweſt domeſtics, a certain ſenſe of independency; a principle, he ſays, neceſſary to be maintained even in ſervitude, and from which branches forth a thouſand virtues. In ſociety, ſays Sir HENRY, ſubordination is certainly indiſpenſible, according to the preſent ſyſtem; but then it ſhould be conſidered, that the balance of human affairs is oftener, much more level than we imagine. If we feed the poor, it is their labour that accommodates us: if we pay them for their toil, it is that very toil to which we are indebted for all the ſoftneſſes of proſperity: and if we provide them with a defence againſt the ſeverity of ſeaſons, and a chamber for the convenience of their repoſe, (after they have wearied out their vigour in our ſervice,) it may be remembered, that, in gratitude for our attention, it is to them we are indebted for every thing that diſtinguiſhes [14] riches from poverty: to their hands we owe the delicacies of the garden—the treaſures of the field—the decorations of the manſion—the table of plenty—the robe of luxury—and the bed of down.

Acting upon ſuch ſingularly-noble motives, Sir HENRY, at a proper criſis, makes each of his children, in ſome ſort, independent—that is, my dear, he allots to each of us ſuch a ſhare of fortune in our own hands as is ſufficient to the diſplay and ſhew-off of the natural diſpoſition. He eſteems it neceſſary to know the operation of the temper, when it has power to play; this—ſays he—is not to be known by the common mode of contracting, but of extending: it is impoſſible to diſcover any natural propenſity, until opportunity gives liberty to all the little paſſions of the ſtripling, and indulgence gives way to unſhackled inclination.

[15]Educated under ſuch advantages, and the finer poliſhes of the ſchool given by a father ſo venerable and ſuperior; the youthful independent will not turn his honours, and the precious depoſit entruſted to him, to abuſe: and, if he does, even then there are many ways which Sir HENRY has diſcovered to turn his deviating conduct into the proper channel. From kindneſs like this, Lady LUCY, we are enabled to do nameleſs occaſional little ſervices for the unfortunate; and by ſuch means learn early to form ourſelves into habits of ſympathy and tenderheartedneſs. I do not put gold into your purſes, children, like ſome parents, who promiſe to double the ſum if you ſhew it unbroken, and undiminiſhed at a future period: I do not give it you to hoard up like miſers, nor diſſipate like little ſpendthrifts; but I give it you on purpoſe to change into ſmall ſilver: it is my deſire that you [16] ſhould taſte early the firſt of pleaſures: look about you: it is a world of miſery, as well as impoſition: mark your objects to the beſt of your abilities—be deceived as little as poſſible, and double your treaſure by decreaſing it: for ſix-penny worth of ſilver, gain ſixty moments of fair reflection: for the banquet at ſo cheap a rate provided to another—the bread and water of gratitude—take in exchange the richer feaſt of a kind heart: and in this caſe, my dear children, which is the greateſt gainer? If you muſt be uſurers, put your money out to ſuch intereſt; be ambitious of laying it wiſely out in the purchaſe of virtue, and I will ſupply you chearfully with the means.

We were all walking, LUCY, the other morning, by the ſide of the bath, when a ſhort, bold, ſturdy-looking fellow accoſted us for charity. We looked at Sir [17] HENRY for our cue: Come along, children, ſaid he, that man is both impudent and able. As we paſſed by, the fellow drew up his mouth, and ſhaking a little dirty bag that he took from his pouch, gingled it over his head, and ſnapt his fingers. When we were at ſome diſtance—Take care, dear children, of ſuch impoſtors: beſtow not the moment you are ſupplicated: try the temper of the petitioner: he whom indigence, and the ſtrokes of ill-fortune have not at leaſt humiliated, is not yet an object of your generoſity. As we were going to our carriage, a decayed veteran, in tattered regimentals, reduced to the knees by the perils of his profeſſion, was endeavouring to ſweep our way with his hat: little CHARLES ran, without the leaſt heſitation, and gave his bounty. Yes, ſaid Sir HENRY, there, my dear lad, you could not be deceived: by whatever means [18] brought about, ſuch a poor wretch muſt be the mark of liberality.

Oppoſite, LUCY, to the maxims of the preſent age, thus do our parents encourage us in proportion, as we have conduced to the happineſs of others; and for every trifle well-beſtowed, we are rewarded with a preſent four-fold its value, and that, again, enriched by a ſmile that ſhews how ſtrongly the goodneſs of the child vibrates on the ſenſibility of the relation.

It is another happineſs peculiar to the retreat of Sir HENRY DELMORE, that none of its reſidents are fired by the envy of oppoſition, or the meaneſſes of jealouſy: ſo far the reverſe of this, that one is ſtudious to compliment the other on ſome excellence freſh acquired, or more perfected: ſome diſplay of the heart, newly [19] diſcovered, or ſome additional grace of the perſon that blooms in the bluſh, ſparkles in the eye, or dimples in the ſmile.

What, my dear Lucy, can we ſay to thoſe whoſe hearts, repugnant to ſuch principles, turn a deaf ear to the muſic of domeſtic concord? Earthly, groveling creatures, how I pity them! Warm, however, and alive to this ſweeteſt harmony, is my elegant Lady SAXBY; ſhe feels the ſoft impreſſion that is made in every finer boſom by the hand of a divinity. Long, very long, may this charming ſenſation continue! As long may we remain, in ſerious principle, the friends—the admirers —the improvers of one another!

I am my dear LUCY'S inviolable DELIA DELMORE.

LETTER LXIII. Lady LUCY SAXBY to Miſs DELIA DELMORE.

[20]

I SHOULD ill deſerve the kindneſſes you have been pleaſed to confer upon me, did I refuſe the earlieſt acknowledgment. I am truly glad to hear Mrs. MORTIMER is likely to recover, and that you have found ſuch a retreat as is agreeable to your family, contiguous to the bath.

Ah! Miſs DELMORE, what pictures have you drawn—happy friend—enviable DELIA! and yet ſtill, methinks, is there wanting one article—one principal figure, to compleat your fine and high-coloured [21] family-piece. Why, my dear girl, ſo forgetful of yourſelf? Great, as are your preſent felicities, I am perſuaded they admit addition. There is a paſſion, my DELIA, that gives the laſt fine finiſh to the bliſs of an innocent life: it is the animator of every other happineſs; and I am ſurpriſed that a heart ſo gentle as Miſs DELMORE'S ſhould ſo long remain unpoſſeſſed of it. The pleaſures of a pure and mutual paſſion would not be unworthy her attention.

Amongſt the various characters in your train of ſlaves, DELIA, is there not one that can attract you? Hard-hearted girl, how ſhall we contrive to captivate you? Surely you terrify the tribe of humble ſervants! A modern lover, who has ſtudied only his rotine of rhapſody, and who depends on the repetition, and arrangement of a certain number of warm words—his [22] flames and fires, hearts and darts, thrills and hills, groves and loves, Cupids and ſtupids—has no ſort of chance; but when he has rung the changes and chimes till he can do nothing but ring them over again, he is quite at a ſtand, can go no farther, and is loſt in his own abſurdity, feels his own inſignificance, and makes his ridiculous exit. Will you, however, never be caught?

If the rocks of BUXTON are too barren, pray haſten to your Worceſterſhire paradiſe: your gardens there—the ancient ſeat of the DELMORE'S—contain every thing auſpicious to the belle paſſion.—You have thickets of roſes, which may furniſh your ſighers with ſimilies, and abundance of bowers, where Cupid may repoſe on violets: you have beds of primroſes to entertain the Silphids, velvet verdure for the [23] dancing fairies, and lucid water, wherein Venus may bathe herſelf in brooks—But —I am miſtaken, if you now need this poetical Arcadia. BUXTON rocks have their beauties—pray, my dear, let me hear more of this gentleman of birth, rank, and character—this diſtinguiſhed he, whoſe converſation is ſo pleaſing, inſtructive, and various; who, at firſt ſight, hath all the eaſe, firmneſs, and unembarraſſed air of an old acquaintance, and who preſents himſelf ſo engaging to a company? Ah! DELIA—DELIA! my prophecy will yet come to paſs; and, if he proves as valuable as you wiſh to find him—I know you wiſh it, and ſo don't deny it, DELIA—the moſt animated prayer of my heart is, that it may be ſpeedily neceſſary to alter my ſuperſcription, whenever I addreſs my fair, and at preſent, uneſtabliſhed correſpondent. I am a very happy wife myſelf, and therefore [24] have the better right and reaſon to deſire you may be in the ſame ſituation. However, be this as it may, in all ſtates, changes, and tranſitions,

I am, truly, Your real friend, LUCY SAXBY.

LETTER LXIV. Mrs. LA MOTTE to Mrs. HOMESPUN.

[25]
Madam,

YOUR attachment to Mr. SEDLEY is only an aggravation. Your declaring that you love him, and could ſooner die than leave him, is really the cant of a runaway romp of fifteen, who deſerves whipping for her naughtineſs. I have done both writing to, and arguing with you, and have only to give you notice, that, as Mr. HOMESPUN is now really incapable of his duty, through actual, undiſſembled grief, I have come to a reſolution (ſince neither entreaties, nor any [26] humanity can weigh with you) to acquaint him with every circumſtance, nay, to make him a preſent of all your letters to me, if you do not arrive at the Parſonage by Thurſday next, which is four days from the date of this. I have hitherto fondly attempted to ſoothe your huſband's impatience by making apologies: he deſires me to put a letter, written with his own weak hand, into the poſt: he gave it me ſealed, and I incloſe it.

I am, Madam, Your moſt obedient ſervant, C. LA MOTTE.

LETTER LXV. The Reverend HORACE HOMESPUN to Mrs. HOMESPUN. (Incloſed in the above.)

[27]
My dear Wife,

BY ſome means or other I have caught, as I think it is, a cold, and that has produced a fever; ſo that I am obliged (and that muſt excuſe the badneſs of it) to write this as I ſit up in my bed—that bed, my dear, of which an equal part is your property. Though I am not, God be thanked, ill enough to alarm you, yet I cannot but believe your valuable ſociety [28] would materially accelerate my return to health, and contribute to my re-eſtabliſhment. Mrs. LA MOTTE, who always ſpeaks of you with inconceivable tenderneſs, has been prevented, as ſhe ſays, on account of a ſore throat, from being with you; and therefore, as your company here would be quite a cordial, and as BUXTON is not, perhaps, the proper place to be in, without a relation, (even though that tie is almoſt ſupplied by the civilities of Mr. SEDLEY, to which worthy gentleman pray tender my hearty reſpects,) I could wiſh you would ſet off as early after your receipt of this, as can be made convenient. But I conjure you, nevertheleſs, not to put yourſelf into any hurries, and by all means come in a poſt-chaiſe, and by eaſy ſtages; and charge the driver to go eaſily, and pray reward him for his care. Never mind the coſt of the journey: conſider your preſent delicate [29] ſituation, and all the charming hopes—(part of which now bring the water into my eyes)—depending upon it. Therefore come leiſurely, and it is very likely, as I don't indulge fretting under every ſlight affliction, you may find me conſiderably amended on your arrival at our little retreat, which, though I am juſt at preſent not able to enjoy it, is, methinks, prettier this ſummer than I imagined it would be: for all the woodbines I planted have thriven wonderfully; the laylocks, particularly the purple ones, are leafy and bloſſomed moſt luxuriantly; and, what I eſteem an addition, an innocent little wren has, even in this, the firſt ſeaſon of my reſidence, built her neſt in the very center of my arbour between two honeyſuckles. I declare I would protect the poor thing, and preſerve to it all the rights of hoſpitality and good faith, even at the hazard of my life.

[30]But where am I wandering? You will ſmile, when I tell you, that, though I began in great pain, I now feel little or nothing, except a wearineſs, from the uncouthneſs of my poſture. Surely the very reflection upon a beloved object is a charm againſt miſery! What then, and how powerful, muſt be the reality? I need not purſue the hint: my beſt HARRIET is not deſtitute of ſenſibility.

I am, her very faithful and affectionate huſband, HORACE HOMESPUN.
P. S.

I have a melancholy poſtſcript for my dear HARRIET. Poor Doctor DIGGORY has been long confined to his bed, and [31] employed by the laſt poſt an amanuenſis to acquaint me that he is incapable of uſing a pen. Poor, good man, how I love and pity him!

LETTER LXVI. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

[32]

OH! THORNTON, I wiſhed for difficulties, and they are come pouring upon me with a vengeance. I am abſolutely hemmed in by embaraſſments: at this moment I am between a SCYLLA and a CHARYBDIS, and uncommonly ſkilful muſt be my pilotiſm, or I muſt ſplit upon the rocks and be wrecked for ever, Never was I, ſince I ſet out a knight-errant to fight the world behind my more than ſeven-folded ſhield of diſſimulation, ſo truly in danger of being diſcovered; and thou knoweſt it is with me, as with what the world calls a much better man,

[33]
He that filches from me my good name
Robs me of that which not enriches him,
And makes Me poor indeed.

But, to come to the point, THORNTON, I am almoſt at the end of my wits. HORACE HOMESPUN pines for his abſent mate. Mrs. LA MOTTE refuſes to come down; and urges HARRIET to return upon peril of inſtant diſcovery. This very hour did I ſee ſuch a packet as aſtoniſhed even me, who am not ſtartled at trifles, LA MOTTE has written with the pen of a SAPPHO dipt in the ink of JUVENAL— Such aſperity—ſuch acumen—ſuch a ſting in the tail of every ſentence! HORACE, too, hath written—written, THORNTON, though bed-ridden—full of endearment— full of care—full of the huſband. I called in upon HARRIET in the very criſis of my fate; ſhe had the whole packet ſpread upon the table before her, and had juſt put the finiſhing to an epiſtle that would [34] have compleatly ruined me for ever, had it been ſent. I caught it from her with the eagerneſs of a lion, and I incloſe it for thy inſpection, that thou mayſt judge of my ſituation; which is not at all mended by HARRIET'S violent declaration of ungovernable paſſion and wiſh to live with me for ever. Oh! that women could learn, like me, to gratify the paſſion of the hour, and think no more of it: but there is no ſeducing a woman into pleaſure, but ſhe is ſo curſedly grateful, as to hug the ſeducer for ever after, without any regard to time or to place. I have dined, too, at DELMORE'S, and thrice caught the eye of FANNY. By my ſoul, the old fire is yet alive in her. I can ſee it will only be neceſſary to nurſe the embers, and add freſh fuel. How the duce came ſhe to marry? and how is it that, being married, ſhe does not admire her huſband, who is one of the fineſt figures in the creation!—As [35] for HARRIET—ſhe muſt be ſent home to the pedant: there is no enduring either her fondneſs, or the perils ariſing from it. That damned LA MOTTE—forgive my ill-breeding, THORNTON; but that confounded woman will be my deſtruction. Adieu! Adieu! I muſt caſt about for an expedient.

Yours, PHILIP SEDLEY.

LETTER LXVII. Mrs. HOMESPUN to Mrs. LA MOTTE. (Incloſed by SEDLEY in the above.)

[36]

BY all the agonies of an injured and deſperate woman, driven to the extreme by the pangs of conſcience, and the violences of love, if you dare to betray me, I will make you rue the conſequence, though I were to expire in the moment ſucceeding my revenge. You know my ſpirit—then fear it—dread it— tremble before it. I will not be diſcovered without making the diſcoverer pay for her treachery, even with the blood of her heart. I have not cloſed my eyes ſince the beginning of the week; I am in a fever: [37] I twice fell againſt the wainſcoat this afternoon. SEDLEY looks colder than he did, but I love him better than either fame, fortune, food, or exiſtence: his manner— his addreſs—his figure—his obligingneſs, even yet charm me. I pity HORACE— I love you—indeed I do—I could do any thing for either of you, but leave the ſight of Mr. SEDLEY—I own—I own it. Take care then—do not ſport with me; do not abuſe the truſt I have put in you; for once again I do moſt ſolemnly vow a reſentment that ſhall exchange your life for the loſs of my fame.

Farewel. HARRIET HOMESPUN.

LETTER LXVIII. THORNTON to SEDLEY.

[38]

CHESTERFIELD is a cheat; I am now ſure of it, Mr. SEDLEY. His ſyſtem is not productive of boſom-felicity: it cannot procure the beſt of all applauſes, or the approbation that reſults from a congratulating conſcience, however it may deceive the world into encomium. Alas! Sir, what are the ſucceſſes of hypocriſy, or policy, or whatever elſe you pleaſe to call it, when, after all, the incenſe and enjoyment you receive from the public is paid to our conduct, not as it really is, but as it appears to be; and when even after the luckieſt efforts of our deluſions— when we have put the happieſt of his [39] precepts in practice—we are condemned to that reflecting hour, which, at ſome time or another will ſeize us, and which, in deſpite of manner and pretence, will have its full meaſure of recriminating aſperity. In the ſhame of my heart, SEDLEY, let me own to thee, that I have been labouring to throw even the guarded virtue of Mrs. VERNON, off its bias. I ſtartled her for the moment, but ſhe recollected herſelf time enough to prevent her misfortune, and I have had addreſs enough to turn the accident to my advantage: ſhe believes me honeſt, and ſhe ſhall find me ſo. I have not now time to relate the particulars of this—nor is it, perhaps, neceſſary—but I ſeriouſly wiſh I could inſpire you with any degree of thoſe feelings I at this moment enjoy from having totally diſcarded STANHOPE, and liſtened to the voice of VIRTUE.

Farewel. JAMES THORNTON.

LETTER LXIX. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

[40]
Sir,

YOUR eternal reverberation of muſty maxims becomes troubleſome. I did not adopt the plan of DORMER STANHOPE, without ſufficiently conſidering every part of it; and if you can find no other ſubject of diſcuſſion than the old, ragged, thread-bare, common-place topics of Vice and Virtue, I muſt beg that our correſpondence may be brought to a period. As to what has paſt—if I did not know your ſenſe of friendſhip, it would be neceſſary to cut your throat: as it is, I wiſh you happy in your purſuits.

I am yours, PHILIP SEDLEY.

LETTER LXX. Mrs. HOMESPUN to Mrs. LA MOTTE.

[41]

I WILL at all events be with you to-morrow: the torment that ſat brooding over my pillow laſt night—the horrors of my dream—the ſituation and trembling that ſeizes me as I write this—the poor little wretch that ſeems troubled within me—all—all conjoin to draw me home— I can ſtay no longer here—Tell HORACE of my deſign, and depend on its being put into execution, by

Your HARRIET HOMESPUN.

LETTER LXXI. PHILIP SEDLEY, Eſq to the Reverend HORACE HOMESPUN.

[42]
Dear and Reverend Sir,

I HAVE with infinite pleaſure obeyed the injunctions ſuggeſted by Mrs. LA MOTTE, in hinting to Mrs. HOMESPUN your anxiety for her return. She heard me with great patience, and very readily conſented to go to a huſband whom ſhe ſo tenderly eſteems. I deſign to ſee her properly provided with a chaiſe, and every thing neceſſary to the delicacy of her ſituation; and I moſt heartily pray for your returning health. I hope you will [43] forgive my having ſent your lady, my fair charge, home, without my attending her; but you will reflect on the world's aptitude to aſperſe and cenſure, and on that account, forgive: for the ſame reaſon, I have adviſed Mrs. HOMESPUN to go in the middle of the day, that even a colour might not be given to the ready tongue of detraction. Though Mrs. HOMESPUN will be with you a few hours after this, yet I could not forbear anticipating your felicity, though it ſhould even be but for a moment.

I am, Sir, Your moſt obedient ſervant, PHILIP SEDLEY.

