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

I AM ſorry to refuſe to the wor⯑thy Mr. HOMESPUN (who hath, I per⯑ceive, 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 ſug⯑geſted by his own ſituation: he loves you, HARRIET, moſt fondly, and I could not avoid giving to ſentiments, which I con⯑nected with certain others, the tribute of a tender tear.—All the pariſhioners, and eſpecially the talkative part of them, ex⯑preſs their aſtoniſhment, ſome by whiſ⯑pers, others by winks, and all by looks, that Mrs. HOMESPUN ſhould continue, where ſhe has neither relations nor ac⯑quaintances; 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 refu⯑ſal 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 pre⯑ſent him with a teſtimony of your tender⯑neſs. 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 buſ⯑tles of that watering-place, may for a⯑while, lull to ſleep, or rather agitate her into forgetfulneſs of thoſe cares that ge⯑nerally 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 ma⯑nagement, 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 for⯑mer 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 can⯑not 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 impu⯑rity. 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 de⯑ſtroys.

[7]It may not, however, be amiſs to ob⯑ſerve, in the concluſion of this letter, that, if your return to this place is not ſpeedy, it will probably be attended with conſe⯑quences, which no after-penitence can poſ⯑ſibly atone for.

LETTER LX. From the Same to the Same.

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 proba⯑ble 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 ac⯑cuſtomed 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 de⯑ſires 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 clam⯑bers—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 ſurround⯑ed 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

LETTER LXI. From the Same to the Same.

YOUR huſband is in his bed, brought thither by the evident indiffe⯑rence 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 cer⯑tain 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) al⯑low yourſelf to prevent what muſt make your infamy public. As to your equivo⯑cations, they have no weight with me, and are really too tranſparent to cheat a child. It is evident you doat on your ſeducer.

LETTER LXII. Miſs DELIA DELMORE to Lady LUCY SAXBY.

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

In my laſt I only ſlightly, and in ge⯑neral 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 dig⯑nity peculiar to the dignity of his man⯑ners. He hath ever thought proper to include the friendly in the paternal cha⯑racter; [13] and he inculcates, even to the loweſt domeſtics, a certain ſenſe of inde⯑pendency; a principle, he ſays, neceſſary to be maintained even in ſervitude, and from which branches forth a thouſand vir⯑tues. In ſociety, ſays Sir HENRY, ſubor⯑dination is certainly indiſpenſible, accord⯑ing 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 pro⯑vide them with a defence againſt the ſe⯑verity of ſeaſons, and a chamber for the convenience of their repoſe, (after they have wearied out their vigour in our ſer⯑vice,) it may be remembered, that, in gra⯑titude for our attention, it is to them we are indebted for every thing that diſtin⯑guiſhes [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 mo⯑tives, 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 diſ⯑play and ſhew-off of the natural diſpoſi⯑tion. 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 con⯑tracting, but of extending: it is impoſſi⯑ble to diſcover any natural propenſity, un⯑til opportunity gives liberty to all the lit⯑tle paſſions of the ſtripling, and indul⯑gence 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 ho⯑nours, and the precious depoſit entruſted to him, to abuſe: and, if he does, even then there are many ways which Sir HEN⯑RY 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 ſer⯑vices 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, chil⯑dren, 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 trea⯑ſure by decreaſing it: for ſix-penny worth of ſilver, gain ſixty moments of fair re⯑flection: 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 ac⯑coſted us for charity. We looked at Sir [17] HENRY for our cue: Come along, chil⯑dren, 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 jealou⯑ſy: ſo far the reverſe of this, that one is ſtudious to compliment the other on ſome excellence freſh acquired, or more per⯑fected: ſome diſplay of the heart, newly [19] diſcovered, or ſome additional grace of the perſon that blooms in the bluſh, ſpar⯑kles in the eye, or dimples in the ſmile.

What, my dear Lucy, can we ſay to thoſe whoſe hearts, repugnant to ſuch prin⯑ciples, turn a deaf ear to the muſic of domeſtic concord? Earthly, groveling crea⯑tures, how I pity them! Warm, how⯑ever, 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 ſe⯑rious principle, the friends—the admirers —the improvers of one another!

LETTER LXIII. Lady LUCY SAXBY to Miſs DELIA DEL⯑MORE.

I SHOULD ill deſerve the kind⯑neſſes you have been pleaſed to confer up⯑on me, did I refuſe the earlieſt acknow⯑ledgment. I am truly glad to hear Mrs. MORTIMER is likely to recover, and that you have found ſuch a retreat as is agree⯑able 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 for⯑getful of yourſelf? Great, as are your pre⯑ſent 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 ſer⯑vants! A modern lover, who has ſtudied only his rotine of rhapſody, and who de⯑pends 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, ne⯑ver be caught?

