CHAPTER XCVI.

THE next day, after dinner, the Triumvirate, being tempted by the fineneſs of the evening, took a walk to the ſea beach, between two double lines of elms, planted ſo artfully, that every tree of the outward rows, covered the interval between two of the inward ones; which ſerved to ſhade you, both from ſun and wind, as effectually as if they had been [4] all placed in the ſame lines; and yet left, at the ſame time, the trees themſelves their due pro⯑portion of air and ſoil, to thrive in. This avenue extended about a quarter of a mile, and was terminated by a cIump of trees, which though only nineteen in number, were ſo in⯑geniouſly and paradoxically placed, that they formed juſt nine rows, with five trees in each^*.

In the midſt of this regular confuſion, there was a ſeat formed round the center elm, under whoſe umbrella they ſat down together, fixing upon that aſpect, which regarded the ſea. Here they all remained mute, for a conſiderable time, as that element had occaſioned reflections to ariſe in each of their minds, which occupied their whole thoughts, in ſilent and ſelf-contem⯑plations. At length Mr. Andrews, who by be⯑ing the moſt certainly unhappy of the three, was therefore become more collected and com⯑poſed, than thoſe who remained ſtill in ſuſpence, firſt broke ſilence, and turning to Mr. Carewe, claimed his promiſe, who thus readily began his ſtory.

CHAP. XCVII. The ſtory of Mr. Charles Carewe.

MY father is, for he is ſtill alive, a gentle⯑man of a conſiderable eſtate, in this kingdom. And my mother, who died lately, brought him a portion of five thouſand pounds, and was a woman of remarkable beauty. I was their firſt, and only ſon—But my mother happened, unluckily, to be delivered of me, about a fortnight before the uſual time.

As ſuch accidents are known frequently to have happened, and that her character was irre⯑proachable, the world, contrary to its uſual bent, refrained from all manner of cenſure, upon this event. Nor did my father, who loved her as well as he was capable, ſeem to receive the leaſt alarm, upon that occaſion; but rather in a coarſe jocular manner, as was his way, ap⯑plauded his own proweſs, as he termed it, which could bring that matter to bear, ſuch was his quibble, in about eight months, which re⯑quired nine, with another.

However, about ten years after, he began to grow jealous and uneaſy, about this very article, upon the following incident. A gentleman, [6] who was no way related, either to him or my mother, who had lived above an hundred miles diſtant from us, and had never even viſited at our houſe, happened to die unmarried, and left his eſtate, which was about a thouſand pounds a year, to me, appointing truſtees for it, till I ſhould become of age.

This perſon, it ſeems, had been a lover of my mother's, before her marriage, and was well received upon thoſe terms, by her father; but more advantageous conditions happening to intervene, before matters had been concluded upon, ſhe was compelled by her parents, to break off her engagements there, and was im⯑mediately married to my father.

Theſe three concurring circumſtances, her being wreſted out of a lover's arms, the prae⯑maturity of my birth, with this adoption, joined all together to raiſe a ſuſpicion in my father's mind, which had never once occurred to him, till the laſt of theſe unlucky circumſtances had happened.

Upon the firſt alarm, he with a precipitancy which was natural to him, and without giving my poor mother an opportunity of vindicating herſelf, from ſo foul a reproach, took a ſolemn oath that he would never ſee my face again, and immediately hurried me off to the truſtees of [7] my fortune, to be educated and maintained, out of my own patrimony, as he ſtiled it.

The moſt intereſting part of this ſtory, the cauſe of my excile, I knew nothing of, till ſome years after this event, when my mother had ob⯑tained leave to viſit me, at the ſchool where I had been placed by my guardians, about forty miles from my father's ſeat. She then related to me the particulars I have juſt mentioned, which ſhe ſaid ſhe would never have informed me of, but leſt they might, by any chance, happen to come to my knowledge hereafter, from any other hand, and then poſſibly occaſion ſome doubts to ariſe in my mind, which were unworthy of her. To obviate which, ſhe im⯑mediately entered into a vindication of herſelf, with ſuch an air of ſincerity and virtue, that muſt have removed all manner of ſuſpicion, from any but uncharitable and diſingenuous minds.