LETTER LXXII. The Reverend HORACE HOMESPUN to PHILIP SEDLEY, Eſq

[44]
Sir,

THOUGH I am every minute looking out for HARRIET, and have ſent my ſervant to the corner of the town to welcome her, and tell her I am made better by the expectation, yet I cannot, in duty, refuſe diſpatching to you my thanks for your moſt generous and affectionate arguments and care. No words are equal to ſuch ſubjects. I can only ſay to you, that you have made a ſick man well, and a huſband, happy, and that I [45] pay you the acknowledgment of a tear. As to your reward—that, Sir, is placed beyond me; it is above, and it muſt be given to you only by the Father of all recompence.

I am, Sir, With a grateful heart, Your moſt humble ſervant, HORACE HOMESPUN.

LETTER LXXIII. THORNTON to SEDLEY.

[46]

CRUEL SEDLEY—how couldſt thou treat me ſo harſhly? But I will neither quit urging to thee the ſubject of Virtue, and painting to thee the horrors of Vice; nor will I bring my epiſtolary correſpondence to a period. What! have I myſelf eſcaped from the ſnare, and ſhall I ſee the foot of a friend ready to be entrapped, yet not endeavour to reſcue him? Forbid it, fidelity; forbid it, honour! Yes, SEDLEY, I muſt continue to love, and will perſevere in admoniſhing thee: for, in earneſt repetition, I declare to thee, that I am certain, all the fineſſe of thy CHESTERFIELD is unable to purchaſe the [47] delightful and ſoothing pleaſures reſulting from my preſent and new-adopted ſyſtem, which I am not aſhamed to tell thee (although it is repugnant to thine) is borrowed from the Scriptures: it runs thus, SEDLEY—"Do, as thou wouldſt wiſh others ſhould do unto thee." This is moſt palpably the ſentiment of true policy as well as true honeſty; and I am every day more and more perſuaded, that nothing but this will, in the end, prevail. There is a moment, my dear, diſſipated SEDLEY, in which, though thou wert to wear the maſk of a forty years ſucceſs, thou muſt perforce lay it aſide, and appear in all the nakedneſs of Nature. And can there, I aſk thee, can there poſſibly be a more hideous ſight than a hypocrite unveiled, when every deformity can no longer hide itſelf from obſervation, when fraud ſhall be traverſed through all its meandering intricacies even to its foul and polluted ſource, [48] and when the very heart ſhall be diſplayed, without ſubterfuge, without concealments, and without a poſſibility of either being on its own guard, or throwing others off theirs. By the by, SEDLEY, that ſentiment, borrowed (as I perceive many of thine are) from the pernicious volumes of thy darling theoriſt, is ſubverſive of all fair-dealing in buſineſs, true affection in the ſacred connections with the other ſex, and ingenuouſneſs of manners in all human ſituations.

The Lieutenant is not yet returned, but he hath ſent two letters, of which, for certain reaſons, I have procured the favour of copies, to incloſe you. If thou haſt a ſingle minute to ſpare from the proſecution of thy ruinous ſyſtem, read them; and if, after that, thou art not made better—if they want efficiency to check thee in the purſuit of pleaſure, [49] through the bounds both of law and humanity—farewel to every hope of feeling, farewel to all that ornaments the real gentleman, farewel to manhood. The firſt is addreſſed to me, the ſecond to Mrs. VERNON. On the receipt of mine, which was the very day of my trial to ruin the fair ſubject of it, judge what I felt: you know my ſenſibility, and can imagine thy THORNTON'S ſituation when it is poignantly wounded.

LETTER LXXIV. Lieutenant VERNON to Mr. THORNTON.

[50]
My dear Benefactor,

GUESS how eaſily your former favour ſat upon my heart, by my readineſs to receive from you another! I had more reaſons than you yet know of for inviting you to my villa, and it was thoſe reaſons that prevented me from inviting my SOPHIA to partake of the excurſion. To tell you the plain truth, my friend, I have more policy than buſineſs in this excurſion. I have lately had offers of preferment—To ſpeak openly, I can have the command of a company, upon joining [51] General — in AMERICA. The half-pay of a Lieutenant, you know, Sir, is not ſufficient to, even a man of moderation: my wife's private fortune I have very ſtrictly ſettled upon herſelf, as a ſort of comfortable ſecurity againſt unfortunate contingencies: I think myſelf no more entitled to touch the intereſt of this, than I would infringe upon a property in truſt, which, after my deceaſe, was to be the only certain reſource of the perſon under my guardianſhip. Another point is, my own thirſt of glory. I was trained very early to the exerciſe of arms, and although I continued to ſtarve upon my enſigncy for near twenty years—(I weep with joy, Sir, when I think upon the generous means by which I became a Lieutenant)—yet the ardours of military ambition are by no means extinguiſhed. I declare to you, Mr. THORNTON, even bleſt as I now am [52] in a competent income, preſented to me with the hand of SOPHIA—in the full poſſeſſion, too, of SOPHIA herſelf—I cannot, even at this time, hear the beat of a drum without feeling my heart bound at the alarm. In a word, I deſign to go to the field, and accept the promotion. I am one of thoſe who ſide with that party which conſiders the dignity of Britain inſulted by America. I was bred a ſoldier, and taught even from my cradle (for my father had won his laurels) to feel all the delicacies of martial majeſty. In my opinion, Sir, the Sovereign of theſe realms is injured: his injuries are mine: it is enough for a ſoldier to believe his cauſe is juſt. I perceive many of my old comrades have voluntarily drawn the ſword, while mine is gathering ruſt in its ſheath. I drew it, Mr. THORNTON, laſt night, out of the ſcabbard, and upon examining the [53] blade I ſaw a ſpot, a lazy ſpot of inactivity, deſtroying the noble keenneſs of its edge. By my ſoul I felt myſelf bluſh at it, nor can I be ever eaſy—ever forgive myſelf—till I have at once wiped away the ſhame, and the ſpot, as it becomes my ſtation. Now, then, Mr. THORNTON, we are come to the point—a point of all others in the world the moſt delicate.— SOPHIA, my poor SOPHIA, muſt, muſt— Excuſe me, dear THORNTON—excuſe a blot which my weakneſs has, I ſee, made upon the paper—A tender woman will at any time unſoldier the boldeſt of us. But, fie upon it! fie upon it! 'twas the infirmity but of a moment: "I am a man again." In ſhort, Sir, my wife knows nothing of my intention, and I do not know how to break the matter to her. She has peculiar gentleneſs of heart, and will, I am convinced, feel the ſevereſt [54] pangs at parting. This is the firſt time ſince our marriage that I have ſlept from her ſide, and I wiſh much to know how the has ſupported it: if tolerably well, ſhe may, perhaps, be brought to bear the thoughts of a longer abſence; and, in that caſe, I would have you gradually open the deſign to her, of which, indeed, I diſtantly hint in my letter to her. The worſt of it is, Mr. THORNTON, women are ſo apt to aſſociate, with the duty of a ſoldier, ſuch horrid ideas of death, broken bones, groans, and cannon-balls, that they give a man over the moment he marches from their embraces to front the enemies of their country: however, let us not blame the ſoftneſs that was deſigned to ſoothe us, to poliſh our ruggedneſs, and harmoniſe our natures. The drift of my letter is evident to you. SOPHIA muſt know it: the ſummer is advancing: many [55] of our troops are midway betwixt the contending countries: ſome of them are arrived at the theatre of the war. I have but a few days to ſpare. Dalliances muſt in no wiſe be indulged: they are too effeminating: I dare not truſt myſelf with them. My abſence is propitious to the diſcloſure. You are not unſkilled in argument: you want not the advantages of perſuaſive eloquence: to you, therefore, I truſt the tranquility of a wife's boſom— Inſpire her, if poſſible, my worthy Mr. THORNTON, with the duty ſhe owes to my character, which longer idleneſs would utterly obliviate. Awake in her thoſe ſparks which I hope even a female nature ſometimes experiences—the ſparks of patriotiſm. But if you find this impracticable—at leaſt obtain her conſent to my departure, and ſupport her ſinking ſpirits with the hopes of my return, and with [56] the expectation of the honours, rewards, and various diſtinctions which will thew attend me. Theſe are the points I leave to my good THORNTON—and I am his

Moſt faithful ſervant, CAESAR VERNON.

LETTER LXXV. Lieutenant VERNON to Mrs. VERNON.

[57]
Dear SOPHY,

I FIND buſineſs will engage me from pleaſure (that is, from your ſociety) longer than I at firſt believed: but you are, I know, too well eſtabliſhed in the moral duties, to repine at what is neceſſary to be done, even though your acquieſcence is to be attended with ſome inconveniences. Nay, I am not ſure, whether, if at any time my country ſhould require me in the way of my profeſſion, you are not heroine enough to lend thoſe arms to [58] your King, which, were they in ſuch an exigence reluctant, would be wholly unworthy to incircle yours.—I ſhall never forget the glorious week we paſſed together ſoon after our union, when we made a purchaſe of Mr. POPE'S Verſion of HOMER, and employed our long delightful evenings in reading him through. Do you recollect with what earneſtneſs we attended every hero in his progreſs? How we joined in the reſentment of ACHILLES, deteſted the injuſtice of AGAMEMNON, and pleaded the cauſe of the good old father of the fair CHRISEIS? Pray call to mind with how much ardour we followed HECTOR to the field; how we deſpiſed the puſillanimous, hare-hearted PARIS; and though we pitied the drooping ANDROMACHE—though we wept over her woes—yet we ſhould have felt for her ſtill more, had ſhe not endeavoured to detain the [59] warrior from his duty. Nor can you help recollecting with how much pleaſure—a pleaſure that was radiant in your dear eyes, SOPHIA—you heard of the various victories atchieved and related by the narrative NESTOR: of his triumphant returns to his native country after the laurels of conqueſt were waving in his helmet, while the patriotic virgins were ſcattering in his path the incenſe of the Spring, and the emulous youths bowed to the victor, and ſang the ſong of ſucceſs before him. Before we had reached the Twelfth Book, you was half a hero, and, with the ſhield and buckler of MINERVA (her wiſdom is already in your poſſeſſion), you would now be fit to take the field, arrange the file, and inſpirit at once by your courage and beauty, the ſoldiers of your own CAESAR. Do you know, SOPHY, that I am child enough to be vain of the name that [60] was given me by my godfathers and godmothers. There is conqueſt in the ſound, and I have a ſoul that pants, I muſt confeſs, to be ranked amongſt the ROMAN CAESARS. But, ah! SOPHIA, I am only a diſbanded, unemployed Lieutenant, and the little glory that I gained in the field in the days of my youth, is now entirely faded; and, without one mark of the ſword—without one apologizing ſcar, by which might be ſeen the neceſſity of retreat, I am withering in the eye of my King and country, and ſhall after a few years fall into an inglorious grave, and be no more remembered.

At a villa in SUSSEX, through which I paſſed, and where I ſtopt to dine, I was told of a manſion, which ſtrangers uſually went to ſurvey, the property of a veteran officer, whom I fought with, ſide by ſide, [61] in the firſt battle that fleſhed my arm: I have a thouſand times mentioned him to you, under the well-known name of FRASER. The old man hath left two of his limbs in different parts of the globe: FRANCE hath the honour of his arm, and his right leg adorns the plains of MINDEN: but the trunk is whole, and ſeems to have acquired freſh vigour from lopping the branches. Hardihood hath ſettled the roſe of high health in his cheek; the ſun hath ſeaſoned his complexion to the heat of the Torrid Zone; and the hair of his head is like the whiteneſs of a hermit's beard, that ſpreads itſelf beyond the girdle. He knew me at the firſt ſight, and preſſed my hand with an honeſt roughneſs that denoted ſincerity:—but on ſeeing me ſtill able, and in the force of youth, at leaſt of middle age, he contracted his brow, and ſeemed to aſk me, by his look, what [62] I did baſking here at home? In the enthuſiaſm of his martial veneration, which riſes to every thing but idolatry, he hath at his own expence erected in his garden little monumental ornaments to the memory of his favourite heroes. BRITANNIA was on one ſide, weeping over WOLFE; and on the other, the figure of PUBLIC TRANQUILITY offering the olive-branch to CUMBERLAND. Not a warrior of any celebrity but had at leaſt a buſt, a pedeſtal, or an inſcription. And upon my taking notice of a vacant nich in the center of the garden, the Major ſtruck it with his cane, and exclaimed, In the name of Honour, VERNON, why wilt thou not give an old friend the opportunity to fill this gap of glory with another of the CAESARS? I felt at this inſtant, SOPHY, a fluſh in my cheeks, and, as we returned together into his houſe (which is in the taſte of fortifications), [63] to drink his Majeſty's health, I perceived the tear of repreſſed ambition deſcending, and my old friend pronounced it a drop of promiſe.

I am, my dear SOPHY, Your own CAESAR VERNON.

Mr. THORNTON, in Continuation.

[64]

I WILL now ſuppoſe, SEDLEY, that thou haſt read theſe letters. Are they not indications of a mind buſied in ſchemes ſuperior to thine? While Mr. VERNON is anxious to ſerve his country, thou art exerting thyſelf to diſgrace it: while he is deſirous to obtain the conſent of a beloved and beautiful wife, to ſuffer his abſence in conſideration of his glory, thou art CHESTERFIELDING it how thou mayſt diſhonour beauty, without admitting the very ideas of love. What meaſures are taken, in conſequence of theſe epiſtles, thou ſhalt know in my next. In the interim, may CAESAR'S example fire thy imitation; and, if thou wilt copy, mayſt thou copy ſo worthy an original, at leaſt in the nobleneſs of his ſentiments.

Farewel.

LETTER LXXVI. SEDLEY to THORNTON, (Before the Receipt of the above.)

[65]

I FIND it impoſſible to conquer the habits of loving, and communicating to thee my ſentiments. There is a philtre in an old friendſhip that cannot eaſily be deſtroyed. Pardon my raſh ſayings therefore. Preach till thou art weary; and only allow me the liberty of repoſing with thee all my enterprizes.

What courſe I am to take in the preſent criſis, Heaven only can tell. Such an accident has happened as totally confounds me. In conformity to my promiſe, [66] I diſpatched HARRIET to the languiſhing pedant; but ſhe had ſcarce got, as I underſtand, five miles on her way, when the curſed poſtilion, willing to ſhew his dexterity (according to their villainous cuſtom) by driving like a devil through the village, at a ſhort turn, or rather angle in the road, overturned the chaiſe, fell himſelf from the ſaddle, and ſet the horſes a-going, while the poor HARRIET was dragged along the earth, with her body half out of the chaiſe-window, till a countryman caught the off horſe by the bridle, and put a ſtop to the career. She was carried into a little dirty-looking inn, almoſt ſpeechleſs; and, as ſhe informs me, with an arm torn by the glaſs, which was unfortunately drawn up, ſcribbled an almoſt unintelligible line to requeſt I would haſten to ſee her before ſhe died. The poſtboy brought me the note, trembling like a leaf, and white as a ſhirt, proteſting moſt [67] fervently that he could not help the accident. I knew not what to do: I heſitated—dreaded the conſequence—wrote a hurried line to poor HORACE, without feeling either the pen or paper—called for a taper without thinking that I wanted wax—ſent it to the poſt by the boy—and then ordered my horſes. The curſed landlord, who is ever alarmed at the ſound of a hoof, in the expectation of freſh prey, now detected my diſorder, and ſet every wheel at work to find out the cauſe: "He was ſorely ſorry to ſee me uneaſy; would do any thing in his power; hoped nothing material was the matter—Could he do any thing?—he was concerned to ſee me in ſuch confuſion—would do a great deal to ſerve ſo worthy a gentleman—mahap I was taken ill—mahap my friends was ſick in LONDON—my wife—my aunt—my uncle —Some law-ſuit, may be, had gone wrong, or ſommut or other was moſt ſartinly the [68] matter." My ſervant came with my horſes to the door, and the perſecutor began again:—"Good lack, good lack, what can be the 'caſion of this! Was I going away?—Was I obliged to leave BUXTON? —MARTHA, where's the gentleman's little account?—How ſorry he was again!

In ſhort, THORNTON, I was obliged to eſcape him and my riſing rage by ruſhing into a little ſlip of ground behind his houſe, where, under pretence of picking a few pinks that ſtraggled poverty-ſtruck about the beds, I caſt about what was to be done. In this manner I argued with myſelf: If I go to HARRIET, the affair will certainly be ſuſpected: for how came I ſo intereſted in this lady's misfortune! If I do not go, it will be barbarous—but then I have ſent to her huſband, and home is the beſt and fitteſt place for a ſick woman.—Upon the whole, I thought it not proper or political [69] to go; and, as to writing, I dare not give way to my ſentiments, for a diſcovered letter is irrecoverable perdition. Upon my return into the houſe, I found the raſcally landlord tampering for intelligence with the poſtboy, who had come upon the ſaddle-horſe, with the tangled traces ſtill about his back—I had well nigh broke out again. THOMAS, who ſtays with me, although married, till I can ſuit myſelf, looked as if he ſuſpected the matter—the landlord muttered forth a million pities, and talked of our being all mortal, and liable to accidents—the poſtboy ſaid his horſes were out, as I ſaw, all to pieces, and his chaiſe ſhattered in the pannels.

I could STANHOPE it no longer: Curſe your horſes, chaiſe, and pannels, all together! ſaid I—get out of my ſight, and leave me to myſelf: a lady is dying, and you are prating about your damn'd pannels [70] —TOM, take away the horſes—You, poſtboy, ſtop till I write a note to the lady, to let her know that I have written to her huſband.

I would have gone in to write.

The landlord again ſtruck up: "Had not the lady better come back to my houſe, Sir? The journey to Mr. HOMESPUN'S will be too far in her preſent condition."— Pray, Mr. WYNGOOD, ſaid I, ſuffer me to do as I pleaſe. The man was piqued at the * ſlight, and I verily believe will never forgive me. However, I wrote a note to HARRIET to the following purport, and ordered the poſtboy to carry it as faſt as poſſible.

[71]

To Mrs. HOMESPUN.

Madam,

I AM unfeignedly ſorry at your misfortune: the moment I became acquainted with it, I ſent to Mr. HOMESPUN, who will be with you, no doubt, the moment he is able to ride there. I hope moſt ſincerely no ill effects will enſue from this diſtreſſing accident; and I have ſome little conſolation in underſtanding, by the meſſenger, that an apothecary reſides in the village where it happened, and that the art of a ſurgeon is not neceſſary. With the warmeſt wiſhes for your ſpeedy recovery, I am,

Madam,
Your moſt humble ſervant, PHILIP SEDLEY.

[72]I had two reaſons, THORNTON, for ſhewing this, prior to my ſending it, to the landlord: in the firſt place, I wanted to regain his friendſhip, that is, you know, according to my ſyſtem, his good word, by an act of confidence; and, in the next, as this was, upon the whole, a myſterious affair, and I could not tell the iſſue of it, ſuch a letter (written, as thou perceiveſt it is, even in the midſt of hurry, with a pen of policy) might do me good, ſhould the matter be hereafter canvaſſed at the bath; WYNGOOD being, as I before told thee, the greateſt goſſip of the country.

By this time, I conjecture, my meſſenger has delivered the note. Unluckily I have to ſup this evening at the DELMORE'S, Sir HENRY being never happy without me. Very, very unfit am I at preſent to figure or ſuſtain myſelf in company; for, not to diſguiſe matters with you, I am not inſenſible [73] to this misfortune of poor HARRIET, nor could I ſee the injury done to her bewitching form, without a ſigh. But, however, I am equal to all events, and muſt carry on with vigour what I have begun with ſpirit: otherwiſe, I ſhould retreat with diſgrace; and for aught I can tell, take refuge from the horrors of deſpair by the aid of a trigger. Pray, my dear THORNTON, againſt theſe horrible reſources.

