LETTER I.

NOT Strength of Conſtitution, Spirits, Reſolution, Reaſon, or all I can call to my Aſſiſtance, will, I find, pre⯑vent my having a violent Fit of Ill⯑neſs which increaſes daily: If God pleaſes to diſmiſs me this Life, it will be an Act of Mer⯑cy. My Heart trembles, my Senſes ſtagger, what a State of Deſpair! I own the Hand of Providence, and ſubmit to its eternal Juſtice; my Condition is greatly terrible: My own Faults glare upon me, and Self convicted I own; I ought to ſuffer much, yet, ſure, mine is the heavieſt Calamity that ever oppreſs'd hu⯑man Nature: How vain, were an Attempt, to expreſs it in Words: 'Tis not to be conceiv'd; 'tis only to be felt, and felt by me alone.

[2]Where is the Religion, where the unſpotted Truth, the whiten'd Innocence, that once ſhone out, ſo brightly, in a certain Mind? All loſt! I hope not irrecoverably loſt, in violent Paſſions and wild Notions, that impoſe upon the Underſtanding, and miſlead the Mind be⯑nighted, 'till the Day may break and waken us, from cheating Dreams, to Certainty of Pain.

I have broke off to addreſs the Almighty with a truly penitent, contrite Heart, with bit⯑ter Tears, unfeign'd Sorrow: Do you join in the Prayer; humbly implore that great divine Inſtructor, to illuminate your Mind, to waken a Senſe of Truth, and convince, that without ſuch Aſſiſtance, our own Reaſon is too weak to let us know when we err. The Indul⯑gence of ſtrong Paſſions will never permit us to judge candidly. How neceſſary is it to beg Grace of the divine Power; to do it fervently and unfeignedly, 'tis the only true Check on our wrong Thoughts, that otherwiſe lead us to wrong Actions; one brings on another, 'tis impoſſible to avoid it, if not timely ſtopp'd. How diſmal are my Nights? How miſerable my Days? Oh, Child, be cautious, leſt, too late, you own with me, 'tis a bitter aggravating Cir⯑cumſtance of Sorrow, to be conſcious, our Follies may, in ſome Meaſure have deſerv'd it. May the juſt, the all-gracious God, hear, and be my Witneſs, ſince I was married, that I never thought of any one, with the Ideas of Love, but my own dear Wife; whom now I [3] love with all the Eſteem, Tenderneſs, cordial Affection, and fond Concern, that ever poſ⯑ſeſs'd the Breaſt of Man, as a Husband or Lover: No Parent, not even a Mother, can more fondly dote on her only new-born Child. That I have been heretofore negligent of my Perſon, my Fortune, and Character, with Shame and Sorrow, I own; and God only knows how terrible my Puniſhment! He far⯑ther knows, and may his gracious unbounded Mercy ſtrengthen my Mind to an honeſt Re⯑ſolution: He alſo knows, I ſay, how deſirous I am of being juſt for the Time to come. I'll not incourage the leaſt contrary Thought, nor omit ought may lead me to that Hap⯑pineſs. May my Crimes be pardon'd, as I par⯑don all committed towards me. Would the indulgent Omnipotent recall the dear wander⯑ing Heart, whoſe Loſs I mourn with Agony; be Witneſs, God, with what a Rapture my Heart would open, to receive the Bleſſing; and never, in a ſingle Thought, would dare to reprove, or chide, the too dear Frail One: Heaven grant this, or I am loſt for ever.

My Heart's Fondling, my deareſt Molly, you may have the ſole Poſſeſſion, and full Command, of the Heart of a Husband that beats to you alone; that wiſhes, the vital Blood may no longer warm it, than while it flows for you. Take Example of Heaven, and daſh not away the Tears of Penitence: I have been highly too blame, and I as truly repent, I will err no more, I here give up [4] all Views of idle Pleaſures, all Vanities what⯑ſoever; I will live very near, that I may re⯑cover my Circumſtances, I give up every Thing, but your Heart; let me recover that Treaſure, and I ſhall repine at nothing; my Heart will be delighted in Extaſy, while I can ſee your Countenance ſmile, and wear the Looks of cordial Affection.

Return and ſave me from the laſt Miſery; my Senſes will certainly be loſt, if not my Life, unleſs this happens: Human Nature can't ſupport it long. Sure you will, you will re⯑turn; I muſt not ſuppoſe you could bear to think, you were unhappily the Cauſe of my untimely End, and thereby hazard my Soul's eternal Reſt: All Right of Command I change to Intreaty, and fondly implore this of you. No Indulgence ſhall equal mine, and think, how glorious the Triumph will be, when Hu⯑manity and Virtue conquers unwarrantable Paſ⯑ſions; it is the greateſt Progreſs we can make towards reaching divine Perfection: Such a Victory is a nobler Inſtance of a great Mind than can be given by thoſe who never had Struggle: On one Side, appears Comfort and everlaſting Happineſs, warranted, and protect⯑ed, by the Laws of God and Man: On the other, I dare not paint it, the Proſpect is too indelicate, for me, to ſhew you, and too terrible for us both to look at. I muſt, tho' with a bleeding Heart, ſay ſomething, tho' very poorly, expreſſive of the Truth; Is it not for the preſent Indulgence of unjuſtifiable Paſſions, [5] and deceiving Pleaſures; Is it not hoarding up of perpetual Miſeries to come? Minds may change! Reſentments may awake! unforeſeen Revolutions may happen, and Shame and Scorn enſue! Truth will conquer all. You are high in the Eſteem of the Beſt; loſe it not for God's Sake: Think of your Days of Innocence and Delight; awake the Memory of thoſe Joys, thoſe conſcious Joys, we have known; return, return entire, and give a Joy beyond 'em all; crown the Evening of my Life with this Bleſs⯑ing, and have my eternal Prayers. Experi⯑ence will teach us; Bread and Water, with ſuch Reflections, afford greater Delight than all the nameleſs Vanities that Luxury, in all its deceitful Shapes, can give; ſuch cannot laſt, and Miſery muſt be the Conſequence: Revive the Memory of your own dear Innocence; let not falſe Names cheat you to miſtake ſome⯑thing for it that is not it. Save my Life, ſave my Soul, and of a miſerable Object of Deſpair, make me the happieſt of Men: My Heart ſprings at the Thought: But alas! it ſinks again, and ſwells, with throbbing Grief, to think it is not ſo: Yet let me hope it tho'—If nothing but my everlaſting Ruin can con⯑tent you, you may ſoon enjoy the Sacrifice; but have more Regard to yourſelf, your Rela⯑tions, your Friends, and the aching Heart of a forgiving, a repentant, and truly affectionate Husband: Think how you have been delight⯑ed to ſee my Name joined thereto, and by bleſſing me, beyond Expreſſion, renew thoſe [6] Delights, ſuch as will give our Hearts more laſting, real Joy, than all we can propoſe be⯑ſide. Had God permitted our tender Babes to have remained on Earth, thoſe innocent Angels would have pleaded in my Behalf be⯑yond the Rhetorick of Man, much more be⯑yond all my poor diſconcerted Brain will enable me to ſay. I would proceed, but big Paſſions choak me: I have been torn by many, but my Love and Concern for you conquers all.