At the ſame time, ſhe afforded me the extreme pleaſure of being informed, that ſhe had per⯑fectly quieted my father's uneaſineſs, by giving him every ſatisfaction that a chriſtian could offer; which, with his own reflections upon the pru⯑dence and nicety, and of her whole conduct, ever ſince they had been married, had rendered him ſo conſcious of the haſtineſs and injuſtice of [8] his ſuſpicions, that he declared to her, according to his rough manners, and illiberal notions, that he would actually have aſked her pardon, if he was not her huſband. And as for that poor fellow, Charles, ſaid he, I am ſorry I took that raſh oath, d'ye ſee me, but that's paſt and gone, and he muſt ſtay where he is now; for, ſince I have ſworn it, let who will go to the devil for a liar, by the Lord I am reſolved that it ſhan't be me, d'ye mind.

CHAP. XCVIII.

HERE Mr. Carewe ſeems to be very deli⯑cate, upon what weak people imagine to be a material point; and takes great pains to clear up his legitimacy—But why? If the word baſtard offends his ear, let him aſſume the title of private relation; which is a more polite expreſ⯑ſion, in this caſe, that I here make a preſent of to the civilians.

Letters of ſafe conduct were iſſued by Edward the fourth, to the count de la Roche, natural ſon to a duke of Burgundy, who was coming over to ingage in a tournament, at London, with [9] lord Rivers^*, who had challenged him. Theſe letters were titled Pro Baſtardo Burgundiae, ſuper punctis armorum perficiendis. The being ad⯑mitted into the liſts, was an article of honour, and therefore the ſtile of the Paſs, could cer⯑tainly never be intended as an affront.

Or, to take it higher ſtill, were not Romulus, Alexander, by Olympia's confeſſion, Hercules, Themiſtocles, Jugurtha, king Arthur, Homer, Demoſthenes, and Adrian the fourth, cum mul⯑tis, every one of them notorious baſtards? And was not Ego Gulielmus Baſtardus the preamble to one of William the Conqueror's charters? But away with ſuch upſtart examples as theſe, and if you are tickled with pedigree, derive your origin from Cain, the firſt baſtard of the world.

Civilians diſtinguiſh baſtards, by the title of Natural Children, in oppoſition to thoſe born in wedlock; which latter may philoſophically be divided into unnatural, and artificial ones. The [10] firſt be thoſe, who are begotten in the ordinary courſe of matrimony. For ſurely, no man can have the face to tell me, on this ſide of three⯑ſcore, that it is natural, for a couple already agreed upon the epentheſis, the medius terminus, or mean point, to ſit playing at puſh-pin, pitch and toſs, or hide in the hand, while a lame ſexton is limping round a whole pariſh, to ſummon a fat, full-dined, lethargic parſon, waddling a ſnail's pace, to come and ſanctify a deed, which by an expreſs text, has already been declared a divine command.

Theſe ſlow-begotten brats, babes of grace before meat, theſe poſtponings of love and joy, are what, in obſtetrics ^*, as Shandy chuſes to ſay, may be ſtiled unnatural, or untimely births, as coming into the world, contrary to the due courſe of na⯑ture, and as it may be called, after their time, alſo.

By artificial children, I mean thoſe ſuccedaneums to generation, where barrenneſs or impotency are repaired by help of medicine, or other arts of phyſic—They may likewiſe be ſtiled Exotics too, as reared by cookery, in cold ungenial zones. Such adventitious children, ſuch interlopers in fami⯑lies, ſhould certainly never be allowed by the [11] Engliſh conſtitution, to intercept an eſtate from the heir at law. And for this opinion, I ſhall give you a conſtructive caſe, in point, taken out of Whyte's Reports, folio 23, and page 678.^*

A man fell down in a fit, at a certain coffee-houſe — A by-ſtander immediately propoſed a bett, that he would not recover—Another un⯑concerned ſpectator took him up—Not the poor patient, but the challenger. A ſurgeon, who happened to be in the room, drew out his lan⯑cet, and ſtript up the dying man's arm; but the bettor called out to him to have a care of what he was doing, for that he ſhould pay the bett, if the man recovered—An appeal was made to the jocky club, then preſent, who confirmed the ſentence, ‘for that the gentleman had ſtaked his money, upon nature only, not on art.’

Beſides, theſe ſurreptitious heirs ſeldom ever arrive to the ſize or vigour of manhood, neither, but remain a kind of ‘Puny inſects, quivering at a breeze;’ like ſome of our modern nobility and gentry. For my part, (had I any thing to leave) [aſide.] I would much ſooner adopt an heir, out of a warming-pan, than an apothecary's ſhop. And, [12] if a woman may be allowed to take medicines, to get herſelf with child, why may ſhe not be indulged in getting herſelf with child, ſome⯑times, by way of medicine, alſo? For phyſi⯑cians have preſcribed this cure, in ſome caſes.