I am Yours, PHILIP SEDLEY.

LETTER LXXVII. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

[74]

IF thou wert ſurprized at the contents of my laſt, prepare, ere thou peruſeſt the preſent, for freſh wonders. I was juſt ſet down to the card-table at the DELMORE'S, to paſs the interval betwixt the tea and the ſupper, when THOMAS, upon the full gallop, and with tokens of terror in his countenance, delivered me the incloſed billet, which, had it been delivered in the preſence of the company, would have betrayed me for ever to the eyes of this piercing family: but luckily the footman came to ſay that my ſervant waited my orders. Pray read the billet before thou goeſt any farther.

[75]

The incloſed Billet. To Mr. SEDLEY.

Moſt inhuman SEDLEY,

I HAVE ordered myſelf, on the receipt of your letter, to be taken out of my bed, and brought hither, in defiance of the Doctor, and at the riſque of my life, chiefly indeed becauſe I would ſee, before the laſt event, and once more kiſs the hand of the ſtill dear, but moſt barbarous PHILIP SEDLEY. I write in agony, but am ſtill

Your HARRIET HOMESPUN.

[76]It was with a difficulty equal to the ſtruggles betwixt life and death, that I ſupported myſelf from ſinking under this intelligence: I had, however, ſufficient preſence of mind to return to the company, and make excuſes with ſome degree of coherence; after which I mounted the reeking horſe, and, ordering TOM to follow me, went upon the full-ſtretch to my lodgings. At my entrance into the parlour I found HARRIET in a ſtrong hyſteric: and upon her recovery we had her put into a warm bed. She is perfectly mangled, THORNTON: her fine face is gaſhed with wounds; and the landlady tells me that other parts of her perſon have ſuſtained their ſhare of bruiſes. To mend the matter, I have received a long epiſtle from FANNY MORTIMER, which was delivered with as much peculiarity as thou wilt find in the ſentiments. After dinner the whole family rambled into the [77] garden, and as I was paſſing near Mrs. MORTIMER, along the ſhade of a ſmall ſhrubbery that affected to ſerpentine, ſhe, with her own hand, bade me look at that paper: I folded it in my boſom, and bowed; and, juſt as ſhe deſired, no one perceived it. I have not attempted to anſwer it, nor can I ſhew myſelf decently till I have the reply in my pocket. This curſed affair of HARRIET unfits me for adventure: however, I ſend you the letter, and muſt think what is to be done. HARRIET is, I find by the landlady, in a doze—I rather think agony cloſes the eye, and that ſhe is unable to ſpeak. The Doctor is preparing his plaiſters, and a Phyſician who attends the bath is ſent for. What meaſure can I poſſibly take with reſpect to HORACE? and I am not without fears for myſelf. 'Sdeath, THORNTON, is there never a caſe in point? I muſt conſult my AUTHOR, Adieu!

LETTER LXXVIII. Mrs. MORTIMER to Mr. SEDLEY.

[78]
Sir,

AN addreſs from me, under my peculiar ſituation, will no doubt alarm you: but forms and ceremonies muſt all yield to irreſiſtible exigences. I find it neceſſary to the peace of my mind to write to you. The accident, Sir, that brought us together at SCARBOROUGH, when your viſits to me were very frequent, and, as a ſingle woman, I confeſs not diſagreeable, is recollected with ſome anxiety. You were then at ſome pains to convince me I had made an impreſſion on your ſenſibility, [79] and certain ſentiments were interchanged, which it would be, at this period, highly improper to repeat. It may not be amiſs, however, to obſerve that, prior to your quitting SCARBOROUGH, you did not omit exerting your utmoſt talents (and they are not inconſiderable, Mr. SEDLEY) to engage my heart. How far you ſucceeded, it is not now material to enquire. Be that as it may, my health hath been gradually upon the decline from that hour to this. It is now ſome months ſince I gave my hand to Mr. MORTIMER, than whom there never lived a better character, or a tenderer huſband. He was educated under the eye of my father, who ſeemed ſo wrapt up in the ideas of making him ſtill nearer to his family, that, as he thought proper to addreſs me, I could not deny to duty, what poſſibly I ſhould have refuſed to every thing elſe. In a word, Sir, my worthy father's [80] heart was in the match, and it is impoſſible for a child to diſappoint the wiſhes of ſuch a parent. The ſoftneſs, delicacy, and gentleneſs of Mr. MORTIMER'S behaviour has ever been uniform and exact: and although it has pleaſed Heaven to continue my indiſpoſition, and indeed rather to increaſe than abate it, yet he has not ſuffered my languor to relax his animated aſſiduities, but has acted, both by day and by night, the double part of nurſe and huſband. Peculiarly unlucky do I account the deſtiny by which you and I, Sir, meet again: not that I have the leaſt traces of affection for your perſon, being really attached to Mr. MORTIMER by duty, and upon principle. At the ſame time, Sir, I cannot but own, your preſence gives me uneaſineſs, and uneaſineſs of any kind I am not now equal to. You have, I ſee, recommended yourſelf to my father more warmly than ever; my ſiſter thinks very [81] highly of you; Mr. MORTIMER is loud in your praiſes; and even my mother, who is not eaſily attracted, ſpeaks of you with ardour. As my ſituation is ſufficiently ſacred to exclude every poſſible hope, nay, as I dare preſume your own connexions have, by this time, led your inclinations into a more proper channel, I will venture to talk to you with the freedom of a friend. To ſpeak plainly then, Mr. SEDLEY, there is a point in which you may ſtill oblige me—it is this: that you would enter as ſeldom into this houſe as is conſiſtent with a reſolution, which I earneſtly beg you will take, of withdrawing yourſelf from this family.—Do it leiſurely, but at all events let it be done. Ah! Mr. SEDLEY, pity the perturbation of an uneaſy mind. Before you came, I could at leaſt conceal agitation, and ſubmit to the ſilent depredations of my diſtemper. Every tear I then ſhed—every [82] ſigh that then ſtole from me—was attributed to the unavoidable riſings and ſinkings of a conſumptive habit. But within theſe few days I have had ſome conflicts, and every one of them adds to my weakneſs, to hide—a ſomething that preys upon my heart. To account to you for this is needleſs. If you have the leaſt ſuggeſtion that it is occaſioned by your appearance, let it intereſt your humanity—your honour—your compaſſion—in my cauſe; and do not, Mr. SEDLEY, render more exquiſitely wretched the laſt hours of a fate at the beſt unenviable, and not ſuſtained without a ſorrow that is haſtening its object to the tomb. Go, then, I conjure you. Leave me to the protection of a generous family—of a dear ſiſter—of a fond huſband. It is not—I feel it is not poſſible that I ſhould long live amongſt them. Let me not ſhew Mr. MORTIMER that I gave myſelf to him as to the friend and [83] darling youth of my father—Let not— Alas! Mr. SEDLEY—what have I ſaid! Pardon me—pity me—oblige me—leave me. As your ſtay at the bath cannot be of conſequence; as the floridneſs of your complexion—the luſtre of your eyes—the eaſe in your air—all aſſure me, your purſuit is mere amuſement, I intreat you to change your route—fix it at SCARBOROUGH—BATH— MARGATE—any where, ſo as you will but leave this place. I look at you with anguiſh—I know your rap at the door—I diſtinguiſh your ſtep—and, though I feel the impropriety—the crime —the ſhame—of being diſturbed, I cannot bear it.—Contrive, therefore, and that inſtantly, to begin your taſk. of diſſolving the connexion here. Permit me to enjoy the little ſerenity that a waſtin [...] ſickneſs admits. The poor pittance of eaſe which that allows, do not you deſtroy. As I ſaw the intimacy betwixt you and my [84] family daily increaſing, nay, as you have been almoſt conſtantly at this houſe for the laſt week, I could contrive no other way of addreſſing you but by writing an honeſt explicit letter, which, I have now done, with many interruptions both from pain, fatigue, and the fear of being ſeen— but chance has favoured me, and I have unboſomed the ſecret of my ſoul undiſcovered. Think not, however, that I mean to enter into a correſpondence. Take a week to withdraw with the elegance becoming your character: during which time I will, as hitherto, endeavour to ſupport myſelf as an acquaintance, although it is ſufficiently ſhocking that I ſhould be reduced, even to a moment's diſguiſe. If you are not diſengaged from us by that period, I have no other refuge than a conſtant retreat to my ſick chamber, whenever you viſit us: and if this ſhould, in the end, occaſion ſuſpicion, and the cruel, [85] unconquerable prepoſſeſſion I entertain be ever diſcovered, you will remember that, to your injuſtice muſt be imputed the conſequences, even though the beſt of parents ſhould be made miſerable, the worthieſt ſiſter partake their anxiety, and the kindeſt of huſbands fall a victim to the apparent ingratitude of

FRANCES MORTIMER.

LETTER LXXIX. THORNTON to SEDLEY.

[86]

GOD of Heaven, SEDLEY! what a wretch of adamant art thou! The diſaſter of the poor HARRIET, and the pleadings of the pathetic FANNY, have almoſt exhauſted the ſource of my tears. Conſult thy Author, indeed! Conſult thy heart —conſult thy conſcience—If thou haſt the leaſt touch of Nature in thee—of Nature yet undebauched by the treacherous DORMER—conſult that—liſten to it—admit its oratory,—obey it. What ſhalt thou do?—Art thou at a loſs what to do?— Do what is right. Quit this inſtant any farther invaſions of FANNY'S quiet—ſearch the wide earth for medicine and medicinal [87] people for the hapleſs HARRIET—comfort the ſad ſoul of the agonized HORACE— watch the dawn of his wife's recovery— throw CHESTERFIELD and all his works into the fire—execrate the name of EUGENIA—and return, return upon the ſpur of ſpeed, to LONDON and thy THORNTON. But as I ſhall probably touch thee more by example than precept, take the continuation of my tranſactions in the worthy Lieutenant's family, and conſider well a ſcene which may be held up in bleſſed contraſt to thine.

Scarce had SOPHIA read her huſband's letter, but ſhe wrote an anſwer, of which I preſent you a faithful copy.

[88]

To Lieutenant VERNON.

My dear, ambitious CAESAR,

THOUGH I am no friend to the devaſtations of war, I am warmly ſo to the dignity of my huſband's character; nor can I bear to ſee his laurels withered, by the childiſh and emaſculating fears and delays of a wife. Yes, my dear CAESAR, you are—I feel that you are—only a diſbanded Lieutenant. I am not inſenſible to the reproach in that obſervation. But why—cruel VERNON—why is our little fortune locked up ſo, as to deny us the pleaſure of making a purchaſe ſo infinitely to our credit. May Heaven long keep you from the perils of battle! but you are miſtaken, if you think there are not ſome women who can be tender, without being weak. Our ſex is diſgraced by the [89] general affectation of it. We are flattered into the notion that we are prettieſt in our delicate pretences, and moſt lovely in diſtreſs. But our minds are not all formed or cultured alike; and, for my part, I had not married a ſoldier, if I had not deſigned that he ſhould ſuſtain the duties of his ſtation: and you will recollect, that Capt. BLESSINGTON, my father, in point of martial proweſs, yields not the palm even to yours. Mr. THORNTON and I, both wiſh your buſineſs may ſoon permit your return to the pleaſures of SURRY; and we both alſo concur to venerate the name of FRASER: but, whatever honours may be in ſtore for my CEASAR, may the nich of the Major be many, many years unoccupied, if it is kept ſacred to the memory of my ever-dear Lieutenant VERNON. Thus prays zealouſly

His affectionate wife, SOPHIA VERNON.

[90]There, SEDLEY—there's a woman!—the intrepidity of a man, blended with all the virtues and elegances of her ſex, and yet may I periſh if I ever again attempt her deſtruction! On the contrary, I derive joy, real joy, from hearing her ſing forth the praiſes of CAESAR: I join in the panegyric. I improve by her ſuperior capacity, and though all the Graces are in her train, and ſhe ſeems formed to every purpoſe of extacy—has black eyes—an inviting ſhape —an air of breeding, and features perfectly ſymmetrical—yet I can now be contented to admire her beauty, and hear the ſallies of her wit, without a ſingle endeavour to make her pay for pleaſing me, at the expence of her chaſtity.

Adieu.

P. S.

Act like a man, and God proſper thee!

LETTER LXXX. SEDLEY to THORNTON,

[91]

HORROR upon horrors, THORNTON! HORACE is come! He arrived at midnight. My letter found him in bed. He hurried on his cloaths, took his pad from the ſtable, and hath travelled thirty miles through the rain to ſee his HARRIET. I was up and muſing in my chamber as he came—I unbarred the door —he hugg'd me—thanked me, —kiſſed me—kneeled down to me, and with an air and look of diſtraction, deſired to be directed to his wife. I ſhewed him her chamber, and, let the conſequence be what it will, I muſt ſtand it out.

[92]As to FANNY MORTIMER, not the whole congregated world ſhould ſave her from my embraces. Oh, earth and heaven! THORNTON, ſhe is the moſt attracting form that ever died a death of gentleneſs. Then ſhe is ſuch a contraſt to the full-formed HARRIET—ſo ſlim— ſo ſoft of ſpirit—an eye ſo borne down by modeſty to the earth—her eye-laſhes ſo ſilken, ſo curved—the bow of the heavens cannot match the archings of her brow—her hair is ſo gloſſy—ſo abundant —ſuch a luxury in its various folds—her very languors are delicious—and as ſhe put the letter into my hand, her palm ſtruck mine upon the tremble—the murmur of love was in the ſigh that then broke from her boſom, and the teeth through which it paſſed were purer than ſnow.

[93]Away then with melancholy ideas! I pity HARRIET, but I muſt—I will poſſeſs FANNY MORTIMER, though I were to die in the effort.

Adieu. PHILIP SEDLEY.

LETTER LXXXI. The Reverend HORACE HOMESPUN to Mrs. LA MOTTE.

[94]
My dear Madam,

OUR poor HARRIET is ſorely hurt—but ſhe received me kindly: the tear that ſhe let fall upon my hand, I have ſuffered to dry, without wiping it away. The phyſician is to be here tomorrow, and then you ſhall know more. HARRIET aſked me ſeveral times if I was well—I told her, I was; and yet Heaven knows, I am in a fever at this moment, for I have not been able to [95] cloſe my eyes, and I was wetted through the ſhirt in my journey. My wife ſeems to have chiefly ſuffered in the face and arms, I therefore hope the leſs danger.

Adieu. I am your real friend, HORACE HOMESPUN.

LETTER LXXXII. Miſs DELIA DELMORE to Lady LUCY SAXBY.

[96]

EVERY moment in the day affords ſome freſh and beautiful inſtance of my noble father's wiſdom and affection. About an hour after tea this evening, while Sir HENRY was enjoying his ſerene ſummer-walk, as he calls it, WILLIAM brought a pencil'd card, and delivered it to me. It was to adviſe with him (Sir HENRY) about ſome concerns eſſential to the general welfare. Even my little brother and ſiſter, Charles and Caroline, (who are down with us,) were mentioned in this invitation: the card requeſted the company of all the family, adding, that, as [97] the evening was delightful, his mind compoſed, and nobody but ourſelves, at preſent, in the houſe, he much deſired that we might all have our ſhare in the general ſerenity. How prettily, my dear LUCY, how perſuaſively this exalted parent propoſes, as a pleaſure, what his authority might command as a duty? But it is among the number of his excellent maxims, that none but froward ſpirits do well with compulſion, and that a frank and ingenuous tenderneſs hath in it equal weight and ſatisfaction.

The converſation paſt in the garden, under the ſhade of hawthorns, laurels, and filberts: there is a white bench under it; and a ſort of natural arching, bower-faſhion, made by the mixture of thick leaves and branches interwoven above. Hither we came in obedience to the ſummons: a group of relations loving and [98] beloved. FANNY, who had been amuſing herſelf with the pen, (not having had ſtrength for the pleaſures of writing for ſome time,) came forward, delicate as angel meekneſs, with her young brother in one hand, and her little ſiſter in the other. VENUS, with two of her attendant Graces, could not be more lovely, even though the diſtreſs of ill-heath threw ſomewhat of languor into her air; but then it was a languor ſo ſoft, and a diſtreſs ſo gentle, that it only ſerved the more to feminize (if you'll allow the word), and to recommend her to the ſpectator as a more pathetic, intereſting figure.

Sir HENRY was at firſt ſitting ſomewhat penſively, with an opened letter in his hand—my mother by his ſide, leaning her arm on one of the corners of the bench, and repoſing her cheek within her hand—the true poſture of meditation. [99] They both roſe at our approach. Mr. MORTIMER and I went up firſt; then FANNY, and her twin cherubs: we were a little alarmed, but this was ſoon diſſipated by Sir HENRY, who, ſeating us all on the bench, drew a green garden-chair from an adjoining ſhade, placing himſelf oppoſite to us, and, with a ſmile of ineffable benignity, in which the parent and the friend ſhone beautifully blended, he paid each of us a varied compliment, on our obedience to his wiſhes, and addreſſed us to this effect:

"I have requeſted your company, my dear and worthy children, to engage your filial attention on ſeveral of the moſt important events of human life: I have, indeed, for ſome time, had a deſign to ſummon you together on this ſubject, but care, company, and amuſement, have thrown their attractions or interruptions hitherto [100] in the way of my wiſhes. I have, however, fixt upon this evening of leiſure to deliver to you the ſecrets of my heart, and in mine are included thoſe of the beſt of wives, and tendereſt of mothers."

Lady DELMORE drew her ſpread fingers acroſs her face, and Sir HENRY repeating his panegyric, went on:

"I am happy, my dear relatives, to tell you in the firſt place—and let that ſerve as an encouragement to you—that I can look back upon a life of more than threeſcore years, with a tranquility of retroſpect, at the ſame time ſincere, chriſtian, and philoſophic. The ſerenity of my ſoul is in no degree wounded by the criticiſm with which I review its conduct through the perilous voyage of my life, in which, by the care of Heaven, I have eſcaped thoſe quickſands that endanger our youth, [101] and thoſe rocks which alarm us in age. But that which I account far the richeſt indulgence of Providence, is that dear proſpect which I now behold in the perſons of this beauteous circle—a circle filled with the pledges of this generous creature's invariable fidelity, and the teſtimonies of my continent attachment to excellence ſo diſtinguiſhed."

My mother roſe, LUCY, gave her hand to Sir HENRY, looked at him a moment— looked at him blooming even in age— ſighed ſoftly, and returned to her ſeat.

Sir HENRY proceeded:

"The ſeaſon of infancy is paſt with moſt of you; and its pleaſures are ſucceeded by reflections of a higher nature. Even this ſweet pair—(here he pointed to my young brother and ſiſter)—are at the age [102] of diſtinguiſhing, and the reſt are mature. The bloſſoms of youth promiſe a generous fruitage. You, DELIA, have not yet been rewarded by the tenderneſs of ſuch a man as my MORTIMER: yet the colour of your life will depend on the exchange of your name. Your mother's expectations, like mine, are ſanguine, and extenſive: our eyes are turned on your every action— We hope to ſee you all the ſupports of our declining age: our ſun is about to ſet, and we wiſh its departure may be gilded by your virtues and indulgences.

"The father of a family is at once a ſublime and venerable character. My full heart dilates as I ſee myſelf encompaſſed by theſe charming portraits of ourſelves."

Here Lady DELMORE melted into tears of tranſport, but endeavoured to conceal them.