If the rocks of BUXTON are too barren, pray haſten to your Worceſterſhire para⯑diſe: 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 vio⯑lets: you have beds of primroſes to en⯑tertain 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 valua⯑ble 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 there⯑fore [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,

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

YOUR attachment to Mr. SED⯑LEY is only an aggravation. Your de⯑claring 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 no⯑tice, that, as Mr. HOMESPUN is now really incapable of his duty, through actual, undiſſembled grief, I have come to a re⯑ſolution (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 impa⯑tience 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.

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

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-eſtabliſh⯑ment. Mrs. LA MOTTE, who always ſpeaks of you with inconceivable tender⯑neſs, has been prevented, as ſhe ſays, on account of a ſore throat, from being with you; and therefore, as your com⯑pany 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, never⯑theleſs, not to put yourſelf into any hur⯑ries, 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 re⯑treat, which, though I am juſt at preſent not able to enjoy it, is, methinks, pret⯑tier this ſummer than I imagined it would be: for all the woodbines I planted have thriven wonderfully; the laylocks, parti⯑cularly 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 re⯑ſidence, 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 hoſpi⯑tality 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 un⯑couthneſs 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 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.

OH! THORNTON, I wiſhed for difficulties, and they are come pouring upon me with a vengeance. I am abſo⯑lutely 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 up⯑on 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,

But, to come to the point, THORNTON, I am almoſt at the end of my wits. HO⯑RACE 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 cal⯑led 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 ungo⯑vernable 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 ſe⯑ducer 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 ne⯑ceſſary 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 con⯑founded woman will be my deſtruction. Adieu! Adieu! I muſt caſt about for an expedient.

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

BY all the agonies of an injured and deſperate woman, driven to the ex⯑treme by the pangs of conſcience, and the violences of love, if you dare to be⯑tray me, I will make you rue the conſe⯑quence, 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 after⯑noon. 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 re⯑ſentment that ſhall exchange your life for the loſs of my fame.

LETTER LXVIII. THORNTON to SEDLEY.

CHESTERFIELD is a cheat; I am now ſure of it, Mr. SEDLEY. His ſyſtem is not productive of boſom-felicity: it can⯑not procure the beſt of all applauſes, or the approbation that reſults from a congratu⯑lating 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 enjoy⯑ment 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 labour⯑ing to throw even the guarded virtue of Mrs. VERNON, off its bias. I ſtartled her for the moment, but ſhe recollected her⯑ſelf time enough to prevent her misfor⯑tune, 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, ne⯑ceſſary—but I ſeriouſly wiſh I could in⯑ſpire you with any degree of thoſe feel⯑ings I at this moment enjoy from having totally diſcarded STANHOPE, and liſtened to the voice of VIRTUE.

LETTER LXIX. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

YOUR eternal reverberation of muſty maxims becomes troubleſome. I did not adopt the plan of DORMER STANHOPE, without ſufficiently conſider⯑ing 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 pe⯑riod. 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.

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

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

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

I HAVE with infinite pleaſure obeyed the injunctions ſuggeſted by Mrs. LA MOTTE, in hinting to Mrs. HOME⯑SPUN 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.

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

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 affec⯑tionate 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 re⯑compence.

LETTER LXXIII. THORNTON to SEDLEY.

CRUEL SEDLEY—how couldſt thou treat me ſo harſhly? But I will nei⯑ther 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 en⯑trapped, 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 (al⯑though it is repugnant to thine) is bor⯑rowed 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 in⯑tricacies 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 ſenti⯑ment, 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 hu⯑man 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 hu⯑manity—farewel to every hope of feeling, farewel to all that ornaments the real gen⯑tleman, farewel to manhood. The firſt is addreſſed to me, the ſecond to Mrs. VER⯑NON. 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 poignant⯑ly wounded.

LETTER LXXIV. Lieutenant VERNON to Mr. THORNTON.

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 SO⯑PHIA to partake of the excurſion. To tell you the plain truth, my friend, I have more policy than buſineſs in this excur⯑ſion. I have lately had offers of prefer⯑ment—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 modera⯑tion: 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 can⯑not, 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 in⯑ſulted 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 opi⯑nion, 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 inacti⯑vity, 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 infir⯑mity 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 ef⯑feminating: I dare not truſt myſelf with them. My abſence is propitious to the diſcloſure. You are not unſkilled in argu⯑ment: 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 pa⯑triotiſm. But if you find this impracti⯑cable—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

LETTER LXXV. Lieutenant VERNON to Mrs. VERNON.