Baſtards—I aſk pardon—Private relations are alſo ſaid to be generally more endowed with ſpirit, wit, and genius, than the legitimate. Which muſt certainly be owing to their parents being both of one mind, at the ſame inſtant, and then in ſteps the good old proverb, that two heads are better than one. Is there always ſuch a concordance, in matrimony? And where this is wanting, can the offſpring of mere ceremony, be ever fit for any thing, but to make heralds, dancing-maſters, or gentleman-uſhers. ^*?

Theſe merry begotten too, have another advan⯑tage over the legitimate, as they may be at liberty to adopt a father; and ſhew themſelves wiſe children, in their choice. The legal ſon may have a ſcoundrel, or a ſcavenger, for his parent, buthe baſtard muſt have had bad luck, indeed, if among the number of galants, who may be imputed to his mother, he cannot be able, like [13] ſome of the antient heroes, to pick out one, that he need not be aſhamed of.

CHAP. XCIX.

I Remained at this ſchool, continued Mr. Ca⯑rewe, till I had compleated the courſe I had begun at a former one, before my baniſhment; and was thence removed to the univerſity of Oxford; where I paſſed through my ſtudies and exerciſes, with as much credit and ſucceſs, as moſt of my cotemporaries.

I do not pretend to ſay, that I applied myſelf to books, with the ſame ſedulity that either of you, gentlemen, ſaid he, bowing, would pro⯑bably have done, in ſo advantageous a ſituation for letters; I was too volatile, and fond of plea⯑ſure, to ingage deeply in ſtudy; but I had ever a certain pride of character, which notwithſtand⯑ing my diſſipations, and the diſadvantages of an independent fortune, propelled me always, juſt to fill up the ſtriked meaſure of my duties, though to ſay truth, I ſeldom heaped it.

And in truth, the college courſes there, are ſo very eaſy, to any perſon well inſtructed, and [14] attended to at ſchool, that I have been fre⯑quently ſurpriſed to ſee ſo many young men, of ſenſe and parts ſufficient, paſs through them, or rather, paſs them by, with ſo little credit, or ad⯑vantage. For a perſon may be perfectly idle, in a moral ſenſe, without being ſo, in a literary one. Let him but diligently apply only that time, to his ſtudies, which he cannot find room for, in his pleaſures, and I'll anſwer for it, that he ſhall paſs through all his degrees, with eaſe, and ho⯑nour too.

But the misfortune is, that young fellows do not, time enough, take up a ſenſe of this oeco⯑nomy, at the beginning, and then, like other bad managers, the arrear of buſineſs they find on their hands, often affrights them from adjuſting their accounts, till it may be, perhaps, too late to retrieve either their time, or their fortunes.

CHAP. C.

WHILE I was at the univerſity, I hap⯑pened to attach myſelf particularly, to a young man, who was of the ſame hall with me. He was a perfect Adonis, in face and per⯑ſon. [15] This, you may be certain, was a matter of no manner of conſequence to me; but ſome friendly pieces of ſervice, which happened to fall in my way to do him, with his ſenſe and grati⯑tude for them, mutually endeared us to each other.

He was not poſſeſſed of any great logical fa⯑cultles, but had a refined taſte for poetry, painting, muſic, and the claſſics; with a re⯑markable facility in learning languages; and he applied himſelf with ſuch diligence to this ſuper⯑ficial part of literature, that he could not only read French, Italian, Latin, and Greek, but ſpeak them too, with perfect eaſe, fluency, and correctneſs.

But in the deeper or more abſtruſe parts of ſtudy, ſuch as phyſics, metaphyſics, and mathe⯑matics, in fine, through moſt of the arts and ſciences, he was remarkably backward and flow. He uſed to attend diligently indeed, all the lec⯑tures upon natural philoſophy, on account of the experiments, which he ſeemed paſſionately fond and curious about, but would very gladly have excuſed himſelf from the reaſonings upon.

He was ſenſible of this weakneſs, and ſo mor⯑tified at it, that he was reſolved to uſe every aſ⯑ſiſtance toward coquering this imbecillity; and as theſe were branches of learning in which I had [16] happened beſt to diſtinguiſh myſelf, and who was two claſſes above him, he uſed frequently to come to my chambers in a morning, or invite me to his, and intreat me to help him forward with theſe tough buſineſſes, as he termed them.