[103]"I can form to myſelf (continued my father) no ideas beyond it, nor many equal. Our family is at preſent the ſeat of integrity, unanimity, and mutual confidence. Our pleaſures are reflected upon each other, and we reciprocally give and receive inimitable complacence. Yet we muſt be alarmed for thoſe we love. Though the tenour of your conduct, and the gratitude of your tempers, make us leſs fearful of deviation, and though the maxims we have ever been induſtrious to inculcate make us more ſecure and inapprehenſive, yet certain tremors will inevitably touch the boſom of a parent: be not diſpleaſed, therefore, my children, if I give you a few general precepts, for your eſtabliſhment and adoption. They come ſanctified to you with the venerable imprimatur of more than fifty years experience. The maxims which are neceſſary to regulate an [104] ingenuous mind are neither multiplied nor intricate. The very corner-ſtone of a great character is a clear conſcience: if you feel well, you will act well: and if you do not, all the talents in the world will only ſerve to torment you. Never wear a maſk before your motives, but when it is abſolutely neceſſary to the felicity of life, ſuch as deceiving, or rather bewitching, the unprincipled into virtue: ſome tempers cannot bear the plain Truth; ſhe is too aweful for them: be it then, in ſuch particular caſes, your parts, to lead them to her ſacred temple by the moſt pleaſing paths—Alleviate the apparent ruggedneſs, and length of the way, by ſuch meanders as, though they ſeem to deviate, may aſſuredly bring you by the faireſt proſpects to the ſhrine of the Goddeſs.—I have no objection to your adorning yourſelves with all the attractions of exterior, ſuch I mean [105] as are reflected upon the character from dignity of manner, perſuaſion of voice, ſplendor of addreſs, and elegance of air: ‘Where virtue is, theſe are moſt virtuous.’ They will act like magic, and make the innocence both of your ſentiment, and example, perfectly irreſiſtible; and I beſeech you to exert them in the cauſe of that truth and ſobriety of heart I have recommended.—Make uſe of them to conciliate differences, to inſpirit ſociety, to embelliſh converſation, to ſoften the harſhneſs of diſpute, to animate attention; to pleaſe, to inſtruct, to entertain. To all theſe purpoſes they will be excellent, and ornamental. But beware of what a licentious and artful indulgence of them may poſſibly lead to—beware of DUPLICITY; of that duplicity, which, ſo accoutered, —its deſtructive ſword ſheathed in politeneſs—its heart ſhielded by the impenetrable [106] mail of gilded hypocriſy,—is equal to the ſiege of a city, and might do more real miſchief than all the efforts of a legion of avowed villanies. Of all earthly things, therefore, moſt deteſt, what is moſt to be dreaded, the ſyſtem of a well-bred, high-poliſhed, elegant deceiver: no eye can ſee him: no underſtanding detect him: no policy eſcape him. He comes in the form of a Seraph, and thoſe who are themſelves honeſt, cannot imagine that he is a Syren.

"At your time of life it is hard, extremely hard, to maſter the predominant inclination; yet virtuous exerciſe will habituate the ſoul to the practice of uniform honour. To you, DELIA, I am now going to ſpeak more particularly:—There is a paſſion, which, rightly directed, is the ſource of every noble and genuine greatneſs. FANNY and Mr. MORTIMER, I truſt, are not inſenſible [107] to it. May it affect you, DELIA, in the manner it has affected your mother—this excellent woman, whoſe regard for me was founded on principles that ſuſtain the firſt of connections in its due elevation, and adorn the heart by the dictate of which, the hand is preſented, with all that can give either ſpirit, elegance, or real tranſport, to conjugal engagements.

"Unadulterated as yet by the ſmalleſt commerce with dexterous diſſimulation, pardon my alarms leſt your innocence and ſimplicity ſhould be the means of your misfortune.—That DISSIMULATION, which, under the fair diſguiſe of attracting elegance, led forward by the Graces, cannot be detected, even at noon-day, is for ever on the watch; and I know nothing ſo dangerous as yielding too eaſily to the tenderneſs of a new-born paſſion. Do not, however, [108] miſtake me: my ſyſtem is not rigid: it is not inconſiſtent with the natural feelings of a delicate diſpoſition. I have given FANNY to one, in whoſe education and culture, I myſelf had a ſhare; and that may ſhew you, DELIA, that I am no foe to the feelings of Love."

Here a ſigh heaved gently the boſom of FANNY—I dare preſume, it was the ſigh of love, Lady LUCY.

"I wiſh, continued Sir HENRY, to ſee each of my children, a wife, or a huſband, or a parent, and at the head of an infant ſociety. I wiſh DELIA to have the man of her heart—Perhaps ſhe has lately ſeen that man—Perhaps the accompliſhed Mr. SEDLEY—"

In this place FANNY began to complain ſhe ſat too long—and I was glad of the [109] interruption, for you can't imagine how my cheek began to crimſon: certainly you was talking of me, or—or—or— what was it, LUCY?

Sir HENRY went on:

"I will not, DELIA, diſtreſs you. I ſee nothing at preſent objectible. I will not enquire into this matter, till you judge it for your happineſs to conſult me; and till then, particular enquiries would be premature—perhaps improper.—Only, be circumſpect: look well at the ground before you build on it the foundation of your happineſs or miſery. To adopt the language of SHAKESPEARE, "Wear your eye thus," neither vacant, nor ſuſpicious. In any caſe of emergency, while we live (though that cannot in common courſe of terreſtrial decays be now long), honour me, or your mother, with your confidence: [110] and when we are no more, I beg all of you will truſt to the affection of this worthy young man, our dear MORTIMER, who, having ſeen more of life, and the tranſactions of men, is the better able to promote happineſs, and avert miſery.— With theſe ſentiments I truſt you to your underſtandings, virtues, and tempers: with theſe precepts (which I have a particular reaſon now to urge) I truſt you to diſcretion, oeconomy, and fair-dealing. If I have been tedious, conſider I am an old man: if I have dealt in repetitions— or if I have digreſſed—conſider I am a father. Go, then, my children, cheriſh each other: avoid the path of Deceit— walk ſteadily in the road of Truth, even though the roſes may not always be in bloom: ſatisfy the feelings of your own conſcience; be merciful—be moderate, and be happy."

[111]As he ended, my dear Lady LUCY, he roſe, while the big paternal tear was in his eye, embraced us round, and taking my mother by the hand, walked with her, arm in arm, into the houſe.

Oh! my friend, had ever children ſuch parents! My heart is at this time ſo full of gratitude, wonder, and the daughter, that I can only add the eſteemed name of

Your happy, and highly-honoured DELIA DELMORE.

LETTER LXXXIII. THORNTON to SEDLEY. (Before the Receipt of SEDLEY'S laſt.)

[112]

AS thou haſt not taken notice of any parts of my letters relating to the family of Mr. VERNON, I am in hopes thou art not quite unmoved by the generous virtues that are reciprocated between the worthieſt pair I ever knew, and who have made me quite in love with matrimony. Yes, SEDLEY, do not ſtart—I ſay ſober matrimony; and could I get a certain young lady in the mind, who is now a viſitant to Mrs. VERNON, and juſt arrived, I believe I ſhould enter into the holy eſtate without heſitation, for I begin to believe, [113] whatever thy Preceptor may ſay, that wedded love is, after all, the moſt elevated of human connections; nay, I have had ſeveral reaſons, ſince my reſidence here, to adopt the language of the poet, and pronounce that ſtate the moſt delightful wherein

Thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part,
And each warm wiſh ſprings mutual from the heart.

Never were ſouls more exactly in uniſon than thoſe of the VERNONS. I preſent—for your emulation—another inſtance of it. Upon my unfolding the Lieutenant's deſign to his lady, ſhe diſpatched a letter into Suſſex, which produced the following reply:

[114]

Lieutenant VERNON to his LADY.

Moſt dear SOPHIA,

THAT you was ſuperior to the feebleneſs of the modiſh female, who affects to liſp, to ſhudder at the ſhower, and tremble at the breeze, I knew before: but that your ſoul was ſo nicely attuned to the pains and pleaſures of mine, I was not ſo aware of, till the receipt of your laſt kind favour.

You will ſpare me to your King, you will lend him my ſervices againſt the foes of Britain: noble woman, generous wife! I am again at Major FRASER'S, in my way home, and upon my arrival at our peaceful [115] villa, I will pay you my warmeſt acknowledgments by my embraces. I put your letter, with a ſparkling eye, into the hand of my old friend: he read it, and burſt forth into extacies peculiar to the manly violence of his nature. "'Sdeath, VERNON, ſaid he, ten ſuch wives as thine would reſtore the female character from the ignominy of the reſt of the ſex. Such were the Spartan, ſuch were the Roman women: I do not wiſh our wives to fight, Lieutenant: I do not wiſh them to wield the battle-ax, nor to eject the bomb, but, in the name of honour, let them ſuffer their huſbands to behave like men, and permit thoſe who wear beards to deſerve them. I love ſoftneſs, VERNON, and conſider it as the female characteriſtic, but ſtill I would have ſome diſtinction made betwixt women and children, excluſive of the mere difference of bodily ſize: and I do declare to thee, Lieutenant, though I [116] have ſeen many women that I could have liked, ſome that I could love, yet I never dared venture upon matrimony, leſt my wife ſhould ſtand betwixt me and my duty as a ſoldier: but could I, like thee, have met with a SOPHIA, I had long ſince taken to myſelf a brave-ſpirited wench, who ſhould have ſpread the triumphal roſes under my feet, and wove her garland of welcome againſt my return. But you are the happy hero: you are more than a general in the affections of SOPHIA. Go on then, — embark — exert yourſelf to merit ſo illuſtrious a girl: fail not, I charge you, to viſit me with SOPHY under your arm, on your coming again to the country you have honoured." I was preparing to give him the farewel embrace, but he held me by the hand, and ſurveying his figure in a glaſs that was oppoſite, ſhook his head and burſt into tears: "Thou ſeeſt, ſaid he, (ſtill looking [117] in the mirror,) I do not counterfeit; my beſt arm and my moſt ſerviceable leg have left me: my ſoul wiſhes for the field, but my body—this uſeleſs load of an old fellow, of whom the half is timber—would but ſhame the troops, and diſgrace his Majeſty." Then turning to the other end of the room, he took from the mantlepiece a ſword, cautiouſly guarded from the ruſt by a ſcarlet caſe,—"There—(continued the Major, after he had taken it from the covering)—there, VERNON, is the blade that attended me in all my fortunes for more than thirty years: examine it—take notice of the marks of proweſs: it is no maiden I'll aſſure thee:

A better never did a belt ſuſtain
Upon a ſoldier's thigh.

Take it Lieutenant. The hand which uſed to manage it, is gone, and with it the occupation of poor FRASER: 'tis a ſhame that ſo excellent a friend ſhould be [118] converted into a piece of lazy houſhold furniture. Take it then, I ſay; and when thou art in the front of the battle, remember whoſe token thou haſt in hand, and do it juſtice."

There are other traits, my dear SOPHIA, of this brave invalid's character, which I ſhall reſerve for the opportunity of domeſtic endearment. As to your ſaying that you ſee leſs beauty, and ſmell leſs fragrance in the flowers of our garden, ſince my abſence; and then artfully urging that, as a reaſon why you ſhould accompany me to America, makes me pleaſed with the compliment, though I am not convinced by the argument. The Colonies, are now in too much confuſion, to afford a lady accommodation; and your reſidence would be with me, always precarious, and, for the moſt part, unfit for you. The ſcene of bloodſhed would be [119] too near your eye; and the attention I ſhould pay to you, would make me leſs attentive to my own profeſſional advantages. Satisfy yourſelf, therefore, with the friendſhip of the good Mr. THORNTON— with the exacteſt correſpondence, and with the unalterable love of

Your tender CAESAR VERNON.
P. S.

I am glad you are at laſt joined by Miſs SIDNEY. Tell her I ſalute her.—

THORNTON in Continuation.

[120]

There, SEDLEY, is, thou ſeeſt, freſh reaſon to animate thy amendments. But the poſtman brings me a packet. I perceive it is ſuperſcribed by thy character, and impreſt by thy ſeal. Haply I ſhall find, by the contents, that thy reformation is begun. In this hope I break thy wax, and bid thee farewel.

LETTER LXXXIV. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

[121]

THORNTON, give me joy! My inſinuations have extorted from FANNY "her ſlow leave," and as ſoon as I can contrive an interview with her, I am to have it. Hear, by what a diſplay of my art I won her conſent to ſee me alone. In reply to her epiſtle—that which I ſent thee—I wrote—though I like not truſting myſelf to the mercy of ink and paper— another, in which I exerted and exhauſted all the delicacy of diſſembled paſſion. I ſtruck the ſtring moſt likely to work upon a woman in her ſituation; and, as a proof of my addreſs and eloquence, I tell thee again, that I prevailed—For once ſhe will ſee me. Read her card.

[122]

Mrs. MORTIMER to Mr. SEDLEY.

FOR once, as you urge it with ſuch vehemence, and as you promiſe to quit BUXTON immediately afterwards, I will ſee you. When you ſee an opportunity, either in the garden or elſewhere, you may employ it in communicating what you tell me is of ſo much conſequence to my fame and felicity.

F. M.

Now then, THORNTON, muſt I call to my aid DORMER'S "unobſerved obſervation," and baniſh all but the preſent object from my thoughts: now muſt I diſcover "the true mark of a ſuperior genius," and ſhew "a ſteady undiſſipated attention" till I have ultimately ſucceeded in this great, glorious particular.—Nothing ſhall ſeduce me a ſingle moment from— [123] 'Sdeath! THORNTON, the paſſing-bell tolls—Surely HARRIET is not dead—No matter—I will not—dare not enquire. I will command myſelf this once; and when this ſcheme is compleated I care not how ſoon I deſcend to ELYSIUM and to CHESTERFIELD.

PHILIP SEDLEY.

LETTER LXXXV. The Reverend HORACE HOMESPUN to Mrs. LA MOTTE.

[124]

OH, Mrs. LA MOTTE! the meaſure of my miſeries is not compleated— I have every thing to apprehend from both the looks and words of the phyſician. Juſt as he laſt entered, ſhe called out, without looking at him, that he was the cruelleſt of men, and then, upon drawing the curtains, begged his pardon, and ſaid ſhe was miſtaken. I have not even yet had my cloaths off—I can eat nothing; and when I drink, it is only to allay the thirſtings of a ſlow fever that is ſtill lurking about me. Mr. SEDLEY came yeſterday kindly to enquire, and juſt as he had [125] ſaid—Well, my good Mr. HOMESPUN, and how does our poor HARRIET now— ſhe ſcreamed out with inconceivable violence—bade us ſhut the door, and then remained weeping and fainting alternately for above an hour. My fate is really a hard one, Mrs. LA MOTTE; but my conſcience is void of offence, and the wiſdom of the ALMIGHTY ſhall not, even now, he queſtioned by

HORACE HOMESPUN.

LETTER LXXXVI. Miſs DELIA DELMORE to Lady LUCY SAXBY.

[126]

I CONFESS it, LUCY—he HAS pleaſed me; and I am above concealing from my friend, that I admire his manner even more than his perſon. His words, his looks, his motions are truly irreſiſtible; and if you knew half the noble things he hath done ſince he came to the bath, you would the leſs wonder at my being caught. I will only mention to you one or two points of his conduct, which will help you, by ſuch ſpecimens, to conjecture the reſt. His ſervant had played the libertine with an innocent wench, who depended upon the bounty of the bathers [127] for her attendance at the pump, and well: the fellow ſeduced her, the poor deluded wretch loſt her virtue, and her means of livelihood at the ſame time. Common maſters would have cuffed the footman, and called the injured girl a ſimpleton. Mr. SEDLEY inſiſted upon the deceiver's marrying the deceived; the ceremony has actually been celebrated, and it is ſaid— not by him, for he never ſpeaks of himſelf—that he deſigns to ſee them well ſettled before he leaves BUXTON.

There is, you muſt know—a lady, who, on her return from the bath to her houſe, was hurt by the over-turning of a carriage, and the huſband, who is a worthy clergyman, would have been quite diſtracted, had it not been for the cares, tenderneſſes, and attention of this obliging man, who hath the art of propitiating every-body to him, and making everybody [128] around him happy, by thoſe nice and minute, yet truly engaging offices, which (being in general conſidered as unimportant, though in reality I find they are but too pleaſing) are too often neglected. He is now very frequently in our family, and I rejoice to ſee him ſo much in the confidence and good graces of my father, mother, and brother. As to poor dear FANNY, ſhe ſeldom talks when ſhe can avoid it; and one may ſee Mr. SEDLEY'S good breeding, and even the feelings of his heart, in the manner with which he adapts himſelf to the perſon he addreſſes: when his ſentiments are directed to Sir HENRY, they are acute, correct, claſſical, penetrating, learned: when to my brother, they are elegant, noble, dignified, and animating: when to my mother, they are grave, condeſcending, cautious: when to my ſiſter, gentle, in an under-tone of voice, ſoftened as it [129] were to the ſituation of a ſick perſon, and that perſon a woman: his ſubjects to FANNY are ſuch as might ſoothe a ſpirit much nearer its end than I hope that dear creature is. He colours beautifully the ideas of hope: he talks of returning health: he paints to her imagination, and he gives ſuch touches to the ſcene of her expected recovery, that our dear invalid ſmiles when ſhe is too exhauſted to ſpeak, and her huſband thanks him, with overflowing eyes, for the entertainment and eaſe he hath produced to Mrs. MORTIMORE. In ſhort, LUCY, he is a divine fellow, and I know not what will be the conſequence of my trip to BUXTON. Let what will be the event,

I am always your DELIA DELMORE.
[130]P. S.

I had almoſt forgot to tell you that I am half teazed to death with the ſurfeiting fine ſayings of a beau, who hath offered me knick-knacks without number, and has made ſerious and tempting overtures to my father. So that you ſee SEDLEY has got a rival. Oh, heavens! that Providence ſhould, into the ſame world, ſend two creatures ſo uniformly different.

Adieu.

LETTER LXXXVII. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

[131]

THE Gods have been auſpicious. The interview is paſt, and the ſtratagem by which it was obtained is worthy of myſelf. Thou muſt underſtand, that the ſiſter of FANNY—the lady I mean with the paſtoral appellation, Miſs DELIA DELMORE—is ſuch an object as cannot poſſibly be paſt over by the eye of a man who is taught to ANNIHILATE THE VERY IDEA OF CRIMINALITY, and is only intent upon the poſſeſſion of as much beauty (without the vulgar conſideration of "to whom related, or by whom begot") as he can poſſibly find, and the more to be found in one family the better, ſo as that ſecrecy which ſaves [132] all miſchief can be procured. This DELIA, I ſay, THORNTON, being in the maiden ſtate, and to all intents and purpoſes in a marriageable ſituation, muſt be addreſſed in the way of wedlock. To this end I have ſo managed the point, as to make one ſiſter aid me in a deſign upon the other, while, in the mean time, I have ſo contrived it, that both ſhall be plotting their own perſonal pleaſure: nay, I will make even the huſband, father, mother, and the very coxcomb I before told thee of, who is my rival, the oſtenſible puppets on this occaſion, while I, in the ſupremacy of my wit, and puſhed forward by my great Preceptor, will make the whole family ſubſervient to the gratification of thy

PHILIP SEDLEY.

LETTER LXXXVIII. THORNTON to SEDLEY.