Let me not imagine any thing can entirely efface the Memory of a Husband, whom, you own, you entertain'd as the firſt welcome Gueſt of an innocent Heart: Let no ſecond Thought, for God's Sake, drive me quite from thence; you know my Eſteem of you is ſo great, ſo fond my Opinion of you, my tender Heart has been more ready to form Excuſes for you, than you to make 'em—My Dear, Affliction is a juſt, tho' ſevere Monitor, the ſincereſt Friend; it ſhews the Truth; I ſee, I feel it. To declare I loſe my Appetite, that I want Sleep, are but poor Inſtances of Pain: I want much more, I want my Peace of Mind; you alone can reſtore it. Kneel, kneel, and implore the Aſſiſtance of our great Creator; to truſt alone to our fallible Mind, is running on in Error; it leads to Perdition: Be aſſur'd, this is ſo, and may the Almighty Power waken you to a right Senſe, e'er mine is loſt in Madneſs: My Proſ⯑pects, otherwiſe, are theſe, a lingring Death in a Jail, Madneſs in Bedlam, a broken Heart, or the terrible Chance, that in ſome Frenſy of [7] my Paſſion, I may at once ruſh into that Eter⯑nity, of which, the wiſeſt Man is but an arro⯑gant Fool, who preſumes he can give a full and certain Notion; and then, where's my Re⯑treat? From all this, you, and you alone can ſave me. The Recovery of thee, my ineſti⯑mable Jewel, would give a Tranſport to my Heart, beyond all I ever knew; that were a bridal Hour indeed! Then my Mind might calm to give me leave to look into my Affairs, which, if this happens, are not irretrieveable; but one cannot be without the other. My Horſes, and all Superfluities, belonging to me, I ſhall order to be ſold; I am determined to think nothing neceſſary but what may merely keep me clean, and ſubſiſt me; and ſhall em⯑ploy one, among my Creditors, who ſhall make ſuch reaſonable Propoſals, as I cannot but think will be comply'd with. If Riding is neceſſary for you, as I think it may, I can have your little Mare, or borrow ſome other for you, and you cannot have a faithfuller Servant, than my⯑ſelf, to attend you. Give me my Peace of Mind, give me yourſelf, give me your Heart—your Mind, my Soul's Darling, my only Com⯑fort and remaining Hope; and what cannot I undertake and accompliſh, with his great Aſſiſtance, whoſe Aid I ſhall frequently im⯑plore; the Repetition of which, you well know, is the only Way to keep our Mind in a right Habit. Let not falſe Notions, gloſs'd over with ſpecious Appearances, win you from theſe Thoughts; I would be delicately tender of [8] ſhocking your Mind with rude Images, yet, Duty compels me, gently to inform you, in the Way you are, you are trying to ſteal your Heart againſt a fond, tho' erring Husband, but a truly penitent one; 'tis driving from your Mind all conjugal Affections, ſetting at nought the Peace of all Relations, all Friends, and riſquing your own eternal Quiet; 'tis teaching yourſelf a ſtrange unhappy Leſſon; 'tis plung⯑ing in Guilt, believe it; oh God! 'tis fearing your Conſcience, midſt all the Calamities and Diſappointments you ever met: Examine your Mind and tell me; Did there not appear great Solace from the Conſciouſneſs of a well diſ⯑poſed and warrantable Inclination, and gave not Religion a Comfort, which nought elſe can ſo effectually do? I have been too well ac⯑quainted with the Volence of ſome Paſſions, and know how much they blind our Reaſon: But Truth will prevail at laſt, and when we find that has not been our Guide, how ſhock⯑ing our Condition! Your trueſt Friend tells you this, who knows it, by ſad Experience; profit by the Example: The Struggle will over pay itſelf. Ah! my Life, I wiſh not to cure the Wounds of your dear Mind with Corroſives; I would pour the Balm of Comfort, tho' I am mentioning what is a Dagger in my Heart; but thy kind Hand can remove it, and I will draw a Veil over it, that the Operation may not too ſtrongly affect you: Think this,—Juſtice, Honour, Duty, all the Ties of Religion, Vir⯑tue, Truth, and Humanity, plead my unhap⯑py [9] Cauſe; your not complying, ends in the Ruin of all; it muſt end in mine, and, which, to me, appears ſtill worſe, I fear your own Deſtruction. I here, in expreſs Terms, de⯑clare, what's paſs'd I forgive, and nothing, but the Prevention of my future Eaſe, ſhall ever rouze a Thought of it in me; nor do I deſire a better Security, for my Quiet, than your own Word: Be aſſur'd, all unwarrantable Paſ⯑ſions are to be got the better of, with much more Eaſe, and leſs Time, than thoſe which Virtue inſpires, which Honour warrants, which Truth demands, and which 'tis unjuſt to waver in, but more heinous not to recover, to cheriſh and ſupport. Wiſer Heads than mine, may dreſs up other Sentiments in a more pleaſing Garb; but Time alone will convince, there's nothing ſo charming (however other Things may be artfully diſguis'd) as ſimple, naked Truth. I have begg'd of God, and I hope he has heard my Prayers, to enable me to ſup⯑preſs all Paſſion, but one; that one ought to be indulg'd, my Love I mean: Again I re⯑peat it.—I'll ſhew no Ill-Will or Reſentment to any; no Thought, but what terminates in an honeſt Deſire of making my dear Wife happy: Wife and Husband are the tendereſt Names; do not loſe all Senſe of 'em. Re⯑trieve me from Perdition, my Heart's Darling, and be, in a true literal Senſe, my Guardian Angel. Read this often, conſider it cooly; and, tho' a moderate Underſtanding may make me expreſs myſelf but indifferently, it ſpeaks [10] my Mind at leaſt: Drive me not to Deſpair; inſult not my breaking Heart; but, my deareſt Sucky, my deareſt Molly, my deareſt Tereſa, return to Truth, and bleſs me; return to

LETTER II.