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 neceſ⯑ſary to be done, even though your acqui⯑eſcence is to be attended with ſome incon⯑veniences. 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 un⯑worthy to incircle yours.—I ſhall never forget the glorious week we paſſed toge⯑ther ſoon after our union, when we made a purchaſe of Mr. POPE'S Verſion of HO⯑MER, and employed our long delightful evenings in reading him through. Do you recollect with what earneſtneſs we at⯑tended 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 fa⯑ther of the fair CHRISEIS? Pray call to mind with how much ardour we followed HEC⯑TOR to the field; how we deſpiſed the puſillanimous, hare-hearted PARIS; and though we pitied the drooping ANDRO⯑MACHE—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 victo⯑ries 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 CAE⯑SAR. Do you know, SOPHY, that I am child enough to be vain of the name that [60] was given me by my godfathers and god⯑mothers. There is conqueſt in the ſound, and I have a ſoul that pants, I muſt con⯑feſs, 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 re⯑treat, 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 en⯑thuſiaſm 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 me⯑mory 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 pedeſ⯑tal, or an inſcription. And upon my taking notice of a vacant nich in the cen⯑ter 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 forti⯑fications), [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.

Mr. THORNTON, in Continuation.

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 ex⯑erting 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 CHES⯑TERFIELDING it how thou mayſt diſho⯑nour 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 noble⯑neſs of his ſentiments.

Farewel.

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

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 there⯑fore. 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 pre⯑ſent criſis, Heaven only can tell. Such an accident has happened as totally con⯑founds me. In conformity to my promiſe, [66] I diſpatched HARRIET to the languiſhing pedant; but ſhe had ſcarce got, as I un⯑derſtand, five miles on her way, when the curſed poſtilion, willing to ſhew his dex⯑terity (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-go⯑ing, 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 un⯑fortunately 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 acci⯑dent. I knew not what to do: I heſi⯑tated—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 land⯑lord, 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 lit⯑tle account?—How ſorry he was again!

In ſhort, THORNTON, I was obliged to eſ⯑cape 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 ſad⯑dle-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 ac⯑cidents—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 toge⯑ther! ſaid I—get out of my ſight, and leave me to myſelf: a lady is dying, and you are prating about your damn'd pan⯑nels [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 ne⯑ver forgive me. However, I wrote a note to HARRIET to the following purport, and ordered the poſtboy to carry it as faſt as poſſible.

[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 meſſen⯑ger 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 inſen⯑ſible [73] to this misfortune of poor HARRIET, nor could I ſee the injury done to her be⯑witching form, without a ſigh. But, how⯑ever, 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 re⯑ſources.

LETTER LXXVII. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

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 be⯑twixt the tea and the ſupper, when THO⯑MAS, upon the full gallop, and with to⯑kens of terror in his countenance, deli⯑vered 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.

[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 compa⯑ny, and make excuſes with ſome degree of coherence; after which I mounted the reeking horſe, and, ordering TOM to fol⯑low me, went upon the full-ſtretch to my lodgings. At my entrance into the par⯑lour I found HARRIET in a ſtrong hyſte⯑ric: 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 an⯑ſwer 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 let⯑ter, 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.

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 ſen⯑ſibility, [79] and certain ſentiments were inter⯑changed, which it would be, at this pe⯑riod, 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. SED⯑LEY) to engage my heart. How far you ſucceeded, it is not now material to en⯑quire. 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. MOR⯑TIMER, 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 fa⯑mily, that, as he thought proper to ad⯑dreſs 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 impoſ⯑ſible for a child to diſappoint the wiſhes of ſuch a parent. The ſoftneſs, delicacy, and gentleneſs of Mr. MORTIMER'S beha⯑viour has ever been uniform and exact: and although it has pleaſed Heaven to continue my indiſpoſition, and indeed ra⯑ther 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 huſ⯑band. 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 at⯑tached 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 ſufficient⯑ly ſacred to exclude every poſſible hope, nay, as I dare preſume your own con⯑nexions have, by this time, led your incli⯑nations 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 withdraw⯑ing yourſelf from this family.—Do it lei⯑ſurely, 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 ſub⯑mit to the ſilent depredations of my diſ⯑temper. Every tear I then ſhed—every [82] ſigh that then ſtole from me—was attri⯑buted to the unavoidable riſings and ſink⯑ings of a conſumptive habit. But within theſe few days I have had ſome conflicts, and every one of them adds to my weak⯑neſs, 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 ho⯑nour—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 ob⯑ject to the tomb. Go, then, I conjure you. Leave me to the protection of a ge⯑nerous family—of a dear ſiſter—of a fond huſband. It is not—I feel it is not poſſi⯑ble 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 pur⯑ſuit is mere amuſement, I intreat you to change your route—fix it at SCARBO⯑ROUGH—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 can⯑not bear it.—Contrive, therefore, and that inſtantly, to begin your taſk. of diſſolving the connexion here. Permit me to en⯑joy the little ſerenity that a waſtin [...] ſick⯑neſs 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 undiſco⯑vered. Think not, however, that I mean to enter into a correſpondence. Take a week to withdraw with the elegance be⯑coming your character: during which time I will, as hitherto, endeavour to ſup⯑port 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, when⯑ever 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 con⯑ſequences, even though the beſt of pa⯑rents ſhould be made miſerable, the wor⯑thieſt ſiſter partake their anxiety, and the kindeſt of huſbands fall a victim to the apparent ingratitude of

LETTER LXXIX. THORNTON to SEDLEY.