I was flattered, and he obliged, by theſe con⯑ferences; and it was this which firſt founded our mutual friendſhip; which was afterwards farther cemented by a piece of humanity and politeneſs, I had frequent opportunities of exerting toward him, after our union, and which I am juſt go⯑ing to mention to you.

He was very lively, had a good deal of wit and frolic, and was a perfect rake too, as far as ſitting up all night, which he would frequently do; but then he indulged himſelf in no other kind of exceſs, at theſe, or at any other times. He would neither drink, nor ſcour the watch, nor ranſack brothels. His amuſements, on theſe occaſions, were converſation, reading, drinking coffee, playing cards, walking by moon-light, or hiring a coach, with two or three friends, and ſetting out at midnight, to be early enough to ſee ſome fine ſeat or improvement, fifteen or twenty miles off.

But ſome of the idle fellows who happened to be of our parties, uſed to preſs him ſometimes, quite rudely, to join with them in their debau⯑cheries; [17] which perceiving in him ſuch a vir⯑tuous averſion to, I uſed conſtantly to defend him from, though I was frequently too ductile myſelf, toward ſuch idleneſs and exceſſes.

CHAP. CI.

THIS harmony had ſubſiſted between us for about two years, when my poor friend happened to have a very aukward piece of buſi⯑neſs fall upon his hands. He had been at bil⯑liards, which he played remarkably well; he had much the advantage of the party; but men are not, at all times, maſters of their art, and he loſt the game by one manifeſt bad ſtroke.

Upon this, an haſty Welchman who ſtood by, and had loſt a few ſhillings on a bett, ſwore by St. Taffit, hur had played buty. My friend re⯑ſented the aſſertion, and quick replied, that no perſon could have ſuſpected him of ſuch a baſe⯑neſs, who was not capable of it himſelf. Hur plood poiled over, at this ſarcaſm, and ſnatch⯑ing up one of the tacks, he broke it over my friend's head; who retired out of the room, with an "I ſhall find a time, Sir."

[18]It was late in the evening, and the poor diſ⯑comfited ſquire retired home to his own apart⯑ments—He had been reared under his mo⯑ther's eye, who employed the curate of the pa⯑riſh as his private tutor, in her own houſe. This was by no means a proceſs of education likely to inſpire much proweſs; and accordingly my pretty effeminate friend had not the leaſt ſpark of chivalry about him. He paſſed the night without ſleep, and with very uneaſy ſtruggles, and reflections, between the opinion of the world, and his mortal averſion to killing people.

The next morning early, he called upon me, looked pale and diſturbed, told me with a trem⯑bling voice, the adventure of the night before, and aſked my advice after what manner he ſhould conduct himſelf, upon this unlucky oc⯑caſion. I replied, that the teſty Wallian had left him but one rule of action, which was re-action, and that I was ready to carry him a challenge inſtantly, as there was no time to loſe. That a thing of this ſort, ſhould always be reſolved on quick, and acted briſkly; for that the ſooner we vindicate our character, and the ſhorter time we bear reſentment, the better.

He replied that it was not for ſuch advice he had called upon me, on this occaſion; that he knew full well what the falſe notions of the [19] world had too ſtrongly eſtabliſhed in ſuch caſes; but that his principles of morals and religion, ſtood more ſtrongly ſtill, on the other ſide of the queſtion. He added, that ſupported by theſe, he could muſter up philoſophy ſufficient to withſtand a mere popular hiſs; but that this was not his ſole difficulty, for his whole fortune depended on the favour of his grandfather, who had already declared him heir to two thouſand pounds a year; but having been bred all his life in the army, and totally ignorant of any cha⯑racter but a military one, had compriſed all worth, all virtue, in bravery alone; and had been often heard to ſwear, ‘by the Lord, no coward ſhould ever inherit an acre of his eſtate, which had been all purchaſed by the ſword. No, d—n me, he may ſtarve for me—'Tis fit the dog ſhould rot, that begins to ſtink already;’ with ſuch ſtuff: The young man told me therefore, that he came to throw himſelf upon my addreſs, to extricate him out of this difficulty, by any poſſible means I could deviſe—except fighting.

I confeſſed that it was really a ſtroke beyond my genius, to think of any other expedient but challenging the fellow, at leaſt. Perhaps he may be brought to aſk your pardon, ſaid I, and I ſhall ſtrongly remonſtrate to him, that this is the [20] leaſt he ought to do. If he is a man of true ho⯑nour, he certainly will do ſo. If not, he is a raſcal, believe me, and will take to his heels, at the ſight of a piſtol. The die is caſt, and there is no retreating.