THO' the Occaſion of my writing to you is the moſt extraordinary that ever was, I ſhall come to the Point, without Ceremo⯑ny. A certain fine Lady [whoſe Name I never chooſe to mention again] will, by that Time you have this, receive a Letter, to inform her of my determin'd Reſolution as to herſelf: Something remains to be ſaid to you, Sir. I [11] muſt forget I ever look'd on you with a friend⯑ly Eye, or, as a Gentleman, whom, perhaps, I once greatly eſteem'd, and thought myſelf honour'd in Acquaintance: How I ought to think of you, or act towards you now, Sir, let your own Underſtanding determine for me, in Spite of Prejudice to me, or your own Self-Love. I muſt now change the Stile I have often talk'd to you in; but I ſhall be calm, tho' determinate; and, as I ſcorn to ſpeak be⯑neath a Gentleman, you need not apprehend ought unfitting a Gentleman to hear. Reflect, Sir, how much Ruin I owe to the moſt de⯑ceitful of Women: And what ſhall I call you, Sir? the moſt artful of Men. Can you have ſo ſtrong a Senſe of Pride and Shame, as you ſay you have, and not bluſh, when you reflect how much you have made me the unhap⯑pieſt of Men. You know you have; by my G—d you do: You have ſeen me ſinking under the moſt calamitous heart-felt Anguiſh and Agony, while I ſmother'd Paſſions in my Breaſt, that diſorder'd my Senſes, and were near depriving me of Life: I bluſh to think I have endur'd ſo much. But nothing leſs than Extreams could have cur'd me of that exceſ⯑ſive, that uncommon, I muſt now add, ſhame⯑ful Love, that I once had for the unworthieſt of Women.—I cannot ſay leſs of her, and ſcorn to ſay more, I own, I have often de⯑bated with myſelf, whether I ſhould not have deſtroy'd you, her, and myſelf; I have had it in my Power, could I have reconcil'd my Mind [12] to ſo damn'd, ſo execrable an Action. I am not aſham'd to avow, Sir, I believe in a God, and think Self-Murder the moſt impudent Crime can be committed towards him; tho' I have had too many melancholy Debates with myſelf thereon: Nay, I think it, indeed, in one Senſe, a cowardly Act: My farther Thoughts, on that Subject, I have no need to explain now.—As to her, I could not bear the Idea of hurting, what was once, too dear, too precious to me; I will not ſay now how much ſo: And for you, Sir, let me tell you, while I had the leaſt Interval of Reaſon, I could not but ſcorn a baſe, malicious Reſent⯑ment, even to the Man who has depriv'd me of all I once thought valuable. I have had my Cure from her own flagrant Behaviour: But I will not be ſo meanly ungenerous, to ſay all I think of her to you; do you think of her Ingratitude (to ſay the leaſt) towards me, as a high Merit to you. If the ſtrongeſt Guilt can deſerve a favourable Thought, you owe it to her.—Sir, I muſt tell you plainly, I know now, I believe, the whole Progreſs of a de⯑teſted Affair, even from the Maſquerade and Chappel Meetings you had long ſince; yes, Sir, and the dear Lady's beginning a literary Correſpondence, at a Time, when, I believe, I may ſafely call God to Witneſs, I had never exchang'd three Words with you; nay, bare⯑ly recollected your Face, and ſcarcely remem⯑bred your Name; (you muſt know, and ought to own this) I thank the delicate Dame for [13] the Commencement of our Acquaintance. I am loſt in Aſtoniſhment when I recollect, I have ſeen that innocent Face of her's, as it once appear'd to me, received (ay, both of us received on a friendly Footing) in a ſober Family of Diſtinction and Reputation, where there appear'd a general Harmony of Love and Friendſhip;—She handſomely treated, by Gentlemen of Figure and Fortune, invited and careſs'd by Ladies of deſerved Reputa⯑tion: Placed by the Side of one, whom I ſhudder to think of, and will not be ſo indeli⯑cate to dwell on 'em in my Thought, leaſt my Imagination ſhould ſtart ſtrange Fancies. I ſay, I am ſtunn'd at the Recollection; with what innocent Mirth ſhe there appear'd; when, my God! how ſhockingly far gone was ſhe in Guilt, as her own Confeſſions have ſince re⯑veal'd to me; but from herſelf I could not have believ'd it: My Brain achs with the Thought. By all that's ſacred I then no more imagin'd her capable of what I have ſince found, than I thought Infants, at the Breaſt, could lay Schemes of Miſchief; or, that Babes, in the Month, could blaſpheme: So fooliſhly was I loſt, in a high Opinion of her, I never had the leaſt Suſpicion of her being capable of an Error, even in Thought; 'till a damn'd Letter I receiv'd, a conſiderable Time after the Queen's Death, and even then, ſtruggled to think favourably, 'till her own Mouth pronounced her Guilty. The Conſe⯑quence of which, immediately drove me [14] from England; and what cruel, ſhocking, artful Advantages were taken of my diſtracted Mind, during my Abſence, as well as of my Weakneſs, Credulity and unhappy Circum⯑ſtances;—When at Home, let them ſay whoſe Conſciences can beſt inform 'em—But I have ſaid too much of you and her, tho' I may owe it to myſelf to ſay a great deal more, ſhe's not worth it now. Had I any Obligations to you, Sir, that I did not propoſe returning in the ſtrongeſt Manner? Were they not unexpectedly thruſt on me? Did I ever ſeek for any? If by any Accident it has not been immediately in my Power to diſcharge 'em; let me ſay, 'twas a cruel artful Manner of deluding me, with what I ought (all Things conſider'd) to call, the Appearance of Obligations only: 'Tis plain they were meant to diſarm me of that Re⯑ſentment you were conſcious, I muſt, ſome Time or other, waken to. Yet, ſhe, ſhe, that ſtrange Woman, whom I cannot name, taught me to call you a Friend, and think you ſuch; were you really one, Sir? Let me tell you, Sir, thoſe in whom I thought I could place the higheſt Confidence, have diſappointed and betray'd me; where I center'd my Hopes of Happineſs, I have met with Shame, Ingrati⯑tude and Ruin. How very early Attempts were made againſt my Peace of Mind, and all that's valuable to Man, is beſt known to thoſe who took ſtrange Methods, cooly, and deliberately to plan my Deſtruction: Tho' I ſcorn (as I have told you more than once) [15] a baſe, low, malicious, treacherous Revenge; yet, I am compell'd to inform you, whatever Man ought to do, I dare do, Sir, let the Trial come when it will: Tho' perhaps, 'tis ſcarce Courage to ſay (after being ſtabb'd thro' the Heart) you are welcome to a fair Opportunity of ſhooting me thro' the Head, or running me thro' the Body; if your own Honour, your own Conſcience, your own Underſtanding dictate to you, more ſhould be ſaid, or done, by one in my tortur'd, unhappy Condition, think it ſaid already, and ſave me the Pain of repeating Words that bear a harſh Sound, to one whom Friendſhip, Reſpect and good Will, have not permitted me to look on hate⯑fully; tho' I am, thro' your Means, the moſt undone of Mankind. I expect, Sir, as you are a Man of Honour, to have all my Letters re⯑turned me that I wrote to her; ſince, among other modeſt Treatment of me, ſhe has hinted to me they were in ſafe Hands: I may pardon her Breach of Duty in other Reſpects, and plead her unhappy Love, forſooth, (which I ought to laugh at now) but I never will for⯑give ſuch an injurious, ſacrilegious Breach of Truſt: I ſhall loſe all Patience if I ſay much more on't: I wont meanly imagine you could deſire to have 'em, Sir. What, expoſe the Letters of an injur'd, forgiving Husband; wrote, when, God is Witneſs, he had not the right Uſe of his Senſes; Stupendious Impu⯑dence! Had an unhappy Man been afflicted with a Leproſy, and in a delirious Fit of a [16] Fever, danc'd naked round his Chamber, ſhould a Wife, a Wife, Sir, dare to throw open the Door to expoſe him? Damn'd Thought! But not parallel to the expoſing of Letters, full of the wild Ravings, and incohe⯑rent Starts of an unfortunate Madman. Sir, I muſt require every Line of 'em from you: And may I never ſee her Face again. I am not to direct you, Sir, how you are to behave to others, or ask you whom you may hurt beſides myſelf; but I can't help ſaying, if ſhe has any Spark of Honour, Conſcience, Honeſty, or Modeſty remaining, ſhe ought to retire from the World, contented with a very moderate Allowance, which I ſhall be willing to contri⯑bute to, Sir, loaded, as I am, with Diſtreſſes and Difficulties; and I ſhall ſtill think worſe of her, than I have done, if ſhe takes any Advantage of her Power over you (I know ſhe has ſhewn a great deal too much already) to drive you to ought that may prejudice you, or hurt ſome Families, that good Manners and Humanity will not permit me to mention, or dwell one Moment longer on. Sir, as ſhe has choſe her Situation, when I, to the laſt Mo⯑ment, would have ſav'd her from the laſt Ruin, I never more will exchange a Word with her. If you have ought, after the Re⯑ceipt of this, to ſay to me, Sir, I am to be found in Town, whither you can better af⯑ford to come, than I to take a Journey into the Country; which, as I have been exceeding ill, is not altogether ſo eaſy for me neither, [17] tho' I think it highly improper, we ſhould ever more behold each other, unleſs it were on an Affair of the laſt Conſequence. Tho' ſhe had Impudence and Folly enough to think, I would continue, on any Conſideration of Lux⯑ury, or Vanity, to play the ridiculous in⯑famous Part of a feigned Husband; ſure, no Man, in his Senſes, thought I would or could: If you know ſuch a one, Sir, tell 'em, I can teach myſelf to think as cheaply, as badly of them, as they muſt of me. Favours, of any Sort, I neither expect, or want, or would re⯑ceive; I ſhould deteſt thoſe who could proffer 'em, as I ſhould myſelf to accept 'em: And, without mincing the Matter, Sir, I muſt tell you, my Acquaintance, with you, has been the moſt expenſive of any I ever had, perhaps; I mean ſo in a literal Senſe, for I have ever been too apt to appear and act above myſelf, both at Home and Abroad: And never omitted, in every Reſpect, entertaining others in the Manner I thought they deſerv'd. I now will have done, and ſubſcribe myſelf (as you're a Gentleman)