GOD of Heaven, SEDLEY! what a wretch of adamant art thou! The diſ⯑aſter of the poor HARRIET, and the plead⯑ings of the pathetic FANNY, have almoſt exhauſted the ſource of my tears. Con⯑ſult 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 DOR⯑MER—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 EUGE⯑NIA—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 conti⯑nuation 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.

[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 panegy⯑ric. 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 per⯑fectly ſymmetrical—yet I can now be con⯑tented to admire her beauty, and hear the ſallies of her wit, without a ſingle endea⯑vour to make her pay for pleaſing me, at the expence of her chaſtity.

Adieu.

Act like a man, and God proſper thee!

LETTER LXXX. SEDLEY to THORNTON,

HORROR upon horrors, THORN⯑TON! 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 hea⯑ven! THORNTON, ſhe is the moſt at⯑tracting 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 hea⯑vens 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 mur⯑mur 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 poſ⯑ſeſs FANNY MORTIMER, though I were to die in the effort.

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

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 to⯑morrow, 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 dan⯑ger.

LETTER LXXXII. Miſs DELIA DELMORE to Lady LUCY SAXBY.

EVERY moment in the day af⯑fords 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 bro⯑ther and ſiſter, Charles and Caroline, (who are down with us,) were mentioned in this invitation: the card requeſted the com⯑pany of all the family, adding, that, as [97] the evening was delightful, his mind com⯑poſed, and nobody but ourſelves, at pre⯑ſent, in the houſe, he much deſired that we might all have our ſhare in the ge⯑neral ſerenity. How prettily, my dear LUCY, how perſuaſively this exalted pa⯑rent propoſes, as a pleaſure, what his au⯑thority 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 ſum⯑mons: 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 an⯑gel 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 recom⯑mend her to the ſpectator as a more pathe⯑tic, intereſting figure.

Sir HENRY was at firſt ſitting ſome⯑what penſively, with an opened letter in his hand—my mother by his ſide, lean⯑ing 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 him⯑ſelf oppoſite to us, and, with a ſmile of ineffable benignity, in which the pa⯑rent 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 im⯑portant events of human life: I have, in⯑deed, for ſome time, had a deſign to ſum⯑mon 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, how⯑ever, 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 three⯑ſcore years, with a tranquility of retro⯑ſpect, 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 pro⯑ſpect 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 fa⯑ther) no ideas beyond it, nor many equal. Our family is at preſent the ſeat of inte⯑grity, unanimity, and mutual confidence. Our pleaſures are reflected upon each other, and we reciprocally give and receive ini⯑mitable 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 eſtabliſh⯑ment 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 abſo⯑lutely 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 par⯑ticular 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 aſ⯑ſuredly 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 be⯑ſeech you to exert them in the cauſe of that truth and ſobriety of heart I have re⯑commended.—Make uſe of them to con⯑ciliate differences, to inſpirit ſociety, to embelliſh converſation, to ſoften the harſh⯑neſs 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 licen⯑tious and artful indulgence of them may poſſibly lead to—beware of DUPLICITY; of that duplicity, which, ſo accoutered, —its deſtructive ſword ſheathed in polite⯑neſs—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, extreme⯑ly hard, to maſter the predominant incli⯑nation; 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 in⯑ſenſible [107] to it. May it affect you, DELIA, in the manner it has affected your mo⯑ther—this excellent woman, whoſe re⯑gard 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, ele⯑gance, or real tranſport, to conjugal en⯑gagements.

"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 ele⯑gance, led forward by the Graces, cannot be detected, even at noon-day, is for ever on the watch; and I know nothing ſo dange⯑rous 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 prema⯑ture—perhaps improper.—Only, be cir⯑cumſpect: look well at the ground before you build on it the foundation of your happineſs or miſery. To adopt the lan⯑guage 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 confi⯑dence: [110] and when we are no more, I beg all of you will truſt to the affection of this worthy young man, our dear MORTI⯑MER, 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 par⯑ticular 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 fa⯑ther. 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

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

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 gene⯑rous virtues that are reciprocated between the worthieſt pair I ever knew, and who have made me quite in love with matri⯑mony. Yes, SEDLEY, do not ſtart—I ſay ſober matrimony; and could I get a cer⯑tain 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 wed⯑ded love is, after all, the moſt elevated of human connections; nay, I have had ſe⯑veral reaſons, ſince my reſidence here, to adopt the language of the poet, and pro⯑nounce that ſtate the moſt delightful where⯑in

Never were ſouls more exactly in uni⯑ſon than thoſe of the VERNONS. I pre⯑ſent—for your emulation—another inſtance of it. Upon my unfolding the Lieute⯑nant's deſign to his lady, ſhe diſpatched a letter into Suſſex, which produced the fol⯑lowing reply:

LETTER LXXXIV. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

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.