[133]

THY letter, this moment come to hand, convinces me of my miſtake in ſuppoſing thou wert to be wrought upon by ſcenes of tenderneſs and generoſity, and proves that it is not in the language and good deeds of either man or woman to turn thy heart. That Janus of an Earl has, I ſee, enfolded himſelf round thee: his maxims have penetrated into thy very marrow. Nay, thou even goeſt beyond him: he did but point at the benefits of duplicity in a private letter, at leaſt not by his conſent made public, but thou art duplicity itſelf. Thou, with an inſidiouſneſs [134] unparalleled, engraveſt his horrid precepts on thine heart, entereſt the temple of domeſtic joy, and (under the appearance of an angel, while the cloven foot of the fiend is delicately concealed,) art in ſober truth, could thy real form be ſeen, the very demon of deſtruction. Call not thyſelf my SEDLEY.—I own thee not— Thou art the Devil's SEDLEY, and I begin to ſhudder that I am connected with ſuch a monſter. Yet I beſeech thee— once again in the ſtill, ſerene, but pathetic voice of friendſhip—I beſeech thee to deſiſt. Bring not the grey hairs of the venerable DELMORE'S to the grave. Pollute not the weak, defenceleſs FANNY— catch not in thy treacherous toils the heart of DELIA, who deſerves a better fate. Haſten, I conjure thee, to the metropolis. There thy appetite for women may have its full play. Our ſtreets are crowded with [135] chaſtity deſtroyed, beauty in ruins, and ſimplicity ſeduced. Diſſipate, at leaſt, with leſs miſchief, part of thy large fortune upon theſe. From thy preſent purſuits, I again repeat it, thou canſt gain nothing but infamy: and if I could but transfer to thee my feelings, thou wouldſt hug them to thy heart for ever, and diſcard all others with horror. I have the happineſs to pleaſe the viſitor of Mrs. VERNON, the charming ARAMINTA SIDNEY: ſhe is the friend of FANNY MORTIMER: they correſpond: ſhe deſcribes her as thou haſt done—Oh! for GOD'S ſake, SEDLEY—do not harm her—do not puſh thy cruelties to the diſhonour, diſgrace—and very probably the death of—a ſick woman. Mr. VERNON is returned: the affection, the happineſs of this pair, might ſoften a panther into tenderneſs, and ſubdue the verieſt rake into continence. No wonder it hath [136] touched the gentle boſom of ARAMINTA. I find a rapture in her ſmiles: I anticipate every change of her countenance. I am ſo far from deſiring to ruin her reputation, that I tremble as I approach her. I have not aſſurance enough to kiſs her beautiful lips: the ſlighteſt touch of her hand diſorders me. I detect myſelf looking at her, and withdraw my eyes for fear of offending. I am a very young man, Mr. SEDLEY, and thou and CHESTERFIELD, with your united councils, had nearly led me to every-thing odious: but I ſaw the precipice time enough to eſcape it: the ſociety of virtuous people, the friendſhip of the Lieutenant and his lady —the eſteem—and, oh! that I might be allowed to ſay—the love, the pure love of ARAMINTA—will, I hope, again reſtore me to what I formerly was. As to your ſecrets, SEDLEY, I ſhall not betray them: [137] and you will judge how true I muſt be to the point of confidence, when I dare not violate it, even though, by ſo pious a treachery, I could probably ſave a noble family, and, involved in the fate of that, the friend of ARAMINTA SIDNEY.

I am, With prayers for your change of heart, Yours, JAMES THORNTON.

LETTER LXXXIX. The Reverend HORACE HOMESPUN to Mrs. LA MOTTE.

[138]

PITY, Mrs. LA MOTTE, the diſtraction of a huſband and a father. I have loſt my child, and my wife is in the agonies of death. The babe that was to have bleſſed me, and crowned my nine months expectation, has appeared only to weep, and to—die—the mother could nouriſh it no longer: her agonizing fits have produced an untimely labour, and, lifeleſs as it is, ſhe will not part with the infant: ſhe hugs it in her arms—cradles it in her boſom—inſiſts upon its being laid upon her pillow, and will not ſuffer any hand but hers and mine to touch it. Oh, Mrs. [139] LA MOTTE! what ſhall I do, and whither muſt I fly.—There is but one reſource, and I will ſeek it before I finiſh my letter—

Bleſſed is the power of prayer!—I retired, Madam, into my own bed-room, and upon the bended knee of humility ſought for comfort to the only hand that, in an exigence like mine, can beſtow it. I riſe eaſier, Mrs. LA MOTTE, indeed I do: He that correcteth hath not utterly forſaken me. I have ſoftly opened HARRIET'S apartment, and by the nurſe's waving me to withdraw again, I judge that my poor patient is aſleep. The GOD, who alone can effectually give medicine to a mind diſeaſed, protect and proſper her moment of awaking!

HORACE HOMESPUN.

LETTER XC. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

[140]

MY maſter-wheels are in motion: I ſent brother MORTIMER upon a love-meſſage, made to the lady DELIA'S eyebrow, ſaw the old Baronet and his Dame ſet out for an evening-ride to BUXTON bath, and had the fair FANNY MORTIMER all to myſelf. Oh! ye Deities of Deſign!— ye ſpirits congenial to STANHOPE'S! what an hour of whiſper and inſinuation have I paſſed! Oh! THORNTON, for a ſecond interview!—It was all done in the very key-note of ſeduction.

Conſcious of the prepoſſeſſing idea—I availed myſelf of her partiality. I did not [141] kneel, I did not whine, I did not ſmack the palms, nor ſqueeze the handkerchief, but I hit her on the only chord of the ſoul that could make a vibration in my favour: I pitied her want of health—I praiſed the ſacrifice ſhe had made to paternal quietude. I was all refinement—all aſſiduity—all CHESTERFIELD: the features were obedient, and every atom of irreſiſtible art was levelled againſt her. I called the colour into her face by one ſentiment—I ſent it away by another: one look brought the tear—a ſecond dried it up. Now the roſe, now the lilly, prevailed in her cheeks. Cordials became neceſſary. I ORDERED my hand to ſhake as I preſented the hartſhorn —the water—the drops. The lovely object of my battery began to yield—Nature tugged at her heart—her frame became weaker—her paſſion ſtronger: every finger tottered: her breath became difficult: ſhe rocked herſelf in her chair—her eyes were [142] full—her voice faultered out an—Oh! Mr. SEDLEY!—the ſnare I had laid for her entered into her ſoul, and ſhe fainted upon my boſom.

The aſſiduous talents that reduced and ſunk her could not even by a different application of them bring her to herſelf— and when I perceived this, and found it impoſſible to quiet her increaſed agitations, I went into the ſummer-houſe, where my cauſe was pleading, and with a decent degree of trepidation told Mr. MORTIMER (after bowing to DELIA with as decent a confuſion) that his FANNY was rather more indiſpoſed than ſhe found herſelf before tea.

I am thy— And, in ſpite of old proverbs, and all croſs ſayings, will be thy PHILIP SEDLEY.

LETTER XCI. THORNTON to SEDLEY.

[143]

YOUR letter found me at tea in this innocent family—I begged leave to break the ſeal—I read as far as the fainting of FANNY, and the cup fell from my hand.—Oh! thou hard of heart!—Thou inſenſible—thou incorrigible!—But ſhe is yet pure. She fell upon thy boſom— Thy horrid purpoſe is not yet perpetrated: nor ſhall it be: for, by the God of Truth, Mr. SEDLEY, if thou doſt not write me word that thou wilt give over the deſtruction of this moſt pitiable girl, I will, at the riſk of all conſequences, take the proper ſteps to put her out of thy power. [144] No idle punctilio ſhall ſway me in a caſe like this. When Innocence is in danger, to break Faith with a bad man is not Fraud, but Virtue.

JAMES THORNTON.

LETTER XCII. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

[145]

TRAITOR and tattler as thou art, I have the ſtart of thee.—Yes, THORNTON, ſhe did fall upon my boſom; and I reaped the rewards of my inſinuations, and of my addreſs, in her arms.—'Tis true, ſhe returned not the embrace—What of that? I was wrought up to the criſis, and her ſtrugglings only anſwered the ends—and ſerved as the ſweet ſuccedaneum of writhing the limbs in the tranſports of taſte.

PHILIP SEDLEY.

LETTER XCIII. The Reverend HORACE HOMESPUN to Mrs. LA MOTTE.

[146]

MY unhappy wife is worſe than ever; but as her ſtrength decays, her affection ſeems to increaſe for me, and this only ſerves to agonize me the more. I ſat up with her all the laſt night, part of which ſhe paſſed without her ſenſes. In the intervals of her delirium ſhe treated me with a tenderneſs that penetrated my ſoul: ſhe called me by every name that could expreſs her fondneſs—ſhe kiſſed me —ſuffered the poor clay-cold corſe of our little one to be taken from her.—It muſt not be, ſaid ſhe ſerenely—Let it be given to the grave—bury it decently—be ſure [147] you do not cloſe up the earth—leave a ſmall ſpace for its mother, and all ſhall be well. About midnight ſhe mentioned Mrs. LA MOTTE—her dear, kind, noble, virtuous Mrs. LA MOTTE—ſeveral times. About an hour after this ſhe ſtarted up wildly, caught hold of the curtains— threw them aſide with ſome violence, and enquired of the nurſe for ink and paper— ſhe ſaid, ſhe was reſolved to write to him; then, without naming anybody, melted into tears, ſunk quietly down upon her pillow, and ſaid—he was not worth it, and it did not ſignify. I dare not tell you how my own health is, but while I have any health at all, I am

Your HORACE HOMESPUN.

LETTER XCIV. Mrs. MORTIMER to Miſs SIDNEY.

[148]

VILLAINY too big to expreſs, and which, though I am dying under it, I know not how to puniſh, without involving innocent people, has been practiſed upon me. I foreſee—I feel it will be impoſſible you ſhould ever ſee again your

FANNY MORTIMER.

LETTER XCV. The Reverend HORACE HOMESPUN to Mrs. LA MOTTE.

[149]

THE laſt hope is extinguiſhed, and I can only hold the pen to tell you that my wife is—in Heaven, and that the laſt words which came from her quivering lips, convinced me there is a wretch ſomewhere upon earth, to whom I am indebted for her death. I can ſay no more.

HORACE HOMESPUN.

LETTER XCVI. Miſs DELIA DELMORE, to Lady LUCY SAXBY.

[150]

WHAT a dreadful change, my dear LUCY, ſince I laſt wrote to you! There is an unuſual degree of uneaſineſs on the countenances of my ever-honoured parents: my brother Mr. MORTIMER is penſive: FANNY was ſeized with an hyſterical diſorder while her huſband was communicating to me the diſcourſe that paſſed between him and Mr. SEDLEY, who has never been at our houſe ſince. Mrs. MORTIMER, it ſeems, knew not that Mr. SEDLEY had intereſted her huſband in the declaration made, by that medium, to me: ſhe remains exceedingly ill: has actually [151] refuſed to ſuffer Mr. MORTIMER to ſleep with her: ſays, ſhe has ſtrong reaſons for it, which he ſhall know at a proper time. At our coming into the drawing-room, after we were ſummoned to her aſſiſtance by SEDLEY (who in his confuſion and hurry to fetch us, ran down our long garden unbraced and without his hat), we found the poor dear creature juſt recovering from a ſwoon: her eyes cloſed—her teeth ſhut—her clenched hands locked in each other—and her dreſs in the utmoſt diſorder, I ſuppoſe, from the violent changes of poſture occaſioned by the fits. I have no heart now, Lady LUCY, to talk of my own affairs; and yet, as you have a right to know every thing that concerns me, I juſt ſend you a ſketch of my brother's converſation in the ſummer-houſe previous to theſe alarming circumſtances. My almoſt conſtant attendance on my ſiſter will not permit me to tranſcribe it fair; and [152] you muſt be contented with a looſe paper on which I have been able to ſcribble only at intervals.

The Paper, incloſing Mr. MORTIMER'S Addreſs to his Siſter, upon Mr. SEDLEY'S Subject.

MR. MORTIMER, having led me by the hand through the garden into the ſummerhouſe, began, as uſual, with a pretty compliment, told me that he found I had already done execution—that I had made a wound which all the waters of BUXTON were not able to cure, and then proceeded (you know, LUCY, what an able advocate he is) to open the deſign of his calling me aſide. I will own to you, ſaid he, my dear DELIA, that I ſummon your attention in behalf of Mr. SEDLEY; but I will, as nearly as I am able, recollect his own [153] words, and, without the leaſt endeavour to ſway you, leave the reſult to your own determination. I lately had a particular converſation with Mr. SEDLEY, wherein he addreſſed me, to the beſt of my remembrance, as follows:

"The motive of this viſit, Mr. MORTIMER, is in confidence, to enquire of you, from whom I have reaſon to believe ſhe conceals nothing, whether your ſiſter DELIA is under any preſent engagement of heart, or in the leaſt reſpect partial to any one in the diſpoſal of her affections; for I ſhould ſhudder to be the cauſe of even a negative pain to ſo amiable a woman: and I forebore to aſk this queſtion of Sir HENRY, leſt that regard which he is pleaſed to entertain of me might incline him to ſomething that might be contradictory to the private proſpects of his daughter. I know, Mr. MORTIMER, the fraternal [154] affection your ſiſter bears you, and I am no ſtranger, young as I am in your acquaintance, to the all-ſouled intimacy ſubſiſting between you as happy relations: hence, I imagined it more for the general peace to direct myſelf to you rather than to any other: for as my enquiries are anſwered by you, Mr. MORTIMER, I will either bury my ambitious wiſhes in my own and your boſom, or, ſhould they meet an encouraging reply, I will proceed to take ſuch meaſures as ſeem to you moſt conducive to the happineſs I aſpire to."

Here, DELIA, he pauſed a little, and then with inimitable grace purſued his overtures:

"Although, Mr. MORTIMER—ſaid he— I have had of late often the honour of Sir HENRY'S company, whoſe neareſt ſecrets of heart I am beginning to ſh [...]re, [155] I never found that he had any view of uniting Miſs DELMORE to any particular family. But why do I talk thus? Sir HENRY ſpurns the bare idea of compulſitory connections, and his noble nature can never ſtoop to barter the felicity of a child to intereſted proſpects. And yet, Sir, may it not be reaſonably apprehended, that a ſoul ſo delicate—a heart ſo ſuſceptible—feelings ſo fine—and a boſom ſo alive to every nicer alarm, as Miſs DELMORE'S, may have made ſome wiſe and favourite choice of her own? If ſo, tell me of it frankly, and I promiſe, dear MORTIMER,—to join you in promoting rather than oppoſing the happineſs ſhe hopes for. After what I have now ſaid, you will be quite explicit, ingenuous, and unreſerved."

He waited my reply; his fine eyes ſhone with expectation: I told him that I [156] believed my ſiſter DELIA had not yet, amongſt the various pretenſions made to her hand, ſeen the object ſhe could approve in the intimate light he alluded to: that I had often heard her expreſs a proper regard to the excellences, manners, and addreſs, of Mr. SEDLEY: that, as a very young friend, introduced into the family by the hand of ſo revered and ſagacious a father, ſhe had an elegant opinion of his merit: and that though I had not obſerved the leaſt intimation of her entertaining any ſenſibility of heart as to his perſon (here, DELIA, he bowed, and bluſhed), yet that (be not diſpleaſed, DELIA) I knew her naturally ſoft, ſenſible, and a nice diſtinguiſher of ſuperior endowments. I concluded with ſaying, that, for the ſhort time I could boaſt the honour of his acquaintance, I knew none more likely to inſpire Miſs DELMORE; and that, as a proof of my good wiſhes, I [157] would take the opportunity given me of Sir HENRY and Lady DELMORE'S evening-ride, from which I would excuſe us young folks, to inform you of the converſation previous to any farther procedure.

His cheeks coloured to their full bloom (and you know what a complexion he has, DELIA) at this propoſal: he begged, with great delicacy, that, till I was pre-acquainted with your propoſals, wiſhes, and views, I would preſerve the whole matter a ſecret, not only from your mother and Sir HENRY, but even from my wife, the angelic Mrs. MORTIMER, as he was pleaſed to call her: adding, that he could not bear to occaſion, by an ill-timed petition, one moment's uneaſineſs in a family ſo harmonized, innocent, and affectionate, as Sir HENRY DELMORE'S; and that, rather than be cruelly inſtrumental in the ſubverſion of this, although his heart was in the [158] cauſe, he would ſtifle the pleadings of it to eternity.—I eaſily prevailed, DELIA, on Sir HENRY and your mother to excuſe us, and, as ſoon as their chariot rolled from the door, I took Mr. SEDLEY by the arm, and told him I was going to be his advocate. He preſſed my hand, and in a whiſper ſaid he would have the honour to keep Mrs. MORTIMER company in the ſaloon, while I pleaded for him in the ſummerhouſe.

And now, my dear DELIA, continued my brother, may I not congratulate you on the conqueſt of a man who, if there is any faith in the faireſt appearances, is equally adorned in mind and body, and who will, I dare ſay, inſtantly proceed to acquaint us with his circumſtances and fortunes, if he receives your ſanction to be more explicit. I muſt own I was never ſo truly attracted by any man, and he really ſeems [159] born for an alliance with a woman as enchanting as himſelf. Tell me truly—tell me like a ſiſter—Did you ever ſee ſo manly yet ſo decorated an addreſs—ſuch ſplendid ſentiments—ſo elevated an air? or Did you ever before meet with any gentleman ſo eaſy, or ſo engaging, in that ſort of behaviour which is the reſult of a brilliant capacity, ornamented breeding, and unaffected complaiſance?

When you have read the incloſed, LUCY, give me the ſentiment of your heart upon it: for my own part, flattering as it is, I am too diſordered, and too much intereſted in the ſudden gloom that hangs over our houſe, to find ſatisfaction in any thing. Yet I am always

Your DELIA DELMORE.

LETTER XCVII. The Reverend HORACE HOMESPUN to Mrs. LA MOTTE.

[160]

I AM obliged, my good friend, to ſummon, not philoſophy only, but all the force of chriſtianity to my aid; and even that ſuſtains itſelf with difficulty againſt the agitated powers of Nature. My child is ſcarce cold in the earth: my wiſe is tomorrow to be encloſed within her coffin: my duty at my pariſh is precariouſly performed, and my ſtrength abſolutely fails me. Yet the laſt ſolemn teſtimonies of a huſband's affection ſhall not be neglected, Mrs. LA MOTTE. I have cauſed the dear dimenſions of her dead body to be taken, my friend. Her ſhroud is upon the table [161] before me; and I have ſent to beſpeak the hearſe that ſhall convey her from hence to my own church, where I am reſolved her dear remains ſhall be depoſited. I will not leave her in a ſtrange land: I will not ſuffer her to lie where I cannot often viſit her grave, often reflect upon her virtues, and always protect the conſecrated ſpot which ſhe occupies, from all inſult and ſacrilegious indecency. Nay, my friend, I will do more than this: the child that I truſted but on Tueſday laſt to the tomb, ſhall be raiſed again from the earth. Little did I think the commands of my wife would be ſo ſoon neceſſary to be obeyed: but her dying words ſhall not be forgotten. The mother and the ſon—for ah! Mrs. LA MOTTE, my infant was a boy—ſhall be buried in the embraces of each other. Nay, I will, (however the cuſtom of the world may pronounce againſt it,)—I will read over them the awful ſervice with my [162] own mouth: the funeral-oration ſhall be compoſed by myſelf: in my own churchyard ſhall they be depoſited, and I will have the fortitude to ſee the laſt ſpadeful of earth cover their beloved aſhes before I retire to the agony of my ſolitude. That this is an uncommon proceeding I am not to be told: but it is, nevertheleſs, conſiſtent with MY notions of piety, tenderneſs, and duty, and ſhall be done.

I am obliged to lay down the pen, but will not fold up my letter; for though I ſhall be with you ſome time to-morrow night—ſcarcely till the middle of it—I know I ſhall be incapable of relating to you (what yet you will be anxious to underſtand) the manner of my poor HARRIET'S death, and therefore I will try to ſet it down—as I think I can with leſs miſery to myſelf—upon paper.

In Continuation.