P.S. I have been in ſome Hurry of Bu⯑ſineſs, and, perhaps, my Mind not a little ruffled; therefore, cannot yet finiſh my other Letter; but I ſhall ſend it to her as ſoon as poſſible. On ſecond Thoughts, I care not [18] whether I have my Letters or no, provided the Weakneſs I have ſhewn in 'em, towards a nameleſs Woman, is not believ'd; let her ra⯑ther think it Artifice, or call it what ſhe will. I am not to learn your Spirit, and your Sen⯑timents of Pride and Honour, Sir, therefore will not doubt, but my Name will never be mention'd by you. This is no Time for either of us to give or receive Compliments: But be aſſur'd, from this Time, your Name, Sir, will ne⯑ver be mention'd more by me for my own Sake, and I wiſh my own Name were chang'd, be⯑cauſe ſhe once bore it. Whatever others may adviſe me to do, I have determin'd to act from myſelf; and I here tell you, Sir, the only Appearance of an Obligation I will ever owe to you, ſhall be your Aſſiſtance, (and that at a a Diſtance) to free me from what I ſcorn to be link'd to. If it will be any additional Gra⯑tification to the Lady to have her Husband deſtroy'd, don't fail to obey her Commands, Sir; for who can do too much to pleaſe ſuch a Dame? But know, Sir, leaſt you ſhould ima⯑gine I would reap ought from her damn'd Folly, I here declare, I ſeek for nothing but to be free; and ſo farewel to her for ever. It is incumbent on me, to tell you, Sir, what Obligations ſhe may be under to you, by G—d I am an utter Stranger to, and wiſh for ever to continue ſo. My humble Service to her, and I thank her, and you, for my Ruin, which I ſhall riſe above, when ſhe's repenting too late. She'll find me a fatal Prophet. When ſhe has [19] receiv'd and read my Letters, I ſtand prepared for all Events. As I have been her Slave to Extreams, let her not be ſurpriz'd that my Reſentments riſes in Proportion, tho' the inſo⯑lent Fool has often dar'd to rouze my Anger to my Face; I ſcorn'd the Violence ſhe would have provok'd me to, and could not forget I was a Man, tho' I had been excuſable not to have remembred ſhe was a Woman. I ſhall ſay no⯑thing but Truth in my Letters to her, tho' ex⯑ceeding ſhort of what I know, if Men of Honour are to be depended on, and far, far ſhort of what ſhe has deſerved. I muſt re⯑mind you, Sir, whatever Lye (I can't uſe a ſofter Word) ſhe has taught herſelf to tell, or has impos'd on any one to believe, I know how to clear myſelf, in Spite of all her baſe Attempts. I inſiſt on her Ear-Rings; I have been robb'd too much by her already.

LETTER III.