Now then, THORNTON, muſt I call to my aid DORMER'S "unobſerved obſer⯑vation," 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 CHES⯑TERFIELD.

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

OH, Mrs. LA MOTTE! the mea⯑ſure 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 lurk⯑ing about me. Mr. SEDLEY came yeſter⯑day 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 vio⯑lence—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 con⯑ſcience is void of offence, and the wiſdom of the ALMIGHTY ſhall not, even now, he queſtioned by

LETTER LXXXVI. Miſs DELIA DELMORE to Lady LUCY SAXBY.

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 irreſiſti⯑ble; 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 con⯑jecture 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 him⯑ſelf—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 car⯑riage, and the huſband, who is a worthy clergyman, would have been quite diſ⯑tracted, had it not been for the cares, ten⯑derneſſes, and attention of this obliging man, who hath the art of propitiating every-body to him, and making every⯑body [128] around him happy, by thoſe nice and minute, yet truly engaging offices, which (being in general conſidered as un⯑important, though in reality I find they are but too pleaſing) are too often neg⯑lected. 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 per⯑ſon 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, condeſcend⯑ing, 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 over⯑flowing eyes, for the entertainment and eaſe he hath produced to Mrs. MORTI⯑MORE. 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 had almoſt forgot to tell you that I am half teazed to death with the ſur⯑feiting fine ſayings of a beau, who hath offered me knick-knacks without number, and has made ſerious and tempting over⯑tures to my father. So that you ſee SED⯑LEY 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.

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 DEL⯑MORE—is ſuch an object as cannot poſſi⯑bly 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 DE⯑LIA, I ſay, THORNTON, being in the mai⯑den ſtate, and to all intents and purpoſes in a marriageable ſituation, muſt be ad⯑dreſſed 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 fa⯑mily ſubſervient to the gratification of thy

LETTER LXXXVIII. THORNTON to SEDLEY.

THY letter, this moment come to hand, convinces me of my miſtake in ſuppoſing thou wert to be wrought up⯑on 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 inſidiouſ⯑neſs [134] unparalleled, engraveſt his horrid pre⯑cepts on thine heart, entereſt the temple of domeſtic joy, and (under the appear⯑ance 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 be⯑gin to ſhudder that I am connected with ſuch a monſter. Yet I beſeech thee— once again in the ſtill, ſerene, but pathe⯑tic voice of friendſhip—I beſeech thee to deſiſt. Bring not the grey hairs of the venerable DELMORE'S to the grave. Pol⯑lute 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 for⯑tune upon theſe. From thy preſent pur⯑ſuits, 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 diſ⯑card all others with horror. I have the happineſs to pleaſe the viſitor of Mrs. VER⯑NON, 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, SED⯑LEY—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 pan⯑ther 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 antici⯑pate every change of her countenance. I am ſo far from deſiring to ruin her repu⯑tation, 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 look⯑ing at her, and withdraw my eyes for fear of offending. I am a very young man, Mr. SEDLEY, and thou and CHESTER⯑FIELD, with your united councils, had near⯑ly 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 ſe⯑crets, 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.

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

PITY, Mrs. LA MOTTE, the diſ⯑traction 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 nou⯑riſh 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 re⯑tired, 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 HAR⯑RIET'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!

LETTER XC. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

MY maſter-wheels are in mo⯑tion: 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 obe⯑dient, and every atom of irreſiſtible art was levelled againſt her. I called the co⯑lour 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 ob⯑ject 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 ap⯑plication 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 de⯑gree 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 be⯑fore tea.

LETTER XCI. THORNTON to SEDLEY.

YOUR letter found me at tea in this innocent family—I begged leave to break the ſeal—I read as far as the faint⯑ing 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 deſtruc⯑tion of this moſt pitiable girl, I will, at the riſk of all conſequences, take the pro⯑per 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.

LETTER XCII. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

TRAITOR and tattler as thou art, I have the ſtart of thee.—Yes, THORN⯑TON, 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 ſucceda⯑neum of writhing the limbs in the tranſ⯑ports of taſte.