[163]

About an hour before ſhe died, ſhe deſired the nurſe to withdraw, and, taking me gently by the hand, ſhe looked at me for ſome time, was almoſt drowned with her tears, and hid her face within the pillow. Then, having ſomewhat relieved herſelf, ſhe roſe again upon her arm, and with a voice ſcarcely audible, but pierceingly tender, ſhe addreſſed me thus: ‘Oh, my beſt HORACE! I have injured thee: I die a victim to the arts of the ſeducer —a ſeducer under the faireſt form of irreſiſtible virtue. Inquire not who or where he is—reſentment would, perhaps, ruin you both, and GOD can tell, I would not have any miſchief befal either. I have long—’

[164]Mrs. LA MOTTE, ſhe could not finiſh her ſentence. A ſecond effort gave her juſt the power to ſay— ‘Put the child in my boſom, that we may ſleep together:’ —after which, her eyes became fixed full upon mine: I fell upon the bed in exceſſive grief—ſhe ſtruggled hard to give the kiſs which exhauſted Nature denied her power to impreſs, and then, Madam, half-turning upon her ſide, the ſigh came forth that wafted her ſoul to its Creator, and ſhe expired upon my cheek.

Oh, Mrs. LA MOTTE, that I could find the ſeducer! Oh, that I could diſcover the dark complotter of all this miſchief! —Clergyman as I am, I would make him feel the vengeance of a huſband's arm.— I have enquired in vain—not a clue is left me in her pocket-book—the landlord to whom I applied, without telling him the drift of my application—aſſures me, that [165] ſince my departure from BUXTON, none but his wife and himſelf were in her company—not even Mr. SEDLEY, who has been conſtantly, of late, at a family's out of town—but of him, indeed, I have not the leaſt ſuſpicion—Perhaps the horrid circumſtance happened before our coming to the bath—perhaps the infant is the offſpring of ſome other parent—perhaps— Oh, Mrs. LA MOTTE! Mrs. LA MOTTE! I am bewildered, and wild with a thouſand apprehenſions—But why do I rage thus for revenge—Is that conſiſtent with my holy character? Is not the poor object of ſeduction puniſhed ſufficiently? Are not the child and parent both dead? Ah, my unhappy HARRIET!—I injure thee— I wrong thee!—I have juſt kiſſed the clay-cold lip, Mrs. LA MOTTE—I will thirſt no more for the blood of the wretch that has deſpoiled me—I leave him to the juſtice of his Maker—Let me go on in [166] the ſtraight path—let me ſtill walk in the way of my duty.—The coffin is come —the hearſe rolls its ſound in the wind—I hear the beat of the melancholy hoof at the door.—My new-buried babe is bringing into the room.—It is the deep of night— there is no moon—I will have no torches.

The child is raiſed—the mother is in her ſhroud, and placed in her laſt manſion—the horſe waits to carry me home, and I have given directions to have both the bodies carried carefully down ſtairs.— God keep your heart from a ſcene like this, prays the unfortunate

HORACE HOMESPUN.

LETTER XCVIII. THORNTON to SEDLEY.

[167]
Sir,

I HAVE changed my condition, and by ſo doing enlarged the circle of my felicity. The chaſte and honourable connection I have now made, with the ſacred and rational purſuits attending it, render it very improper for me to hold farther correſpondence with a man who profeſſes to ſeduce the wife, and may, very probably, one time or another, throw from his guard even one who is armed againſt him by a knowledge of the baſeſt ſyſtem that ever was adopted.

[168]I only write this to acquaint you that it is the laſt letter you will ever receive from,

Sir,
Your moſt humble ſervant, JAMES THORNTON.
P. S.

Mrs. THORNTON—late Miſs SIDNEY— has received ſuch a card from FANNY MORTIMER, as pronounces you the moſt abandoned hypocrite upon earth. You gueſs the contents of it.

LETTER XCIX. Lady LUCY SAXBY to Miſs DELIA DELMORE.

[169]

HOW ſhall I be able to write a proper anſwer to ſo intereſting a letter as your laſt, in which two ſubjects ſo immediately oppoſite are touched upon? As to poor Mrs. MORTIMER'S health, I anxiouſly hope ſhe is, by this time, again reſtored to a more tolerable degree of it; and yet how much are you all to be pitied in being neceſſarily made the ſpectators of a diſpoſition ſo full of fears, hopes, wiſhes, and apprehenſions! But, as JOSEPH ſays, "I dreamed a dream laſt night," and I ſhall relate it to my DELIA— my fair oracle, for interpretation. Methought [170] I was on a ſudden—theſe things are all done ſuddenly—tranſported from the city of LONDON to the realms of HEAVEN, where a SERAPH, in the form of my departed ſiſter, (whom you and I uſed ſo much to admire,) immediately acknowledged me, and addreſſed me thus: ‘Upon what account is my dear LUCY come, uncalled, to Elyſium? or How get ſhe hither without a guide?’ ‘I come,’ ſaid I, ‘in behalf of a dying friend, on the preſervation of whoſe life depends the felicity of mine—Lead me, my ſiſter, to the Angel of HEALTH, and I will kneel down and worſhip him.’

‘If that is the purport of your errand to Elyſium, I fear you are come here in vain,’ ſaid CLARISSA: ‘there can be no partialities, and yon old, grey-headed, frowning perſonage you ſee with a ſcythe in his right hand, would be very angry [171] if he was but to imagine what you want. Death is above a bribe, ſiſter, you may depend on it.’

At this inſtant I beheld a moſt beautiful cherub, with golden plumage expanded, fluttering over my head, and alight by the ſide of me—I trembled and bowed —"Stranger," ſaid the celeſtial figure—‘I know your buſineſs!—put the name of your friend into that little lattice—it leads to the palace of the Angel of PITY—approach reverently’

Soon after I had obeyed theſe commands, a door opened, out of which came the moſt elegant appearance of the female ſex that can poſſibly be imagined, and with her a ſecond form, whoſe face was ſhaded by a ſnowy veil—"Mortal," ſaid the firſt ſplendid figure—‘the prayer of the affectionate ſhall not be offered in vain— [172] thy friend ſhall live, and lo! here ſhe is in the bloom of beauty, and in the height of health.’ Saying this, the veil was thrown aſide, and in the ſecond form I immediately recognized the features of FANNY, more animated and animating than ever —I ran to embrace the ſiſter of my friend —but the Angel of PITY interpoſed, and, after bidding me depart in peace, ſhe waved a golden wand, and then the different emotions occaſioned by the viſion awaked me.

And yet, DELIA, I am perſuaded this dream will be propitious. How truly happy ſhall I be, if you ſend me word that I have made a trip to Elyſium to ſome purpoſe. Nor will I, at any rate, ſuffer you to call me ſuperſtitious; for the thing is very probable: ſurely, in recovering ſuch a woman, where ſuch a family and ſuch a huſband are concerned, the Angels of PITY and HEALTH may very [173] properly be intereſted. I will not excuſe you, if you do not acquaint me with the ſucceſs of my dream immediately.

As to the conduct and converſation of Mr. SEDLEY, in the ſummer-houſe, I cannot but admire his addreſs and ingenuity. His making a confident of your brother was ſuch a ſtroke of policy as ſhews him to be no ordinary lover; and I can ſee, (from the delicate turn of his compliments, and his management of thoſe nameleſs delicacies, which, though called minute, are amongſt the points of importance,) that he is no novice in thoſe matters.—You aſk for my ſentiments upon the ſubject: What can I ſay?—Have you not ſent me the moſt amiable ſpecimen of his attachment? —Was not this attachment diſcovered in a mode peculiar to the elegance of his character?—Has he not perſon—manner—fortune—wit—ſenſe?—Do you not know what [174] a complexion he has, my dear, when he bluſhes?—Has he not, by your own confeſſion, the moſt decorated addreſs—the moſt ſplendid ſentiments—the moſt elevated air? and Is it not the opinion of your brother, that he never met with any gentleman ‘ſo eaſy, or ſo engaging in that ſort of behaviour, which is the reſult of a brilliant capacity, ornamented breeding, and unaffected complaiſance?’

Thus recommended, then, my dear, on all ſides, how is it poſſible that my ſentiments ſhould not be greatly in his favour? How is it poſſible that I ſhould not wiſh to alter the ſuperſcription of my letters, and direct them for Mrs. SEDLEY?

After all, ſuppoſe I was to change my note: you aſk me for my ſentiments: ſuppoſe you ſee them in the following letter:

[175]

To Miſs DELMORE.

Dear DELIA,

I OBEY your deſire in regard to the offers of Mr. SEDLEY, and here ſend you the ſecret of my heart upon them.

In the firſt place, I would have you to conſider, men are generally falſe, and can aſſume any ſhape that forwards and facilitates their purpoſe.

In the next place, you are moſt likely ſo partial to him, that you call thoſe actions elegant which are only ordinary; and his manners, which are in your eye ſo enchanting, may only be a pretty method he has got of playing upon the ſurface of common ſubjects, juſt to gain his ends, after which he will, perhaps, become as inſipid, or as impertinent as the fop whom [176] you, in your former letters, have ridiculed. —Ten to one but this polite lover will be a very rude huſband; and when the magic of the marriage-circle is drawn in his favour, alas, poor lady wiſe, how will thine eyes be open to the deluſion!—Putting all theſe points together, therefore, my advice is fairly this—forbid him your houſe —baniſh him from your company—blot him from your memory, and, to cut the matter ſhort, have nothing more to ſay to him. Theſe are the councils of your

LUCY SAXBY.

Should I ſend this laconic epiſtle formally ſigned and ſealed, what would be the conſequence?—Methinks I ſee the whole ſcene? The angry DELIA has finiſhed the letter, and lays it down—ſhe hems twice or thrice, attempting, but in vain, to ſwallow the affront — Surely, ſays ſhe, (beautifully bridling,) ſurely Lady SAXBY [177] might have ſoftened the matter a little— ſhe is very explicit—but how ſhould ſhe be a judge of a man ſhe never ſaw?—I am not much delighted with her letter, I can tell her that—She believes all men are alike—What! does ſhe compare the divine SEDLEY, to that atom of a fop, that "bug with gilded wings?" Upon my word, a ſmart compariſon—very agreeable truly—I'll drop my correſpondence with her cenſorious Ladyſhip, however.—

Ah, DELIA! DELIA! have I not ſhewn off the ſex faithfully?—Do I not know what agreeable inconſiſtencies we are in love-affairs? How ready we are all to aſk the advice of another, when we are predetermined to take our own! Now, are you not, my dear correſpondent, are you not a little hypocrite? Have you not reſolved to encourage SEDLEY, and would not every diſſuaſive be ineffectual. But I rejoice to [178] think you are under no neceſſity to anſwer that queſtion—I do not ſee any ſuſpicious part in SEDLEY'S behaviour, and I expect that you will diſtinguiſh yourſelf from the reſt of your ſex, even by the elegance and ingenuouſneſs with which you meet his advances. That the event may be happineſs to both, is moſt unfeignedly the wiſh of your

LUCY SAXBY.

LETTER C. Mrs. LA MOTTE to the Reverend HORACE HOMESPUN. (Prior to the Receipt of the laſt.)

[179]

IS then the veil rent, my good Mr. HOMESPUN?—Is the bruiſed reed ſhaken to pieces?—Language was never made equal to ſuch a heart-rending ſubject. Remember, however, even in the midſt of affliction remember, the character of a chriſtian paſtor. Make haſte, Oh, my unhappy friend! to your own cottage. Take no vengeance on an unworthy rake, even ſhould you find him. The thorn is in his heart—the flaming ſword is in his boſom. My feeble conſolations— [180] my hopes—my attentions and my prayers, will be for ever at your ſervice. Delay not then, longer than it is neceſſary, your journey to the parſonage—and your real ſympathizing

C. LA MOTTE.

LETTER CI. The Reverend HORACE HOMESPUN to Mrs. LA MOTTE.

[181]

YES, Mrs. LA MOTTE—I will remember what is due to the character of a Chriſtian clergyman, and I am returning, as I ought, to my ſolitary cottage: but let me enjoin you—though your own prudence will render that injunction ſuperfluous—not to ſatisfy curioſity of any kind, whether it comes in the ſhape of condolence, ſympathy, or ſurprize, as to the true cauſe of my unfortunate HARRIET'S departure. Let her memory eſcape the cenſure even of an ill ſuggeſtion. I write this upon the road at our reſting-place, while the horſes are [182] baited, and the men refreſhed. Ah, my dear Mrs. LA MOTTE, what a mechanical creature is man! People who are hired for their attendance at a funeral are ſo familiariſed to the laſt ceremonies, that they ſmile in their ſables; and, while they are conveying youth and beauty to the tomb, can enjoy the ordinary, everyday events of life with as much glee and inconſideration as if they were carrying the gayeſt bride and bridegroom to the altar. The mourners who came with me, are at this inſtant carouſing in the next room—while ſhe who uſed heretofore to be the companion of my journeys, and made every place a home to me by the enchantments of her preſence and ſociety, is waiting their leiſure, and lying in a gloomy vehicle, without any refreſhment whatever.

Without refreſhment! What have I [183] ſaid, and how does my preſent practice contradict my former precepts? Do I forget the rewards of an innocent ſoul— and are all my tears ſhed over the breathleſs body; which, being no longer animated by that ſoul, is nothing? Surely I have loſt my wonted ſenſe of religion, and Providence—

No—Mrs. LA MOTTE—no—I have not. To religion, and to Providence, be every event committed—but neither have robbed me of my ſenſibility, and while that remains I cannot "but remember ſuch things were, and were moſt precious to me." Even memory aſſiſts in drawing a picture to diſtreſs me—

She who is there emboxed was one whom I choſe from the reſt of the world —She was indeed my world—I have ſeen her walk—Her, now clay-cold hand, has [184] been a thouſand times joined in that which is now employed in deſcribing her fate.

She increaſed every day in ſenſe, and diſcretion, and beauty—I think not of her laſt offences—for how ſhould village ſimplicity be a match for town maxims?

—Neither man nor angel can diſcern
HYPOCRISY, the only evil that walks
Inviſible thro' earth;
And oft, tho' Wiſdom wakes, Suſpicion ſleeps.
At Wiſdom's gate, while Goodneſs thinks no ill
Where no ill ſeems.

It begins to rain, Mrs. LA MOTTE —The drops patter upon the roof of the hearſe—I put my face to the caſement, and hear them.—The poor little infant too—my boy—my darling!—my heir—my firſt-born!

Oh, Mrs. LA MOTTE, forgive—forgive [185] me!—Though I know the independency of ſoul and body in ſuch a ſituation—though reaſon points out to me their ſeparate ſtate, yet I cannot, all at once, diſunite them. Human Nature —powerful—pathetic Nature puts in her plea, and you have too much tenderneſs not to admit it—Do not, therefore, reproach me for ordering another covering to be thrown over the hearſe—

More weakneſs, Mrs. LA MOTTE—I have walked forth, and am a little relieved—the ſhower is over. Do not argue with me, dear friend; while the earth contains the beloved remains of Mrs. HOMESPUN, I muſt conſider her as claiming from me reſpect and tenderneſs: the duties even of the huſband do not terminate till ſhe is in the grave.

But the ſable train have finiſhed their [186] repaſt—We are preparing to proceed in our journey. The poſtman is blowing his horn cloſe beſide me: he ſays this letter will reach you ſome hours before the wretched writer of it—He waits while I beg of you to be at the Parſonage againſt our arrival: your preſence will be then neceſſary to prevent me from running the gauntlet through ſtarers, and condolers. Such pity is, at ſuch periods, inſupportable. The hearſe is moving awfully on. I muſt not leave it without one real mourner.

Farewel! Farewel! HORACE HOMESPUN.

LETTER CII. Mrs. LA MOTTE to PHILIP SEDLEY, Eſq at BUXTON. (After the Return of Mr. HOMESPUN.)

[187]

I CONGRATULATE you, Sir, on your victory over every feeling that ſhould diſtinguiſh the human ſpecies from the brutal: or rather I ſalute you upon your notable tranſmigration! The ſyſtem of the philoſopher who contended for ſuch a change, you have adopted, even in this world, with ſucceſs. Yes, Mr. SEDLEY, you are moſt compleatly brutalized indeed. Although I have not the diſhonour to know you perſonally, I make bold to addreſs a few ſentiments to you, [188] chiefly to acquaint you with what you might otherwiſe be for ſome time ignorant. Your principal victims were buried laſt night, and the ſurvivor is in a fair way of ſoon following them.

I could have wiſhed, however, for the ſake of your amuſement, as it ſeems you are gratified upon ſuch occaſions, that you had been a ſpectator of this funeral. Though I can eaſily conceive you do not love preaching, yet, in the diſcourſe of laſt night, there were ſuch remarks as might have highly diverted ſo elevated a mind as yours?

But, to drop this ineffectual part of my ſubject, and proceed to another, more likely to excite your curioſity, Do you know, moſt aſſiduous and yet moſt negligent Sir, that a part of your treaſures are now in my poſſeſſion?—To ſpeak [189] plainer: you muſt know that, amongſt the now uſeleſs cloaths and other late neceſſaries of the entombed HARRIET, was found a BOOK, very thickly marked both by marginal notes, croſſes of the nail, points of the pen, and ſtrokes of the pencil; and in the fair leaf next the title there is written what diſtinguiſhes it to be Mr. SEDLEY'S property.

Now, it plainly appears, Sir, from the ſeveral parts referred to, that you purpoſely pillaged the volume for the pernicious, and rejected the inſtructive. This would have been very proper, had you contented yourſelf, like other commentators, with reprobating what is wrong, in order to ſet it apart from what is right: but how could ſuch ordinary methods be expected from a perſon ſo very extraordinary! You, Sir, have even improved upon your original, and have ingeniouſly [190] laboured to annihilate its merit, while you perpetuate its infamy.

As an inſtance of this, I ſelect the ſubſequent well-illuſtrated paſſages, out of a multitude of others equally amiable. I ſhall place both the Commentator and his Author in a ſeemly, orderly manner, and, as you will eaſily recollect, act the part of a faithful tranſcriber.

CHESTERFIELD.

"Avoid ſeeing an affront, if poſſible."

SEDLEY.

What though L. has ſorely ſtung me —I muſt pleaſe her—and be revenged at a proper time—At preſent, my cue is blindneſs.

CHESTERFIELD.

"If a man of ſenſe perſeveres, he will prevail at laſt."

SEDLEY.
[191]

Oh, DORMER, DORMER! thou dear encourager—How doſt thou give me ſpirits to go on? H. H. is an angel of the firſt order.

CHESTERFIELD.

"Read faces."

SEDLEY.

What a Right Reverend face, and how delightfully legible is that of Maſter Miniſter H.—Not a trait of ſuſpicion about it. I like his honeſt broad brow—his grey eye—which looks at every thing, and into nothing. The very man. Oh divine H. H.!

CHESTERFIELD.

"Don't yield to fits of rage."

SEDLEY.

I am curſedly addicted to paſſion— [192] Will curb myſelf—Coolneſs carries all before it—Saucy L. thou ſhalt ſuffer— for I will oblige thee; and inſtead of contempt, ſhew thee a kindneſs—Then— then—Mum!

How could the ſagacious Mr. SEDLEY truſt his ſerious views with the very woman he meant to deſtroy? But that is eaſily accounted for. In another part of the book we find a clue to this myſtery.

CHESTERFIELD.

"Be, like Caeſar's wife, unſuſpected."

SEDLEY.