THE Inclos'd has been wrote a conſider⯑able Time, and ſent after you twice, when, by Accident, I heard you was in Town. I can but ſmile to think you could ſup⯑poſe, [20] I ever wanted to make any Advantages of you to your Prejudice: Had that ever been my Thought, I might have proceeded very differently—No, Sir, I would ſtarve firſt. A Divorce, a thorough one, I have learnt, is not ſo exceſſively expenſive, as ſome may have imagin'd: I expect that of their Honour, who ought to procure it; and it may be done without Prejudice to any, or uſing Names that may ſhock the Innocent; 'tis all I want in Lieu of a fine Lady, and her Income, which, by my Means, may yet be 400 l. a Year; but I would Beg rather than ſhare it with her. I think Money, Dirt, Sir, as much as any one; and however neceſſary an Article 'tis in Life, I ſcorn to pick it off Dunghills. Pray, Sir, what Favours do I owe you, ex⯑cept one paltry Debt, for which you had my Bond, and you know might have had ſtronger Security? Did I dream of it e'er 'twas prof⯑fer'd, or were any damn'd Terms propos'd? No, by my G—d, Sir, you know the contra⯑ry. I am, Sir, as before,

LETTER IV.

I Am about to write to you for the laſt Time, conſequently may be drawn into a long Letter, as I purpoſe, never more, but once, to ſet my Hand to ought concerning you; I mean, by that once, when I may ſign an In⯑ſtrument that may leave you to all that Liberty your own Licentiouſneſs has made Choice of;—you know, ſome Time ago, I bid you prepare for a determin'd Separation, which Reſolution, no Conſequence upon Earth ſhall ſhake. Re⯑member 'tis your own ſeeking—'Twas your own Choice, at a Time when I was running diſtracted, and breaking my Heart Abroad, for what I bluſh to have ever ſet ſo much Va⯑lue on: Your Behaviour, and my own Re⯑flections, have fix'd my Mind irrevocable. Thoſe who act thoughtleſsly may, in ſome Meaſure, ſtand accus'd—But he who conti⯑nues [22] to act againſt his Thought, is, I think, unpardonable.

I am greatly at a Loſs to proceed, ſince what can I ſay to you that will not be ſhocking, (tho' I ſhall ſay nothing but Truth) unleſs I were to demean myſelf, if poſſible, more than I have done, ſo much have I been loſt in Love, (and a fond, fooliſh Hope of recovering what I ought not to have ſought after) which Love you have torn from my Heart by the Roots, yes, Madam, entirely; tho' I once lov'd to Folly and Madneſs: My only Obligation to you is, you have abſolutely cur'd me, which not long ſince, I thought could never have hap⯑pen'd. I think a generous good-natur'd Mind ſhould be ſlow to ſuſpect, as Humanity will be ready to forgive; how mine have been de⯑ceiv'd, I have been too ſurely convinc'd by un⯑deniable Facts, and the Confeſſions gain'd from yourſelf. However wildly I may often have appear'd in general to have acted, yet, in Matters of the higheſt Conſequence, you may have had ſome Proof: I can be ſtrangely ſteady, can keep my Mind to myſelf, can ſift to the very Bottom of Things, am ſlow in my De⯑termination; and being fix'd, no Power, no Force, no Threat, no Bribe, no Terror, nor any Temptation whatever can alter me, know⯑ing my Reſolves are grounded on Truth, Ho⯑nour and Juſtice. But to my Point.

When I made you my Wife, I knew I wed⯑ded a beautiful, ſenſible young Woman; but what I farther thought an ineſtimable Treaſure [23] was, I imagin'd I had found one of a deſerv'd good Character, whoſe Prudence, whoſe Re⯑ligion, whoſe artleſs Innocence, whoſe careful ſober Education, whoſe ſound Principles, and ſteady Honeſty were ſuch, as nothing could tempt to any Act, or even Thought, that was in the leaſt repugnant to the ſtricteſt Prin⯑ciples of Truth and Virtue. I need not ſay, I have been vilely deceiv'd in all;—but when I reflect how much, and how early I was de⯑ceiv'd—I am aſtoniſh'd, and Thunder-ſtruck; tho' I can, I thank God, ſpeak of it now with Temper.