I grant you, continued I, that duelling is con⯑trary both to reaſon and religion, but as every one who lives in a community, is obliged to obey the laws of it, ſo may we hope that heaven may make ſome allowances for a practice which, though founded originally in barbariſm, cuſtom and opinion have long ſince ſanctified almoſt equal to a law, among more civilized nations. I clapped him on the ſhoulder, bid him keep up his ſpirits till my return, and ſo quitted the room ſuddenly, without waiting for an anſwer.

CHAP. CII.

I Croſſed the ſquare directly, to the apartment of our antagoniſt, whom I found at break⯑faſt, with a gentleman commoner from Llan⯑gefny. I told them my errand; but ſaid at the ſame time, that I ſhould not have taken this diſ⯑agreeable commiſſion upon me, only with a [21] view of accommodating the ſtrife, without blood⯑ſhed, or diſhonour. That it was plain to every body, Mr. Jones was the aggreſſor, that the rebuke was too ſevere for the reply, and that therefore, I hoped —

Hop me no hops, cried out ap Shones, hur was ſaucy Jack, and hur will teach hur manners to a ſhentleman. If hur has mind to fight, let hur fight as fight can, for by St. Taffit, ap Shones will do noting but fight, or break more of hur pones, Jackadandy—Llangefny ſeconded this gallant reſolve, by ſaying that it was unpecom⯑ing of a ſhentleman to aſk pardon, for this was acknowledging hurſelf to pe in the wrong. I appointed the park, and the preſent minute.

At my return, I found my poor-ſpirited friend in the greateſt agitation, both of body and mind. He aſked no queſtion, but looked inquiry. I really pitied his diſtreſs, and was ſo much af⯑fected with it, that I declare I would readily have fought the ſulky South Britain, myſelf, to have rid him of his fears and danger; but that I thought this would be only acting the bravo, and have injured my own character, without redeeming his.

I told him that ap Shones was a bear, that we muſt take the field on the inſtant, that matters were unluckily come to that paſs at preſent, there [22] was no living among men upon any other terms; that as he had been involved in this affair, with⯑out any vice of his own, and was proſecuting it without the leaſt malice, but ſolely in defence of his character and fortune, he might well ſtand acquitted both to God and man; that therefore, any farther difficulty about the matter, muſt be cowardice, not ſcruple, ‘Et propter vitam, vivendi perdere cauſas.’ For ſhame, ſaid I, ſhake off this womaniſh weakneſs—Arouſe—Be a man, &c.

During this military oration, he made no manner of reply, but fixing his eyes upon the floor, with a kind of ſtupid inſenſibility, as if he was falling into a lethargy, muttered to himſelf, in alluſion to my laſt expreſſion, Would to heaven that I were either perfect man, or woman!

This extraordinary ſoliloquy ſtruck my ear with ſurpriſe, but I had only time for this re⯑flection, which I ſpoke aloud, that an hermo⯑phrodite had neither body, nor ſoul, worth ſaving. While I ſaid this, I took down a caſe of piſtols, which I had charged the day before, on an idle affair of my own, which happened to paſs luckily over, and taking my feeble Epicaene briſkly under the arm, hurried it away to the [23] ground, without permitting time, or power to diſſent.

We found the enemy had taken the field be⯑fore us, had got poſſeſſion of the heights, were properly ſtationed, and appointed, with their bright arms glittering in the ſun—A terrible ſhow! As I was leading, or rather dragging my poor-ſpirited friend up to what I judged to be the due point of diſtance, and before we could at⯑tain it, or that I could put a piſtol into his hand, and retire, the haſty Welchman let fly a ſhot between us, which however, luckily miſſed us both.

I then thought this act of baſeneſs a juſtifiable occaſion for ſaving the credit of my friend, and making the quarrel now become my own; ſo quitting his arm, and deſiring him to move off to the left, I ruſhed up to the ſtation, crying out, Since I find you aim at both, have at you for one. But before I could form my poſture, or preſent my piſtol, I ſaw the enemy fairly wheel to the right about, and betake himſelf moſt nimbly, to his heels.

Llangefny ſputtered, curſed, ſwore, and hol⯑looed after him to ſtand hur ground like a ſhen⯑tleman, but the winds and ap Shones were equally deaf and ſwift. So turning to the ſecond, I juſt ſaid, a flying enemy is not worth purſuit, [24] and a coward below reſentment. Then diſ⯑charging my piſtol in the air, and running up to my now undiſmayed ally, whom I found chant⯑ing out Victoria! Io Triumphe! Io Paean! with martial air and ſtrides we marched off from the field together, returning back directly to my chambers.