Yes, dear, enchanting HARRIET, if it ſhould ever be my fortune to pleaſe thee, how would I conſult the ſecurity of thy ſituation—how guard thy fame, even with my life—from the breath of Detraction—Ah, couldſt thou but ſurmount [193] the vulgar prejudices of the world —couldſt thou but read in my countenance the attentive—ardent—eternal friend—the—the—Oh! HARRIET, HARRIET, I will not ſwear to the truth of my paſſion, leſt you ſhould ſuſpect me—but if I might be permitted to aſk a favour with all imaginable ſoftneſs— In a word, HARRIET—This is the true Volume of Delight—The world is full of maſks, and if you and I put ours delicately on, ſo as to talk not of our own affairs, never ſhew Maſter Miniſter H. any contempt, flatter his little oratorical and claſſical vanity, and aſſume the proper flexibility, what joys may we not taſte, what treaſures of tenderneſs may we not allow one another?

Ah! dear arbitreſs—keep this ſacred volume from every eye but your own: read—and return it to the fondeſt and moſt faithful of men!—

[194]Here break we off, Mr. SEDLEY, to make way for a reflection: I have always taken notice that your great ſchemers counteract their fondeſt purpoſes. In the very depth of their conſpiracy they diſcover a little which ſerves as a clue to the diſcovery of a great deal; nor did I ever know any man who had a bad ſecret to keep, and a difficult hand of cards to play, that did not, by too much caution in ſome points, and too much careleſſneſs in others, loſe the honours of the game:

You, under fair pretence of friendly ends,
And well-plac'd words of gloſſing courteſy,
Baited with reaſons, not unplauſible,
Wind into the eaſy, human heart,
And HUG it into ſnares.

And yet, Sir, to apply one more poetical line to you, what, after all, can be ſaid of you better than this? ‘Oh, what a goodly outſide falſhood hath!’ [195] Theſe expoſtulations, however, Sir, are foreign from the purpoſe of my addreſs, which is to intimate to you my deſign of publiſhing this odd Volume of the great LORD CHESTERFIELD with the Remarks of the ſplendid PHILIP SEDLEY, Eſq— Such annotations will, no doubt, give freſh vigour to the ſale, and add exceedingly to the popularity both of the Original and the Commentary. It will at leaſt ſhew, how the Man of Faſhion may improve upon celebrated precepts, and (what is, perhaps, of greater conſequence) how the Woman of Innocence may eſcape the miſeries of the practice. Above all things be aſſured, the world ſhall not long remain unacquainted with the gentleman who has accommodated it with ſo ſpirited an illuſtration of a book ſo much in vogue; and who knows but this conduct may tempt you to favour [196] the public with the remainder of the Volumes, equally enriched, and by the ſame eminent hand.

I am Sir, Your indignant humble ſervant, C. LA MOTTE.

LETTER CIII. Mrs. THORNTON to Mrs. MORTIMER.

[197]

YOU frighten me to death, my dear FANNY: what can poſſibly be the matter?—Not two hours before your alarming letter arrived at Lieutenant VERNON'S I had given away my name, my hand, and my heart, to Mr. THORNTON, of Leiceſterſhire. It is a match of haſte, but I hope not of raſhneſs. He is, I find, the friend of a gentleman now intimate in your family, and, by the diſordered anſwers I have received from my huſband, I am afraid, to the wicked ſchemes of that friend you—But it cannot be: Mr. THORNTON would not avow any cloſe connection with a character ſo [198] atrocious—nay, I may be miſtaken as to the villainy under which you tell me you are dying—Dying, FANNY MORTIMER! —Heaven forbid—what a wedding-day have you made of mine! My huſband, too, has been in tears almoſt ever ſince the receipt of your letter. I know not what to write, or what to think: if you ever loved, ſatisfy the impatience of

Your much diſturbed, but ſincere, ARAMINTA THORNTON.

LETTER CIV. Mrs. MORTIMER to Mrs. THORNTON.

[199]

WRITTEN in the agony of her heart, and with a trembling hand, receive the laſt ſentiments that are to be expected from your wretched friend.

Was Mr. THORNTON, then, intimate with the—the—Oh! Heaven!—was he intimate with this—this—I ſhudder at his name—this Mr. SEDLEY? Perhaps he was one of his correſpondents—If ſo, he knew his deſigns; and, if he did know them, how ſhall his heart be appeaſed for concealing them from the unhappy woman whom they have thrown into deſpair. Yes, ARAMINTA, I am in deſpair [200] —I am aſhamed, not only of my friends, and my huſband, but of my ſhadow—I dare not look in the glaſs—

Seek not to know the particulars of what—cannot be ſpoken to. I am abuſed —deceived—and hurt beyond the poſſibility of cure.—I will die—

Dreadful officiouſneſs! I had flown up to my chamber, and turned the key, to indulge my anguiſh, in all that luxury, which, on ſuch occaſions, is afforded by ſolitude, when Mr. MORTIMER tapped at the door, to know how I did?—My father, ſiſter, and all the family, followed his example; and laſt of all came my beloved mother, whoſe eye I beheld through the key-hole, ſwimming in tears. —But I was proof even againſt this— Steady in my reſolutions, I dared not to admit her.

[201]The cauſe of my new ſource of grief ſeems yet to be undiſcovered—What of that?—I know it myſelf—The bleſſed GOD, "from whom no ſecrets are hid," knows it. I was myſelf the aggreſſor— This fatal hand brought about the horrid circumſtance—I betrayed my weakneſs to him in a letter—I told him his departure was neceſſary to my repoſe— That was enough to make ſuch a man perpetrate my deſtruction.—

Partiality—Wretch that I was—What right had I to be partial?—Mr. MORTIMER claimed my heart—Mr. MORTIMER is the beſt of men—Memory be ſtill!—

Huſh! ARAMINTA, I hear his ſtep on the ſtairs—

He has thruſt a card through the door, and gone down again ſoftly to the [202] parlour. ARAMINTA—the pen falls from my hand—When I ſend this I will ſend with it the card!—ARAMINTA—I will not live!—

Read—read, and tell me if I ought not to wiſh for annihilation.

The CARD incloſed.

EDWARD MORTIMER'S tendereſt invitations wait on FANNY, for her company (after ſhe has amuſed herſelf with her pen) in the parlour, as DELIA is going to try a gentle tune on her new Piano Forte, EDWARD will attempt a ſoft accompanyment upon the flute, our little brother is to join in the ſtrokes of the violin, Sir HENRY and Lady DELMORE are to be our auditors, and they are to have quite a little concert. But they will [203] be all out of tune, and it is impoſſible there ſhould be any harmony, unleſs FANNY is amongſt them, now and then beſtowing a note from one of the moſt melodious pipes in the world—Perhaps Mr. SEDLEY may drop in, and the manly elegance of his voice will be delightful— EDWARD deſires his FANNY to obſerve, that this very full card is ſubſcribed by all the perſons in the world whom ſhe beſt loves, and who beſt love her, namely, by

  • Sir HENRY DELMORE,
  • Lady DELMORE,
  • DELIA DELMORE,
  • And Her EDWARD MORTIMER.

I muſt pauſe again, ARAMINTA—my ſtrength fails me—

In Continuation. Ten o'Clock at Night.

[204]

No, my friend—I could not obey the ſummons—I could not, on the other hand, have courage to ſend an apology— About ten minutes after the card was delivered, I heard the dear, well-known voice of Lady DELMORE, ‘Sweet as the ſhepherd's pipe upon the mountains,’ tenderly enquire—"Is my child preparing to join us?—Will ſhe make us happy?—Take your own time, my love; only remember, that the pain or pleaſure of the night depends upon you—Don't hurry—don't diſcompoſe your ſpirits"—

The excellent, moſt revered, and moſt [205] venerable Lady a ſecond time returned unanſwered!

Oh! ARAMINTA—ARAMINTA—how I wept!—how my heart yearned to claſp this dear mother to it!—but I was all the time labouring with a dreadful circumſtance, which to diſcloſe, would produce complicated misfortune—

God of compaſſion, to what an exigence am I reduced!—

Scarce had Lady DELMORE withdrawn, but Mr. MORTIMER aſcended the ſtairs, and "Will not my lovely FANNY—will not the wife of my ſoul condeſcend to oblige us?" ſaid he, with a ſoftneſs that was a freſh occaſion of diſtreſs to me—

I could not, upon this, avoid giving to ſome incoherent expreſſions, and [206] wild ejaculations, part of which were uttered upon my knees.

The trembling MORTIMER turned down ſtairs, and preſently I heard the whole family aſſembled in the entry leading to the chambers, conſulting by whiſper.

They conclude (I overhear) that my brain is hurt—Ah! that it were, ARAMINTA—How—how, my friend, is this to be accounted for, but I would not enter the ſleeping apartment of EDWARD MORTIMER for all that the ſun ſurveys beneath his radiance!—My ſoul is not polluted!—

"When will the darling of my wiſhes ſuffer me (ſaid MORTIMER juſt now) to lead her from that melancholy chamber to her own apartment?"

[207]"Never—never—never"—ſaid I, in the extremity of my grief—"Never, Mr. MORTIMER"—

"FANNY"—replied the aſtoniſhed MORTIMER—"Did you ſpeak, my love?"—

I recollected my imprudence, and catching up a piece of paper wrote on it as follows:

"LET the dear and honoured friends of FANNY, indulge her idle fancy for this ſingle night, and they ſhall command her for the remainder of her whole life. She finds herſelf unuſually well, and inclined to ſcribble to her long-neglected correſpondents; and when ſhe is weary ſhe will lie down on the little tent-bed in the room where ſhe now is—

[208]"Her peace of mind depends ſo much on their yielding to this requeſt (however romantic it may appear), that ſhe flatters herſelf her dear friends will not refuſe it to her."

I put this under the bottom of the door, and heard the injured, yet moſt delicate MORTIMER immediately carry it away.

The maid has brought me a candle, and though I find the whole family (even to my aged father, he who muſt needs want the balms of repoſe) is to ſet up, I am no more to be invaded—This tenderneſs—this conſtant, uniform compliance diſtracts me—Poor—poor MORTIMER—this is the firſt time ſince our union that—that—

[209]Excuſe me, ARAMINTA, I muſt leave off, and think a little!

In Continuation.

It is midnight, ARAMINTA. I have come to a reſolution—In the common courſe of human declinings I cannot live long—My conſtitution is utterly gone—A fair excuſe offers (during my preſent ſtate of infirmity) to be indulged with an apartment ſeparate from the excellent EDWARD MORTIMER. Let me, then, dare to live—Let me live, were it only to prevent a diſcovery which my death might occaſion—Let the ſecret of the moſt barbarous SEDLEY die with me, without involving in it either my father or my huſband—

[210]The maid tells me, the whole houſe is in tears—What my venerable father— my mother—all—all in tears!—

I was unable longer to ſupport the idea; and I will go down to them, that they may reſt—But into the chamber of her huſband never ſhall again go the deſolate

FANNY MORTIMER.
Farewel! Farewel!

I will privately give this letter to the poſtman with my own hand, if I can ſteal out when he calls for others—But— it muſt—alas! my ARAMINTA—it will be my laſt.

LETTER CV. THOMAS at the Bath, to TIMOTHY in Town.

[211]
Dear TIMOTHY,
How like a dog look'd Hercules,
Thus to a diſtaff chain'd!

'SDEATH, TIMONTHY, "I'm ſped, I'm married." In the very flower of my youth, in the bud of my adventures, I am cut off from all the joys of rambling, by matrimony. In a word, TIMOTHY, the firſt fair ſhe that I was well with, as the great Lord CHESTERFIELD calls it, complained in form to my [212] maſter, who, in the moment of his rage, drew his ſword, cocked his piſtol, and giving me the choice of two curſed things —namely, death or a wife—would certainly have ſent me to my account, "with all my imperfections on my head," even now broad blown in the middle of May, if I had not fixed upon ſomething: and, although in the confuſion of my fears I have choſen the worſt of the two deſtinies, by taking to my bed the low-born wench I have ſimulated, yet "no man knows the fate he's born to," and I have been to the church with a water-dipper— yea, TIMOTHY, with a creature, who, for ſome years, hath got her bread by ſtanding at the ſide of the bath, and preſenting a brimmer of the water to the paſſenger. Then ſhe is as inſipid as the water itſelf, and ten times more illiterate than the tumbler that contains it. I marked her out only as a petty experiment, juſt to bring [213] my hand into play, as it were, before I ventured to CHESTERFIELDISE—a word, TIMOTHY, I collected from THORNTON'S letters, which thou knoweſt I have an occaſional acceſs to—with others. However, my ſpouſe—or rather my ſpoſo—for I would avoid vulgar expreſſions, which are "certain characteriſtics of bad company, and a bad education"—my ſpoſo is wholeſome, pretty, and not ill-made: but as ſhe has not the ſmalleſt degree of ton about her, and doth not pretend the moſt diſtant acquaintance with either A, B, C, or any of the twenty-four members in that learned family, I deſpair of ever making her figure as an editor, or, indeed, of collecting together any of my papers, upon which account I charge thee, TIMOTHY, to preſerve, very cautiouſly, all my letters, notes, minutes, and maxims; and as I ſhall very ſoon travel—(for a wife at home will only give me eclat abroad, and thou [214] canſt not believe I will live long with a water-dipper, though ſhe were the Nereid of the ſpring)—thou wilt obſerve to tie them up, date them on the backs, docket them, and if thou ſhouldſt ſurvive me (which I ſupplicate the heavens thou mayſt not), I beg of thee to put them into the hand of the beſt bookſeller then in vogue, and publiſh them againſt my conſent; and (as order and method are the very ſouls of buſineſs) ſuppoſe the title (which I am to know nothing of) were to run thus:

The Letters of THOMAS TRAVERSE, abroad, to TIMOTHY TRUEMAN, at home: containing EVERY INSTRUCTION NECESSARY TO FORM A FOOTMAN OF HONOUR, VIRTUE, TASTE, AND FASHION.

[215]Above all points, TIMOTHY, avoid careleſſneſs: let not a ſlip of our ſacred ſimulations be ſeen. SEDLEY, with all his cleverneſs and graces, is a moſt thoughtleſs fellow—ſaving his authority. There is not a ſyllable in his correſpondence to THORNTON but I am acquainted with it. Many a ſmall eſſential he hits off to admiration. As far as the maxims of his Author extends, in regard to being well with women, he is a wonder. But of this excluſive, between ourſelves, he is a bungler. He never puts his epiſtles into the office with his own hand; he truſts them to me, under the ſimple ſafeguard of a wet wafer: my knowledge of the world points out to me the neceſſity of learning all I can, eſpecially when I can make obſervations without being obſerved. But, beſides this, an epiſtle ſo hurried off is but half a letter; for nicely is it noted, that neatneſs in folding up, ſealing, and directing, [216] is by no means to be neglected: there is ſomething even in the exterior of a letter that may pleaſe or diſpleaſe, and conſequently deſerves attention. Thou muſt know, TIMOTHY, and I tell it thee in great confidence, that I have beſtowed ſeveral leiſure-hours in preparing for thine eye (and in due time for the world, that is, againſt my will) a Treatiſe on Toothpicking, wherein I ſhew the preciſe method of holding, handling, drawing, and replacing the dentical inſtruments. Beſides which, I have almoſt ready, an Eſſay on Nail-cutting; and I have gone a great way in bringing to perfection an inſtrument—for which, by the by, I expect both a reward and a patent—that is ſo contrived, as to curve the nails, prevent their raggedneſs, hinder the fleſh from growing up, and preſerve them ſmooth, even, and tranſparent. And that every thing may be compleat, I have ſketched out a plan for a ſatire [217] againſt tricks and oddities, of which I ſend thee, underneath, a couplet or two, by way of ſpecimen of the work.

Some pluck the button from the injur'd cloaths,
While others rub the ears, and pick the noſe.
Some are ſo deſtitute of air and grace,
Even while they ſpeak, to turn away the face:
Nay, ſome there are, to delicacy dead,
Who always have the fingers in the head;
This ſmells his meat, and makes his neighbour ſick,
This clown eats ſlow, and that a world too quick.
Nay ſome, to ſuch a height is rudeneſs grown,
Will greaſe their lips in picking of a bone.

I muſt not, however, forget to appriſe thee of the moſt elaborate of all my works, entituled, The Art of Carving, wherein the adroitneſs and gentility of doing the honours of the table, without hacking acroſs a bone, without beſpattering the [218] company with the ſauce, and without overturning the glaſſes into our neighbours pockets, will be critically conſidered. At the end of my performances I propoſe to annex certain miſcellaneous obſervations on men and manners, ſuch as knowledge of the world—the taking off the hat—offering the hand—making the bow—hanging the ſword—managing the cane—holding the knife and fork—blowing the noſe—and all the et-caetera eſſential to a gentleman. I ſhall, by way of ſupplement, add a few free thoughts on modeſt aſſurance, a caveat againſt baſhfulneſs, hints on exterior ſeriouſneſs, and cautions on flexibility of countenance; with a key to the heart, or the ſtudy of weakneſſes, infirmities, foibles, and paſſions, illuſtrated: in ſhort, TIMOTHY, my labours all together will form a compleat commentary on CHESTERFIELD, and I would have them lettered [219] on the back thus: TRAVERSE on STANHOPE. Perſpicuity is a peculiar grace.

Oh! TIMOTHY, why were talents like mine denied an adequate fortune? Here has SEDLEY been, almoſt a month, catching a couple of beauties—ſimulating a pair of petticoats; when I, had my purſe been like his, could have compaſſed a dozen. To ſay the truth, he has been rather unlucky too, for one of his damſels is dead, and the other is moving off.

You will gueſs what a regard I pay to moral character, when, notwithſtanding my poverty, I ſcorn to repair my ſhattered fortunes by impeaching him. No, TIMOTHY, that would be baſe—let every gentleman's affairs be ſacred: I muſt not wound my feelings—I muſt not be blaſted, TIMOTHY—I muſt not be blaſted.

[220]I lament nothing, my friend, but want of money; and yet I have been lately thinking, manner, may procure even that. Surely, TIMOTHY, the ſame ſprightly powers that can make a cuckold, cannot fail, if dexterouſly applied, to help a man's pocket. There is a very rich, old, rheumatical, heavy-heel'd fellow at the bath, whom I have fixed my eye upon, and am reſolved to try the experiment.

Surely the ſerious exterior may befriend us with men as well as women. I know his weakneſſes—and he ſays he is ſure I was born a gentleman. Money I muſt really have.

Now, taking a ride upon the King's high-way, rather late in the evening, is ſo curſedly hazardous, and I have ſuch an objection to roguery, that I cannot think of it: but I am perſuaded I can ſimulate [221] or diſſimulate—(for I hardly know the diſtinction)—a purſe or two, and make the perſon ſimulated pleaſed with himſelf, and much obliged to me for taking it. This is, at worſt, an ingenious way of running round the halter, without putting the neck into it; and if we view it as it ought to be viewed, it is only a notable way of making a man pay ſo much gold for ſo much flattery, ſelf-love, and ſatisfaction. For the ſucceſs of all theſe arduous and laudable undertakings, pray, TIMOTHY; and believe me

Thy conſtant friend, THOMAS.

LETTER CVI. TIMOTHY in Town, to THOMAS at the Bath.

[222]
Mr. THOMAS,

I HAVE received ſafe all the letters you directed to me, and I ſhould have honoured them much ſooner, had it been in my power; but the truth is, I have too much buſineſs to allow much time for pleaſure—or, rather, I endeavour to make my pleaſure and my buſineſs go fair and ſoftly, like worthy fellow-ſervants in the ſame family. Beſides this, TOM, you and your maſter, and I and mine—(if you will excuſe me for following your example of [223] putting the cart before the horſe)—are ſo very different, that it is impoſſible we ſhould agree upon any point we talk of. I am a plain fellow, with a worſted-laced livery and a wig, and you a gentleman with ruffles at your wriſts, tambour waiſt-coat, and your hair tucked in braids under your hat. I condeſcend to take a ſhilling, or even ſixpence, a head, by the way of Good bye to you, honeſt TIM, from my maſter's company, and you are above ſuch a cuſtom, and break your guinea at a tavern or a coffee-houſe to fling down your half-crown to the waiter with a dignified diſdain, like a Prince.