To ſay ought that may appear like Praiſe of one's ſelf, may ſeem vain: But there can be no Reaſon in the World why we ſhould fear to ſpeak a ſimple Truth, when ſo abſolutely ne⯑ceſſary to remember it; nay, when the Occa⯑ſion ſeems, indeed, to extort it from one—Being conſcious to myſelf, that I had been too irreſolute in the Conduct of my Affairs, as to Oeconomy, &c. I acted with that Nicety, that Extravagance of Honour towards you, Madam, that by my own Deſire, Marriage Articles were drawn to make you Miſtreſs of whatever Fortune might accrue to you from your own Talents, &c. (which Income you have receiv'd and had the free undiſputed Diſpoſal of) tho' by the Way, you did not bring me a Shilling, and 'twas almoſt impoſſible you ſhou'd ever get one, without my Conduct, my Care, Aſſiſt⯑ance, Inſtruction, and Advice—what they have been you know full well;—what Anxiety [24] I have endur'd; what Aſſiduity, what Diligence I have us'd, what uncommon Means to ſup⯑port you; I have hazarded Friendſhips, made myſelf even a publick Jeſt, ſet my own In⯑tereſt at nought; my Life and Reputation at Stake, and thought all too little. I am ſorry I have Occaſion to mention your poor unfortunate Family; but as Diſtreſs is no Crime, I ſhall venture to remind you, from an uncommon Regard to you, I thought of their Intereſt and Support, even to the Prejudice of my own, (and omitted enlarging my own Income, at a critical Juncture, to promote their's in a hand⯑ſome Manner) as I preferr'd obliging you, and all that belong'd to you, to all Conſiderations upon the Face of the Earth. Let me ac⯑knowledge they have not yet appear'd un⯑grateful ^* whatever you have been—nor will I ſay they had any Obligation to me, ſince you were the Source of all:—I acknowledge my Error, and bluſh at my want of Conduct, when I ſay ſo much I prided in you, that I thought no Expence too much that ſupported what I muſt now call, your Pride and Vanity (I had almoſt ſaid your Vices.) Harſh Terms, perhaps, tho' far ſhort of what you might expect from me, and very different from any yet ever us'd by me towards you, tho' labour⯑ing under the higheſt Indignities, and Injuries, human Nature ever ſuffer'd;—and thoſe [25] brought to the higheſt Pitch, when I was un⯑der the greateſt Diſtreſſes:—Thank you, Madam.—Was I expenſive in my Dwelling in Town and Country? Was my Equipage above me? my Table too open to Friends? Were not your Friends, your Gueſts, ever the moſt welcome? Was I too laviſh in many Ar⯑ticles? What were my Expences, on myſelf, at Home or Abroad? moderate; leſs than they had often been: Why did e not retrench all? becauſe my Fondneſs and Pride would not let me, while you were my Partner, and preſided as Miſtreſs of All;—my pleaſurable Jaunts were all with you;—who ever ſhar'd any with me except yourſelf? no Creature on the Face of the Earth;—I ever choſe you ſhou'd ſhare my chearful Moments, and (which I own was a Fault) kept all painful Thoughts to myſelf, rather than let 'em diſturb you:—Did I ever want Good-Humour, good Man⯑ners, or Good-Nature? Love, Fondneſs, or Tenderneſs? You know, I have ſhewn 'em to Exceſs; ay, felt 'em to Exceſs,—a ſhameful one;—nor was my Love ſo ſickly to diminiſh by Fruition, but rather—Encreaſe of Appetite did grow by what it fed on: Yes, Madam, I have, on ſome Occaſions, ſhewn uncommon Inſtances of a raptur'd Husband; this you know, your Soul knows it;—but I forgot, among other refin'd Notions, your improv'd Talents have gain'd, your having a Soul ſeems to be a Doubt with your philoſophical Lady⯑ſhip, who have learn'd to make a Jeſt of all [26] Ties human and divine;—thoſe Leſſons, Ma⯑dam, I never taught you:—Oh, but ſay you,—You all this while forget your own Errors;—no Madam, I have often, in my Confeſſion of 'em, rather enlarged than leſſen'd 'em; been quick to arraign myſelf,—reflected ſtrongly, and truly repented; wou'd have amended, wou'd you have encourag'd me; this you know to be Truth, as is every Word I ſay to you. I never thought I cou'd do enough by Way of Expiation;—conſcious of my Fol⯑lies, I have, in return, huſh'd my Reſentments, ſtruggl'd with my Pride and Honour,—but, what's the Pride of a poor Man, or the Ho⯑nour of a Husband? Does not your witty, wanton Ladyſhip ſmile at 'em?—take Care, let me never more ſee it tho'.—Have I not excus'd the Frailties of others (convinc'd of my own) to an unpardonable Fault? I have ſooth'd, when I ſhou'd have been ſevere; have ſigh'd, when I ſhou'd have rag'd; have forc'd a Smile under the greateſt Affliction; have us'd In⯑treaty for Command; have ſeem'd blind, with my Eyes open; (tho' they were open'd very lately, God knows, and then I wiſh'd I could not ſee) I have continu'd the Lover, when I ſhou'd have aſſerted the Husband; and rather choſe, by Tenderneſs, to touch the Heart I valu'd, than force myſelf, contrary to my Na⯑ture, to be a Tyrant or a Jailor;—I ever ſcorn'd to poſſeſs, what Generoſity, and Confi⯑dence, cou'd not preſerve;—and that you might not bluſh too much, if you wou'd have [27] repented, I even fram'd Excuſes for your Er⯑rors, and choſe to load myſelf with Blame, rather than not alleviate your Burden:—To flatter you to Truth, I have thrown Faults on myſelf I have not been guilty of, and allow'd you Merits that you never had.—When I went to France, tho' 'twas my own unhappy ſudden Thought, you know, you drove me thither;—I ſink with Shame, tho' no Eye beholds me, when I recollect, how near I was loſing my Senſes, nay, let me truly own, I had loſt 'em, becauſe I thought I had loſt you; the Symptoms were too plain to every Eye, while my fond Fears for you endeavour'd to conceal the real Cauſe. I own, I wiſh'd to be recall'd; why? becauſe England held you,—the only Perſon in the World that now makes me wiſh I had a Fortune Abroad. Don't ima⯑gine that by the Repetition of ought I may have done or endur'd, I expect, or wiſh, your Mind ſhou'd return to me, and a Wife without it were ſuch Infamy as I ſcorn to dwell on.—My Affluence you were pleas'd to ſhare, the Narrowneſs and hazardous Part of my Cir⯑cumſtances you were above condeſcending to partake; tho' with your Comfort, and that Aſſiſtance you ought to have lent me: (Nay, and which I could command) I had no Affairs but were to be retriev'd, and the Difficulties that have aroſe have been more owing to my di⯑ſtracted State of Mind, &c. on your Account, than any other Impediment. I thought my going Abroad wou'd either wean me, or recall [28] you; I hop'd my Return wou'd operate on you, in ſuch a Manner, as Humanity, and a Con⯑ſciouſneſs of Error ſhou'd have taught:—But, you force me to ſay (you tear the Words from me) ſure never was Mind ſo loſt, ſo abandon'd: Amidſt all the uncommon Agonies, and Terrors, I endur'd, I was reſolv'd to try you to the ut⯑termoſt, and uſe various and uncommon Means to gain the Truth if poſſible;—but, by ſifting that from you, how falſe, how prevaricating, how very baſe have I prov'd you, or rather you prov'd yourſelf? Thou thorough Lyar. 