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

MY unhappy wife is worſe than ever; but as her ſtrength decays, her af⯑fection 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, vir⯑tuous 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

LETTER XCIV. Mrs. MORTIMER to Miſs SIDNEY.

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

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

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 ſome⯑where upon earth, to whom I am indebted for her death. I can ſay no more.

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

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 hyſ⯑terical diſorder while her huſband was com⯑municating to me the diſcourſe that paſſed between him and Mr. SEDLEY, who has never been at our houſe ſince. Mrs. MOR⯑TIMER, it ſeems, knew not that Mr. SED⯑LEY had intereſted her huſband in the de⯑claration 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 recover⯑ing from a ſwoon: her eyes cloſed—her teeth ſhut—her clenched hands locked in each other—and her dreſs in the utmoſt diſ⯑order, 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 al⯑moſt 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.

When you have read the incloſed, LU⯑CY, 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

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

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 to⯑morrow to be encloſed within her coffin: my duty at my pariſh is precariouſly per⯑formed, 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 ſacrile⯑gious 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 church⯑yard 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, con⯑ſiſtent with MY notions of piety, tender⯑neſs, 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 HAR⯑RIET'S death, and therefore I will try to ſet it down—as I think I can with leſs miſery to myſelf—upon paper.

LETTER XCVIII. THORNTON to SEDLEY.

I HAVE changed my condition, and by ſo doing enlarged the circle of my feli⯑city. The chaſte and honourable connec⯑tion I have now made, with the ſacred and rational purſuits attending it, render it very improper for me to hold farther correſpon⯑dence 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,

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 DEL⯑MORE.

HOW ſhall I be able to write a proper anſwer to ſo intereſting a letter as your laſt, in which two ſubjects ſo imme⯑diately oppoſite are touched upon? As to poor Mrs. MORTIMER'S health, I anxi⯑ouſly hope ſhe is, by this time, again re⯑ſtored to a more tolerable degree of it; and yet how much are you all to be pi⯑tied in being neceſſarily made the ſpecta⯑tors of a diſpoſition ſo full of fears, hopes, wiſhes, and apprehenſions! But, as JO⯑SEPH ſays, "I dreamed a dream laſt night," and I ſhall relate it to my DELIA— my fair oracle, for interpretation. Me⯑thought [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 beauti⯑ful cherub, with golden plumage expand⯑ed, 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 com⯑mands, 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 im⯑mediately recognized the features of FAN⯑NY, 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 emo⯑tions 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 reco⯑vering ſuch a woman, where ſuch a fa⯑mily 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 can⯑not 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 de⯑licacies, 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 cha⯑racter?—Has he not perſon—manner—for⯑tune—wit—ſenſe?—Do you not know what [174] a complexion he has, my dear, when he bluſhes?—Has he not, by your own con⯑feſſion, the moſt decorated addreſs—the moſt ſplendid ſentiments—the moſt ele⯑vated 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 ſenti⯑ments 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:

Should I ſend this laconic epiſtle for⯑mally ſigned and ſealed, what would be the conſequence?—Methinks I ſee the whole ſcene? The angry DELIA has finiſh⯑ed 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 di⯑vine 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-af⯑fairs? How ready we are all to aſk the advice of another, when we are predeter⯑mined 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 happi⯑neſs to both, is moſt unfeignedly the wiſh of your

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

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 ſub⯑ject. Remember, however, even in the midſt of affliction remember, the charac⯑ter of a chriſtian paſtor. Make haſte, Oh, my unhappy friend! to your own cot⯑tage. 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

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

YES, Mrs. LA MOTTE—I will remember what is due to the character of a Chriſtian clergyman, and I am re⯑turning, as I ought, to my ſolitary cot⯑tage: but let me enjoin you—though your own prudence will render that in⯑junction ſuperfluous—not to ſatisfy curio⯑ſity of any kind, whether it comes in the ſhape of condolence, ſympathy, or ſur⯑prize, as to the true cauſe of my unfor⯑tunate 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 mechani⯑cal 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, every⯑day 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 hereto⯑fore 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 re⯑freſhment whatever.

Without refreſhment! What have I [183] ſaid, and how does my preſent practice contradict my former precepts? Do I for⯑get the rewards of an innocent ſoul— and are all my tears ſhed over the breath⯑leſs body; which, being no longer ani⯑mated 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 re⯑member 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?

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

Oh, Mrs. LA MOTTE, forgive—for⯑give [185] me!—Though I know the inde⯑pendency of ſoul and body in ſuch a ſi⯑tuation—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, re⯑proach me for ordering another covering to be thrown over the hearſe—

More weakneſs, Mrs. LA MOTTE—I have walked forth, and am a little re⯑lieved—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 claim⯑ing from me reſpect and tenderneſs: the duties even of the huſband do not ter⯑minate 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 condo⯑lers. Such pity is, at ſuch periods, in⯑ſupportable. The hearſe is moving aw⯑fully on. I muſt not leave it without one real mourner.