PHILIP SEDLEY, Esq your Lord, makes it his amuſement to rattle away from ſaltwater to freſh-water, from this polite place to that polite place, (to ſpeak more properly,) from one Ton to another Ton, till he has ſhewn himſelf every-where, without [224] ſettling any-where. My maſter, on the contrary, Mr. Michael Bankwell, is an elderly, induſtrious, regular, batchelor of a citizen, up at eight, and in bed by eleven, who keeps me becauſe he ſays I hit his humour, and he hates new faces. Moreover, Mr. TOM, there is nothing ſimilar between our families. I ſave, you do not ſave. I am prudent, you are not. I love a wife, to whom I have been married fifteen years, and am only ſorry that I cannot ſee her more than once in the week—You are tired of yours, to whom you have not been a week married. I delight in the appellation of plain TIM, or TIMOTHY— You are offended unleſs, Sir, or Mr, precedes the name which was beſtowed upon you by your godfathers and godmothers.

In ſhort, TOM—I beg pardon—in ſhort, Mr. THOMAS, I begin to think (as we ſo little reſemble one another, either in our [225] likings or averſions) that we had better not put ourſelves for the future to the expence of poſtage; which (as you and your maſter are addicted to go pretty far into the country, and you are apt to write four letters where a man of leſs genius and ſpirit would ſcarce write one) is really a ſerious circumſtance.

Not that I ſhould propoſe ſuch a matter neither, were there no other obſtacle in the way: for (to flouriſh for a moment in your mode) I muſt inform you, that

The friends I have, and their adoption try'd,
I'd grapple to my heart with hooks of ſteel.

Frankly to ſpeak therefore, Mr. TRAVERSE, (though you are undoubtedly a youth of parts, and able to do as much harm as any lad I know) you are not the man to my mind. In a word, TOM, I never took kindly to you; and ſince your laſt letter, [226] which lies on the table before me, I like you leſs than ever.

And ſo you look like a dog now you have got a wife, do you, TOM? and marriage at three-and-twenty you call being cut off. Take care you are not cut off in your flower another way! For if the ſcheme of ſimulating (the meaning of which God knows) the rheumatical gentleman's money out of his pocket ſhould fail, and you ſhould employ the ſprightly powers you talk of in making him part with it whether he will or no, you may ſtand a chance to be promoted even ſooner than you wiſh.

With reſpect to the books you figure ſo much upon, I know nothing about them; and if they relate only to picking of teeth, and turning out of toes, paring of nails, blowing noſes, and taking off hats, I muſt [227] beg to be excuſed having any thing to do with it; in the firſt place becauſe I think I know all theſe things partly as well as his Lordſhip, and, perhaps, ſome of them better. As to knives and forks, I believe I can handle them as well as any nobleman in the univerſe—I am no bad carver, unleſs, I am ſharp-ſet; I am not to be told when it is my duty to have my hat under my arm; and, as to the reſt, I never underſtood, till his Lordſhip told me, that it was decent to pick the teeth at all in company, if it could be avoided.

I ſhall make you laugh, no doubt, when I acquaint you that I approve a cuſtom my maſter has of reading to his family every Sunday evening; and, as to books, I have as many as ſerve my purpoſe; namely, a Teſtament left by my aunt Mary in the year 1701, a Whole Duty of Man, Farriery made Eaſy, and The Servants Guide.

[228]You wiſh for a full purſe, you ſay, for the ſake of doing more injuries to innocent women: there we differ again; though I am, in the main, contented with what I have, I now and then ſigh for an increaſe of fortune to diſtribute amongſt many worthy people whom I know to be under a cloud: and (if I thought you would not ſmile too much) I ſhould venture to tell you, that I have two little orphan couſins in my eye, who ſhall not want a friend— if they turn out well—though they have loſt a father: and I have more pleaſure in ſeating my old frail mother in her armchair by a chearful fire, and giving now and then a neceſſary to a blind brother that I have, all which I pinch out of my perquiſites and wages, than it is poſſible you ſhould even ſimulate, as you call it, out of a ſtranger, or get by the ruin of all the men, women, and children,, in BUXTON.

[229]And ſo, pretty, polite, Mr. THOMAS, I leave you to your undertakings, and beg that you will do me the favour to leave me to mine.

TIMOTHY TRUEMAN.

LETTER CVII. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

[230]

OH, THORNTON!—THORNTON! —THORNTON!—I muſt write, I muſt fly to thy kind boſom for reſource, although it were only to tell thee that thy prophecy is fulfilled! There walks not the inſulted earth, at this preſent moment, ſuch a raſcal—ſuch a wretch—ſuch a fiend as PHILIP SEDLEY.—Oh, my GOD! what a ſtroke of heart have I this inſtant ſuſtained!—The dead of the night, thou knoweſt, is generally my hour for projection; and, as this evening was particularly dark, ſerene, and favourable to my purpoſe of reflecting upon the miſchiefs of the morrow, I left my chamber about [231] eleven o'clock, and took the path that would ſoon have brought me to a little grove, by the ſide of a ſtill ſtreamlet, where I could have indulged "meditation even to madneſs." But, oh, Mr. THORNTON! what an agonizing interruption met me in the way! As I reached the door where I lately reſided (for on HORACE'S return to town I changed my lodgings), what, of all things horrible to the heart, doſt thou think I ſaw—Not lightning— not the flames of a burning town, but a ſingle torch, that diſplayed to me two coffins, containing, the two fair creatures in whoſe fates I had been inſtrumental, carried on the ſhoulders of the attendants to a hearſe that was ſtanding ready to receive them: yes, my friend—HARRIET HOMESPUN, and the pledge of chaſte embraces, were both paſſing to their laſt home: I gave a ſcream that broke voluntarily from my boſom—I fainted in [232] the arms of a perſon that was ſtanding in a penſive poſture againſt the ſide of the hearſe—Oh, Mr. THORNTON,—it was HORACE himſelf!—it was the honeſt man —the kind friend—the unſuſpicious prieſt, that I had injured paſt redemption—I recovered only to meet an eye that ſunk me to the earth again—the dominion of the accurſed DORMER was paſt—Truth took me by the heart-ſtrings, and Conſcience caſt me upon the knee. I had no power over my own faculties; and the God of Nature, did as he thought proper. I took the coffin of the wife in my arms— I bathed it with the ſcalding tears of unaffected penitence—I told the poor, trembling, aſtoniſhed prieſt, whom he might thank for all his miſeries—whom he might conſider as the murderer of his family. I uſually carry with me, in my night-walks, a ſword—I was armed with one at preſent—I offered it to the hand of HORACE [233] —I tore open my waiſtcoat—bared my breaſt, and begged from him the ſtroke of mercy—He refuſed to give me the death I merited. Cruel man! he left me to my GOD! I caught the weapon, ſhortened it, and pointed it at the deteſted heart, that directed the deteſted hand but even here I was diſappointed by th [...] barbarity of HORACE, who wrenched it from me ere I had little more than perforated the ſkin; and, aſſuring the attendants, that I was at times, as now, diſordered in my ſenſes, ordered the hearſ [...] to paſs on. He mounted his horſe—bad [...] the landlord go quietly to bed,—ſay nothing of what had happened—and, wipin [...] his eyes, rode after the machine, that contained the ruins of his family.

I was left alone—my ſhame is revealed —every man's tongue will be againſt me on the morrow.—I have followed my [234] Preceptor into the pit of irremediable perdition. Repentance is the labour of a life: a minute's ignominy is to me inſupportable.—I will leave this curſed place directly—I will ſaddle my horſe privately; but never, never ſhalt thou again be diſgraced, my ſtill beloved THORNTON, by the preſence of the

Deteſtible PHILIP SEDLEY.
P. S.

The poor FANNY MORTIMER, too, is dying—I have reduced to aſhes that family alſo. To poſſeſs her undefended form in a ſwoon! What violence! What villainy! Oh, ſhame! ſhame!—I will not ſend this letter at preſent—I muſt aſk the forgiveneſs of the expiring FANNY [235] before I die; or elſe I ſhould be aſhamed even to leave exiſtence—I will ſee her. Poor MORTIMER, how have I wronged thee!—Unhappy DELIA, how have I deceived thee! Let no man be tempted by the maxims of a caſuiſt, to leave the plain, ſimple path of ſingleneſs; and be it engraven upon every heart, indelibly, that HYPOCRISY, however poliſhed, will lead us to the gates of Hell, and that TRUTH, only TRUTH, can conduct us, through her temple, to Heaven!

LETTER CVIII. Mr. MORTIMER to Mr. THORNTON, At Lieutenant VERNON'S.

[236]
Sir,

I AM this moment arrived in town from BUXTON, where the body of your wounded friend Mr. SEDLEY will be found either by you, or any of thoſe who think it worth while to own him. He has, as I ſuppoſe you know, been the occaſion of the moſt multiplied miſchief that ever was, I believe, committed in the ſame [237] ſpace of time, in that or any other town. His death, however, and his repentance, which appears to be ſincere, are all that man can have.

It would by no means intereſt a ſtranger, as you are, Sir, to particularize the ſorrows your friend has introduced, not only in my family, but others equally happy before his admittance into them. But I underſtand from this libertine, who put your late letters into my hand, after I had wounded him, that you have married the moſt intimate friend of my diſhonoured FANNY: to her it will not be unintereſting to obſerve, that it is impoſſible ſhe ſhould ever behold again alive that moſt injured and unfortunate girl, who was upon the point of expiring before I left BUXTON, which I thought it prudent to do, (notwithſtanding my indifference [238] to all future events,) till I ſee what is to be done with the broken-hearted authors of FANNY'S exiſtence.

The ſcene of Mr. SEDLEY'S villainy has, I perceive, been already exhibited to the eye of Mr. THORNTON, who hath, it ſeems, long been his confident and correſpondent; though he muſt pardon me, if I eſteem him leſs worthy the noble-minded ARAMINTA, who could countenance, by his regard, the actions of a PHILIP SEDLEY. Happy, however, am I to hear, for his lady's ſake, that the connection is at length diſſolved. The affair betwixt me and the offender, happened in the dead of night: the ſurgeon, to whom I went myſelf, in defiance of danger, aſſures me the wound is vital. Mr. SEDLEY, who could not ſpeak, gave me, at my departure, your addreſs: I [239] muſt be excuſed from diſcovering mine to Mr. THORNTON at preſent; and I only write to acquaint him of his friend's ſituation. My own miſery is, indeed, extreme: but I have the honour to be,

Sir,
Your moſt humble ſervant, EDWARD MORTIMER.

LETTER CIX. Miss DELIA DELMORE, to Lady LUCY SAXBY.

[240]

NEVER was the ruin of a happy family ſo rapidly compleated, as that of your wretched DELIA DELMORE'S. All the fair hopes that I communicated to Lady LUCY, in my late letters, are now totally overthrown; and the fairy proſpect I drew before her eye hath terminated in death and horror. Oh! LADY SAXBY, I can ſcarce command my hand, or my tears, to enter into explanations: but your kind condolence is the only conſolation now feſt me, and I will endeavour to collect myſelf.

[241]About twelve o'clock, laſt night, a horſeman ſtopt at our door, and knocked loudly for admittance. We were ſeated quite out of ſpirits at the table, and had juſt been talking about withdrawing for the night, while poor Mrs. MORTIMER was lulling her cares to reſt upon the ſopha, having paſt the day in a manner too melancholy to deſcribe to you. WILLIAM had ſcarce opened the door, when a perſon diſmounted, from a panting, hard-ridden horſe, and ruſhed into the middle of the ſupper-room without any ceremony. We ſoon diſcovered, through the dreadful metamorphoſe, the features of Mr. SEDLEY, his waiſtcoat unbutton'd, his hair without a ribbon—his ſhirt ſpotted with blood at the boſom, his face pale and ſquallid, and his eyes bearing all the marks of terror and deſperation. Without making any apology for his intruſion, he drew a chair from the ſide of the room, flung himſelf [242] into it, ſtampt his foot twice againſt the floor, ſmote his breaſt with an air of inexpreſſible vengeance, and, taking a paper from his pocket, held it at arm's length, and burſt into tears. By this time our attention was diverted from this alarming object to another ſtill more dreadful—poor FANNY MORTIMER was in the ſtrongeſt convulſions I ever remember to have ſeen —SEDLEY toſſed away the paper, after he had cruſhed it in his hand, and flew like lightning to Mrs. MORTIMER: my father, mother, and my brother, all aſſiſted: we hurried her up ſtairs: as I had got to the edge of the door, I ſaw Mr. MORTIMER, with a trembling hand, pouring out a glaſs of the brandy, and lean, almoſt ready to ſink, againſt the wainſcot: and juſt as I left the room he took up the paper that SEDLEY had thrown away. It is a good way to any bed-chamber, and the ſtairs is [243] ſteep: we were ſometime reaching FANNY'S apartment: ſhe remained inſenſible. When we got her into the bed-room, Mr. SEDLEY went down ſtairs—where he had not been two minutes before the words villain! impoſtor! murderer! were vehemently reverberated. Sir HENRY ran to the head of the ſtairs, and ſaying that he diſtinguiſhed the claſhing of ſwords, ran down with the utmoſt precipitation: my mother followed him, and FANNY ſtarted from the bed, and ſtaggering at every ſtep, begg'd; for God's ſake, I would conduct her down. Terror gave her ſwiftneſs— horror lent her temporary ſtrength: ſhe was in the ſupper-room in a moment, but even that was a moment too late—for Oh! Lady LUCY, the deed was done.—Mr. SEDLEY was upon the ground, writheing in blood, and Mr. MORTIMER was ſobbing in his chair, with the weapon of deſtruction [244] ſmoaking in his hand.—FANNY MORTIMER ſaw—ſhriek'd—ſhiver'd, and fell down: even at this moment ſhe lies diſtracted. Her ſenſes are quite gone: neither bleeding, chafing—nor any other applications can recover her—ſhe pierces us to the heart with her cries. She execrates firſt SEDLEY, then herſelf—then MORTIMER: SEDLEY is put into one of our beds—my poor father wiſhes to huſh the horrid affair as long as poſſible—Mr. MORTIMER, without a ſervant, has taken the road to LONDON, and from thence to FRANCE. SEDLEY has never been able to articulate a word. That paper, Lady SAXBY, that fatal paper*, created all the miſchief. I incloſe you a copy of it, from whence you may gueſs the other horrid [245] deeds committed by this all-accompliſhed villain. What is to be done Heaven knows. We are all inexpreſſibly miſerable. I cannot go on: the cries of FANNY are again begun.—

DELIA DELMORE.

LETTER CX. Sir HENRY DELMORE to Mr. THORNTON.

[246]
Sir,

YOUR letter came to me too late: the deſpoiler of my family left this world about an hour before its arrival: his body, however, ſhall be conveyed according to your directions. It was his dying requeſt that he ſhould be brought before Mrs. MORTIMER, my wretched daughter: but he expired before the requeſt could poſſibly be granted. In his pocket, which he begged with his laſt words I would ſearch, was found a ſmall manuſcript, that he enjoined me to conſider [247] as the inſtrument of every circumſtance that had happened. On opening this I diſcovered, written with a pencil, the following maxims, the practice of which might very properly lead to more miſchief, if that were poſſible, than they have occaſioned.

MAXIMS.
  • 1. Have a ſerious exterior.
  • 2. A modeſt aſſurance.
  • 3. Study command of temper and countenance.
  • 4. Diſſemble reſentment.
  • 5. Judge of other men by your own feelings.
  • 6. Be upon your own guard.
  • 7. Throw others off theirs.
  • 8. Study the paſſions and foibles of both ſexes.
  • 9. Flatter the vanity of all.
  • 10. A flexibility of manners commendable.
  • 11. Soothe all—pleaſe all—conquer all.
  • 12. Be every thing, to every body.

[248]Theſe are, I perceive, ſelected from the pernicious volumes of the late Lord CHESTERFIELD, whoſe letters falling into the hand of a voluptuous character, might very naturally produce effects the moſt dreadful. It is very unhappy that me and mine ſhould have been marked out as the firſt victims. But that misfortune, like every other, muſt be ſuſtained to the beſt of my ability. My poor daughter is not dead: her ſenſes are in ſome meaſure reſtored to her; and perhaps the life of her mother, huſband, and father, may be made ſupportable by her preſervation. In the midſt of my own miſery, Sir, I have a wiſh for the nuptial joy of you, and the amiable young lady to whom you are now ſo tenderly united. I formerly knew the brave Lieutenant VERNON, and I beg the compliments of a forlorn parent may be made welcome to him: recollect me, alſo, kindly to Mrs. THORNTON, and Mrs. VERNON. [249] The corpſe of Mr. SEDLEY ſhall be ſent to your addreſs, as ſoon as the hearſe can be provided. He purpoſely concealed himſelf from all his worthy connexions, here; nor did I know, till the receipt of yours, the illuſtrious anceſtors and family of the man to whom I am indebted for this accumulated agony. Notwithſtanding this—my reſentment ſurvives not the life of the aggreſſor, whom I will ſee juſtice and decency done to, with a ſcrupulous exactneſs. His loſs of honour would ill warrant my loſs of humanity.

I am, Sir, Your obedient ſervant, HENRY DELMORE.

LETTER CXI. Miſs DELIA DELMORE to Lady LUCY SAXBY. (Dated ſix Weeks after the preceding.)

[250]
My dear Lady LUCY,

PROVIDENCE, and Felicity, ſeem again diſpoſed to ſmile upon us. The trial and honourable acquittal of Mr. MORTIMER is over: and the thouſand tender aſſurances he has given his FANNY (whom Heaven hath ſpared to us) that the violence ſhe ſuſtained, is quite forgotten, have contributed, with the careſſes of her affectionate parents, to reconcile her to that [251] life, which God ſeems intending to continue. Though extremely weak, ſhe is in perfect poſſeſſion of her ſenſes, and mends every day. There is certainly ſome turn in her favour, and perhaps ſhe is preſerved as an example of Almighty benignity, that will not deſert perſevering goodneſs, and patient affliction. The truth of Mr. SEDLEY'S death—I mean as to the preciſe occaſion of it—is little known. The Judge was extremely delicate on the ſubject: ſo was every body concerned—Mr. SEDLEY'S relations have not wept over the aſhes of their kinſman, nor does any body ſeem to regret—though every body profeſſes to be aſtoniſhed. For my own part—I heartily deteſt his memory. Mr. MORTIMER is ſo truly tender of FANNY, that her gratitude ſeems ripening into love: none ever deſerved a fonder return than our MORTIMER.

[252]In a word—I warmly hope, happineſs will again ſubſiſt amongſt us. On Thurſday ſe'nnight our whole family ſets out for Montpelier: the ſouthern ſoftneſs, and a ſhort abſence from the ſcenes of irkſome reflection, with a change of air and company, may be of ſervice to us all. That, in the mean time, you may enjoy all the tranquility of a worthy, and ingenuous ſpirit, is the often-repeated prayer of,

My dear Lady LUCY,
Your own, undiſguiſed, DELIA DELMORE.
FINIS.
Notes
*
See CHESTERFIELD.
*
This was the laſt letter Mr. SEDLEY wrote to THORNTON, but delayed the ſending of it till he had ſeen Mrs. MORTIMER. See Letter CVII.
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Citation Suggestion for this Object
TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 5086 The pupil of pleasure or the new system illustrated Inscribed to Mrs Eugenia Stanhope editor of Lord Chesterfield s letters By Courtney Melmoth pt 2. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5D42-2