'Tis not to be dwelt on. I thought I knew the World pretty well, your Sex not a little; but you, Madam, have made all that Knowledge nothing: Nor do I believe any Age or Hiſto⯑ry can readily furniſh one with your Parrallel. I thank Providence that prompted me to return to find the Bottom of you; without it, I had been loſt in Pity, Compaſſion, and Deluſion. For what? I will not ſay all I think of you. Your cunning Artifice, your ſtrange Conduct in having private Meetings (long ſince, and all unſuſpected by me) at Chapels, Maſque⯑rades, and Places that ſhock me to think of; and your ſlow and ſly Manner of drawing me into an Intimacy, an Acquaintance and Friend⯑ſhip; and ſcheming my being under Obliga⯑tions, have made me ſtart, but now I could al⯑moſt ſmile at 'em: And all this ere I had the leaſt Imagination or Suggeſtion that you either had ſuffered, or would ſuffer any one to whiſ⯑per a ſingle Accent of Love in your Ear; nay, [29] before I knew a certain Perſon had even (in publick or private) ever exchang'd a Syllable with you. Thou ſtrange, ſtrange Creature! never had Man greater Confidence, nor was ever Confidence more ungenerouſly betray'd than mine has been. Your preſuming to lay a Plan for our living together, on ſuch auda⯑cious Terms as you cou'd propoſe, makes me ſhudder to think you cou'd utter 'em; while I ſmile at your ridiculous Folly that cou'd ſup⯑poſe I would go thro' with it. I chuſe to ſmile, Madam, becauſe I ſcorn to be angry with what is become beneath my Reſentment. You have choſe ſtrange Extreams, Madam, and, I thank God, thoſe Extreams have cur'd me. Ma⯑dam, no Conſideration upon Earth ſhall ever make me again eat a Meal with you, nor ſleep under the ſame Roof; nor dare to think I will ever have the leaſt Obligation or Friendſhip from you; your Lip or Hand I never more will offer to touch, and all I expect of you is good Manners and Diſtance, if ever we are com⯑pell'd by any Accident to meet again; tho' I own I could wiſh we were never more to ſee each other. I ſhall talk to you, Madam, by a third Perſon only, whom I ſhall pitch upon with Caution: What's proper for you to wear, Madam, you ſhall have; but I have no For⯑tune to compliment away, and have enough to do with that little, that extreme little that belongs to me. I once thought it an Honour to call you by my Name,—gueſs what I think it now; however ſlight, or lowly you have [30] taught yourſelf to think of me, you'll find I have Reſolution enough yet to act with ſtrict Juſtice and Honour, to all who ought to ex⯑pect or demand it from me. Waken'd from my unhappy Lethargy of Love, Recollection now awakens to my Memory innumerable In⯑ſtances, long ſince paſt, of your mercenary Self-love, Deceit, and Baſeneſs of Mind to⯑wards me, that had remained unheeded, but for ſome ſhocking Provocations which recall the Remembrance of 'em, and juſtify me in a ſtrong Belief (rather let me ſay Aſſurance) you never meant to act juſtly by me; or ever was what I once fondly thought you. I now can ſee thro' you clearly, Madam;—when I caſt my Eyes over your Letters, I can point out the Places where a ſuperior Underſtanding to your own was the Dictator; and what ſhocks me to think of is, even the Feeling, the Humanity, or Tenderneſs towards me, that may appear in 'em, I am now convinc'd was Art; thoſe feign'd Sentiments came not from your Heart, I am certain; I rather ow'd 'em to another,—ſhock⯑ing, aggravating Circumſtance of your Guilt and Folly! You artfully kept alive my Love, to take Advantage of my Weakneſs; baſe Wretch! Can I, on Reflection, think otherwiſe? What ſignifies your Words, when your Ac⯑tions have ſpoke you too plain to me? How readily you catch'd at my Words when I pro⯑pos'd going abroad, to remove a painful Object from your Eyes? The Ceremony indeed appear'd to ſhock you,—why? alas! my fond Credulity [31] then miſinterpreted all; but now I'll tell you the true Reaſons, Madam, and God forgive me if I injure you: You were hurt, not from what I was to ſuffer, but from the Hazards you ran yourſelf; your Pride began to be a⯑larm'd, leſt you ſhou'd loſe that Reputation your Virtue ſhou'd have deſerv'd. 'Twas un⯑doubtedly, no pleaſant Circumſtance (to think of me only in the Light of a Companion, that had often added to your Entertainment and Mirth) to ſee a Man burſting with Ago⯑ny, yet, endeavouring to ſupport himſelf with Spirit, turning his Back on his native Country, with a Thought of never beholding it more: Nor was it agreeable to ſee my Furniture thrown in a Heap, deſigned for Sale, which it never ſhould have been, but that I knew not other⯑wiſe (till I could fix ſome Scheme or Reſolu⯑tion) how to ſupport myſelf abroad, unleſs I had been as low in my Mind as your ſimple Ladyſhip was pleas'd to think me, and wou'd have ſubmitted to have ow'd my Support where I wou'd ſooner have ſacrific'd my Life. How dar'd you, Madam, to have ſuch an audacious inſulting Thought of me? If I dwell on it I ſhall loſe my Temper, and talk beneath my⯑ſelf. You know my little Support was from my⯑ſelf alone. I will ſuppoſe, at that Juncture too, your Conſcience ſtir'd within you, and mov'd your Countenance to ſuch expreſſive Looks as even now I cannot bear the Thought of; and I muſt pauſe e'er I can go on—Curſe on the Weakneſs that ſtops me. I ought, while I talk [32] to you, to diveſt myſelf of all Feeling and Humanity, of Memory if poſſible; yet let me recollect; you let me go, and, Madam, ſpite of your Art, ſpite of all Diſguiſe, I cou'd find, by your Writing, your Mind felt a Relief the Moment you heard I was landed on another Shore. How unhappy my Life was there I ſcorn to tell you now. But how were you alarm'd when I thought of returning, when you pretended (I had like to have ſaid impu⯑dently) you wou'd live with me again, if I pleas'd; but the Conditions were ſo pretty, I muſt laugh, Madam, leſt a juſt Anger ſhou'd waken me to Terms I ſcorn to uſe; tho' all wou'd be far ſhort of your Deſervings; you, who cou'd pretend to be in your Senſes, and dare to think ſo damnably of me. I muſt break off, for how can I go on? Is it a Sub⯑ject to ſmile at? Monſtrous! after all I have endur'd, ſhould I revive any ſoft Ideas in my Memory? 'twere the Extreme of Folly: Shall I be angry? I owe more to my own Pride than to think you worth it. I find ſuch Variety of Thoughts pour in upon me, I muſt determine to haſten to a Concluſion, or this Subject will be endleſs; whatever may remain to be ſaid, I ſhall think of, and deliver elſewhere.