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

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. SED⯑LEY, you are moſt compleatly brutalized indeed. Although I have not the diſho⯑nour 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 igno⯑rant. Your principal victims were bu⯑ried 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 pur⯑poſely pillaged the volume for the per⯑nicious, and rejected the inſtructive. This would have been very proper, had you contented yourſelf, like other commen⯑tators, 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 extra⯑ordinary! 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.

"Avoid ſeeing an affront, if poſſible."

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

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

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

"Read faces."

What a Right Reverend face, and how delightfully legible is that of Maſter Mi⯑niſter 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.!

"Don't yield to fits of rage."

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 wo⯑man he meant to deſtroy? But that is eaſily accounted for. In another part of the book we find a clue to this myſtery.

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

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 ſur⯑mount [193] the vulgar prejudices of the world —couldſt thou but read in my coun⯑tenance 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 de⯑licately 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 pro⯑per 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 ſe⯑cret 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:

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 exceed⯑ingly to the popularity both of the Ori⯑ginal and the Commentary. It will at leaſt ſhew, how the Man of Faſhion may im⯑prove upon celebrated precepts, and (what is, perhaps, of greater conſe⯑quence) 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.

LETTER CIII. Mrs. THORNTON to Mrs. MORTIMER.

YOU frighten me to death, my dear FANNY: what can poſſibly be the matter?—Not two hours before your alarming letter arrived at Lieutenant VER⯑NON'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 in⯑timate in your family, and, by the diſ⯑ordered anſwers I have received from my huſband, I am afraid, to the wicked ſchemes of that friend you—But it can⯑not 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

LETTER CIV. Mrs. MORTIMER to Mrs. THORNTON.

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 de⯑ſpair [200] —I am aſhamed, not only of my friends, and my huſband, but of my ſha⯑dow—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 poſſi⯑bility 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 luxu⯑ry, 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, follow⯑ed 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 hor⯑rid circumſtance—I betrayed my weak⯑neſs 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. MORTI⯑MER 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.

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

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.

'SDEATH, TIMONTHY, "I'm ſped, I'm married." In the very flower of my youth, in the bud of my adven⯑tures, 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 CHESTER⯑FIELD 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 certain⯑ly 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, al⯑though in the confuſion of my fears I have choſen the worſt of the two deſti⯑nies, 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 ſtand⯑ing 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 tum⯑bler 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 oc⯑caſional 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 whole⯑ſome, 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 col⯑lecting 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, VIR⯑TUE, TASTE, AND FASHION.

[215]Above all points, TIMOTHY, avoid care⯑leſſneſs: let not a ſlip of our ſacred ſimu⯑lations be ſeen. SEDLEY, with all his cle⯑verneſs 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 ad⯑miration. 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 bun⯑gler. 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 ob⯑ſervations 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 direct⯑ing, [216] is by no means to be neglected: there is ſomething even in the exterior of a let⯑ter that may pleaſe or diſpleaſe, and con⯑ſequently deſerves attention. Thou muſt know, TIMOTHY, and I tell it thee in great confidence, that I have beſtowed ſe⯑veral leiſure-hours in preparing for thine eye (and in due time for the world, that is, againſt my will) a Treatiſe on Toothpick⯑ing, 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-cut⯑ting; 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 tranſpa⯑rent. And that every thing may be com⯑pleat, I have ſketched out a plan for a ſa⯑tire [217] againſt tricks and oddities, of which I ſend thee, underneath, a couplet or two, by way of ſpecimen of the work.

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 over⯑turning 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—offer⯑ing 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 ca⯑veat againſt baſhfulneſs, hints on exterior ſeriouſneſs, and cautions on flexibility of countenance; with a key to the heart, or the ſtudy of weakneſſes, infirmities, foi⯑bles, and paſſions, illuſtrated: in ſhort, TIMOTHY, my labours all together will form a compleat commentary on CHES⯑TERFIELD, and I would have them let⯑tered [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, catch⯑ing a couple of beauties—ſimulating a pair of petticoats; when I, had my purſe been like his, could have compaſſed a do⯑zen. To ſay the truth, he has been ra⯑ther 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, TI⯑MOTHY, 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, rheu⯑matical, 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 diſ⯑tinction)—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

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

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 un⯑der your hat. I condeſcend to take a ſhil⯑ling, 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 dig⯑nified diſdain, like a Prince.