To the Point—Had you liſten'd to me as you ought, God, who knows my Heart, well knows your Uſage ſhould have been worthy a better Woman; but as you chuſe the Ha⯑zard of being call'd the Miſtreſs of a mar⯑ried Man, rather than to live the Wife of an [33] honeſt, tho' unhappy Husband; take your Choice and be certain, I ſhou'd think it more honour⯑able to be the loweſt Perſon in a Jail, than command in a Palace, on ſuch Terms as your inſolent Folly (I can't ſay leſs) has more than once hinted to me—I have try'd you, Madam, to the uttermoſt, and you muſt ſurely be aſtoniſh'd at my Temper, as I have at your Behaviour: I ow'd it to myſelf to remember you were a Woman, tho' the moſt inſolent, provoking Wife, perhaps, that ever try'd the Strength of a Husband's Temper, Love, or Reaſon;—my Reaſon I have often been near being entirely depriv'd of on your Account, but 'tis paſt,—and my Love compleatly cur'd;—I was determin'd to go thro' any fiery Trial to accompliſh it, or to tear out the Heart that cou'd continue in the Weakneſs:—And ſo no more on't.

Articles of Separation ſhall be drawn; con⯑ſult whom you pleaſe on your Part—Were I a Man of Fortune, they ſhou'd be more than Articles,—let the Expence be what it wou'd;—not that I want, or wiſh to throw any Odium, or malicious Inſult on you, or any one; I am above it:—I have Spirit enough to ſmile under Misfortunes, and ſcorn the In⯑juries I have not deſerv'd—thoſe Articles I mention, Madam, ought to leave each as free as we were once faſt, if poſſible,—nor is it reaſonable I ſhou'd be liable to a Jail for the Indiſcretions of others, whom I am compell'd to ſay, may not a little have contributed to⯑wards [34] the Hazard of my being in one.—I can make it appear you have ſpent me infinitely more than your own Income ever amounted to.

While I have been endeavouring to leſſen my Expences, your Ladyſhip's have encreas'd.—Your Wardrobe, &c. ſince you were my Wife, was much properer for one of a ſuperior Rank and Fortune;—yet, let me hint to you, I bought your Wedding-Suit, Madam.—To enumerate all Articles, were as endleſs, as to endeavour to relate all your monſtrous Behaviour.

In Anſwer to a damn'd Lye, you (I am in⯑form'd) have taught your horrid Tongue, (for which God ſave thee) receive the following Queſtions:

Cou'd I teach you, pretty Miſs, to love a Man I did not know? and whom you brought me acquainted with? Impudent Stupidity!

Cou'd I give you wrong Inclinations? or was I to be delighted with Diſtraction? mad Woman!—dear precious Madam, ſay that or any other damn'd, fooliſh, vile thing, rather than ſuppoſe I ever lov'd you—for I deteſt the Remembrance.

My few remaining Goods, &c. I muſt part with, for I am aſham'd to ſay it to you, but I am in Danger of being troubled by ſome few Creditors, whoſe Folly has refus'd my honeſt Propoſals; and my whole Salary, you know, muſt go to thoſe Good-natur'd Creditors who have comply'd; tho' they are all your's, Ma⯑dam, as much as mine at leaſt;—I can't [35] throw away any thing where I am ſure there's no Obligation,—nor muſt my Children ſtarve while you riot:—And give me Leave to tell you, Madam, my Heart can never be eaſy, or my Spirit at Reſt, while I am conſcious I am under an Obligation that I have not at leaſt a Proſpect of returning:—My Mind was ever above it; for you know, Madam, ev'n any Bill that was delay'd being paid by my caſual Extravagance, I have only look'd on the Sum total, and paid to the laſt Farthing, rather than not make up for the Time they waited:—Nay, I have paid you whatever I borrow'd of you by Accident, ſince my Return, as punctual as if you were a Stranger:—But I ramble from my Purpoſe.—You may, Madam, if you pleaſe, have (I underſtand) full the ſame Terms you had the laſt Year at the Theatre, which will amount to at leaſt 400 l. for the Seaſon:—I only inform you of it—I under⯑take to give you no Advice or Sentiments of mine thereon,—but to tell you, whatever you can gain any where, is entirely your own, for I wou'd ſooner ſwallow Poiſon than touch a Shil⯑ling of it;—and I deſire it may, without loſs of Time, be out of my Power to expect it:—You muſt imagine, Madam, I cou'd ſay an infinite deal more on this Subject,—but I'll not give myſelf the Pain;—only this, and I have done:—Remember, my Humanity wou'd have ſav'd you, even when I had conquer'd my Love.—And now,—may you be as true to another, as you have been falſe to me;— [36] and may you find that Pardon of God that you have from me! But may you deſerve it more, or dare not to hope for it:—For, in a few Words, towards me, you have been—vain, proud, ill-temper'd, and extravagant;—ſhock⯑ing to my Humanity,—deſtructive of my Peace of Mind,—ungrateful to my Friend⯑ſhip, which ſerv'd you and your's in the great⯑eſt Need; (ought I to forgive that?)—have ſcandalouſly betray'd my Confidence;—have reproach'd me with my former Extravagance, when my Fortune was at the loweſt Ebb,—tho' at the ſame Time you drew me into addi⯑tional Expences;—been ſhamefully falſe, and perfidious to my Love;—have impos'd on my Good-nature;—unjuſt to every Truſt I re⯑pos'd in you;—inſulted my breaking Heart;—trampled on my Pride and Honour;—been ſhamefully neglectful of your Duty in every Article:—And when you reflect on your whole unparallel'd Behaviour ſince my Return, you may wonder that you live:—But you cannot be ſurpriz'd, that, here I vow to God, never will I more hold Converſe or Commerce with you on any Account whatever.

Fearing your Welfare in my Abſence, I wrote Letters in your Praiſe, to recommend you to the Care of my Father, and others, when I ſhou'd have been juſtifiable had I aban⯑don'd you to Ruin.—Yet, at the ſame Time you traduc'd me to my Father, thou honeſt grateful Creature!

[37]One Word more.—As you have endeavour'd, when I was under the greateſt Misfortunes, to blacken me to my neareſt and deareſt Friends and Relations, (for ſo I find) pray keep your modeſt Face out of my Sight:—Tho' you have boaſted of the Power you maintain'd o'er all that ever lov'd you, yet I'll give you one friendly Piece of Advice:—Shou'd you ever meet with any Man of no ordinary Senſe, Pride, and Spirit, take Care to behave a little better than you have to me.

The Perſon who writes the Copy of my Letter is bound, by ſolemn Oath, to Secreſy and Silence.—That you might be ſure 'twas a true Copy, I have number'd ev'ry Page, and ſign'd it myſelf;—and be aſſur'd I am my own Dictator, Madam.—I never have de⯑ceiv'd you, but when the Madneſs of my Paſſion deceiv'd my unhappy Self.—You know it—too well you know it.—I wrote to another Perſon with my own Hand—be⯑cauſe I remember'd he was a Gentleman—'twas ſcarce worth my while to you, who are—Nothing.

On this Subject I ſhall never write Word more, or open my Lips; I wiſh I cou'd loſe the Thought.—

After all I know of you,—be any thing but my Wife, and be luxuriouſly happy if you can.—Hell ſeize me, if I wiſh to in⯑terrupt you!—And ſo thou weakeſt, and moſt worthleſs of thy Sex, farewel for ever.

[38]Teach yourſelf no more to be call'd my Wife, for never, never will I more, if poſſible, think myſelf your Husband.—I will have no Anſwer to this;—there can be none fit for you to give, or me to receive;—and I wiſh you may never remember there is ſuch a Perſon in the World as, the unjuſtly treated, highly injur'd,