PHILIP SEDLEY, Esq your Lord, makes it his amuſement to rattle away from ſalt⯑water to freſh-water, from this polite place to that polite place, (to ſpeak more pro⯑perly,) 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 el⯑derly, 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. More⯑over, 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 fif⯑teen 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, pre⯑cedes 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 ex⯑pence 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

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 mar⯑riage 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 gen⯑tleman'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 ſoon⯑er 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, un⯑leſs, 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 un⯑derſtood, till his Lordſhip told me, that it was decent to pick the teeth at all in com⯑pany, 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 Ser⯑vants 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 wor⯑thy 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 arm⯑chair 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 per⯑quiſites 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.

LETTER CVII. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

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 raſ⯑cal—ſuch a wretch—ſuch a fiend as PHI⯑LIP SEDLEY.—Oh, my GOD! what a ſtroke of heart have I this inſtant ſuſ⯑tained!—The dead of the night, thou knoweſt, is generally my hour for pro⯑jection; and, as this evening was parti⯑cularly 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. THORN⯑TON! 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 re⯑ceive 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 vo⯑luntarily 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 re⯑covered 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 un⯑affected penitence—I told the poor, trem⯑bling, 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 HO⯑RACE [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 per⯑forated the ſkin; and, aſſuring the atten⯑dants, that I was at times, as now, diſ⯑ordered in my ſenſes, ordered the hearſ [...] to paſs on. He mounted his horſe—bad [...] the landlord go quietly to bed,—ſay no⯑thing of what had happened—and, wipin [...] his eyes, rode after the machine, that con⯑tained 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 inſup⯑portable.—I will leave this curſed place directly—I will ſaddle my horſe pri⯑vately; but never, never ſhalt thou again be diſgraced, my ſtill beloved THORNTON, by the preſence of the

The poor FANNY MORTIMER, too, is dying—I have reduced to aſhes that fa⯑mily 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 de⯑ceived 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.

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 ſtran⯑ger, 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 mar⯑ried the moſt intimate friend of my diſ⯑honoured FANNY: to her it will not be unintereſting to obſerve, that it is impoſ⯑ſible ſhe ſhould ever behold again alive that moſt injured and unfortunate girl, who was upon the point of expiring be⯑fore I left BUXTON, which I thought it prudent to do, (notwithſtanding my in⯑difference [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 cor⯑reſpondent; though he muſt pardon me, if I eſteem him leſs worthy the noble-minded ARAMINTA, who could counte⯑nance, 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, hap⯑pened 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 ſitu⯑ation. My own miſery is, indeed, ex⯑treme: but I have the honour to be,

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

NEVER was the ruin of a happy fa⯑mily 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 over⯑thrown; 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 ſo⯑pha, 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 me⯑tamorphoſe, 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 inex⯑preſſible vengeance, and, taking a paper from his pocket, held it at arm's length, and burſt into tears. By this time our at⯑tention 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. SED⯑LEY went down ſtairs—where he had not been two minutes before the words villain! impoſtor! murderer! were vehemently re⯑verberated. Sir HENRY ran to the head of the ſtairs, and ſaying that he diſtin⯑guiſhed 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 ſob⯑bing in his chair, with the weapon of de⯑ſtruction [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 exe⯑crates 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 SAX⯑BY, that fatal paper^*, created all the miſ⯑chief. 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 can⯑not go on: the cries of FANNY are again begun.—

LETTER CX. Sir HENRY DELMORE to Mr. THORNTON.

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 ac⯑cording to your directions. It was his dying requeſt that he ſhould be brought before Mrs. MORTIMER, my wretched daughter: but he expired before the re⯑queſt 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 conſi⯑der [247] as the inſtrument of every circum⯑ſtance 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 oc⯑caſioned.

• 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 CHES⯑TERFIELD, 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 ſup⯑portable 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 ten⯑derly united. I formerly knew the brave Lieutenant VERNON, and I beg the com⯑pliments of a forlorn parent may be made welcome to him: recollect me, alſo, kind⯑ly to Mrs. THORNTON, and Mrs. VER⯑NON. [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 con⯑nexions, here; nor did I know, till the receipt of yours, the illuſtrious anceſtors and family of the man to whom I am in⯑debted for this accumulated agony. Not⯑withſtanding 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.

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

PROVIDENCE, and Felicity, ſeem again diſpoſed to ſmile upon us. The trial and honourable acquittal of Mr. MOR⯑TIMER is over: and the thouſand tender aſſurances he has given his FANNY (whom Heaven hath ſpared to us) that the vio⯑lence ſhe ſuſtained, is quite forgotten, have contributed, with the careſſes of her af⯑fectionate parents, to reconcile her to that [251] life, which God ſeems intending to conti⯑nue. 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 de⯑ſerved a fonder return than our MOR⯑TIMER.

[252]In a word—I warmly hope, happineſs will again ſubſiſt amongſt us. On Thurſ⯑day 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 com⯑pany, 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,