CHAP. CIII.

AS ſoon as we arrived, my friend threw himſelf-into a chair, with an heavy ſigh. I ſat up all night, ſaid he faintly—doubts and anxieties diſtracted me. I eat nothing all this morning, and my perturbations, with the hur⯑rying to and from the park, have ſo over-powered me, that I perceive my ſtrength and ſenſes beginning to fail. Bring me a glaſs of water quickly. I ſaw convulſions ſeize him, I ran for the bottle, but before I could reach it to him, he fainted, ſunk, and died away.

I caught him up in my arms, laid him on my bed, and plenteouſly bedewed his pale face with water—but in vain.—I ſearched his pockets for ſome eau de luce I had ſeen him ſnuff up ſeveral [25] times, in the morning. The application had no effect, there was no breath to inhale the ſpi⯑rit—his pulſe was ſilent, and his eyes ſtill open, had now loſt all ſpeculation in them.

I was diſtracted—The Welchman's ſhot muſt have taken place—I opened all his cloaths be⯑fore, and lifted up his ſhirt to ſearch the wound, but viewed a ſpotleſs form. No, no, the wound was reſerved for my heart alone. Such a poliſhed ſkin! ſuch limbs! ſuch breaſts! ſuch a gender! I gazed enraptured on the perfect fair. An age of friendſhip ruſhed at once to love! I beſprink⯑led her lovely body all over, and the water applied to parts unuſed before to cold, began ſoon to awaken ſenſe. My hopes revived, and thinking the tranſition again from cool to warm, might more quickly compleat the cure, I ſtript off my cloaths in an inſtant, ſprang into bed, and en⯑folded her lovely body in my arms. The roſes returned into her cheeks and lips, her eyes began to dawn, her breath expreſſed itſelf in murmuring ſighs, and her pulſe beat tremblingly alive all o'er.

Soon as her bright orbs had twinkled into life, ſhe quick perceived her ſituation, and endea⯑voured to diſingage herſelf from my embrace. I leaped from the bed, threw myſelf on my knees by the ſide of it, intreated her forgiveneſs, [26] urged my exceſs of paſſion, vowed ten thouſand years of love and conſtancy, then caught her again in my arms, while through a charming mixture of ſurpriſe, confuſion, gratitude, fear, irreſolution, and deſire, the yielding fair one

After the uſual compliments were paſſed, as

He. Thou moſt angelic fair! all heaven is in thy eyes, and bliſs immortal in thy arms, &c.

She. Oh, my dear undoer! I would have ſuſtained a thouſand martyrdoms, ſooner than have yielded to any other man alive, &c.

—

I then begged the favour of her to let me into the miſtery of her extraordinary metamorphoſis —But firſt, ſaid ſhe, prithee let us have ſome breakfaſt. Agreed—I ſlipped on my night-gown, and brought the tea-table to the bed-ſide. She would have aroſe, but I would not ſuffer it. She had not ſlept the night before. After break⯑faſt I returned again into bed.

—

I happened, after ſome time, to awake from that ſweet ſlumber which the Epicurean philo⯑ſophers ſtile the golden nap, while my fair Andro⯑genes [27] lay ſtill compoſed in ſleep. I raiſed myſelf up gently on my arm, and with looks of cordial love, hung over her enamoured. When I had viewed her beauties for ſome minutes, I felt myſelf offended in delicacy, at her wearing a ſhirt, in my arms—The idea it conveyed diſ⯑guſted me. Hic mulier, haec vir, as Seneca ſays of equivocal dreſs. So reſolving to have no more of love in maſquerade, I gently ſtole it off from her arms, then ſpurned the embracing cloaths aſide,

The motion awaked her.

—

CHAP. CIV.

I THEN repeated to my fair chum, the re⯑queſt I had made her before breakfaſt, and ſhe thus readily began: My father was a cler⯑gyman of the dioceſe of — you'll excuſe [28] me; and had about three hundred pounds a year in the church, but no other patrimony. My mother was daughter to captain — you'll excuſe me there again, in a regiment of foot, I forget the number. She was extremely handſome, but had no fortune, and my father married her for love. She had a ſiſter, a year younger than herſelf, a perfect beauty, alſo, who was, ſome time after, married upon the ſame terms, to a gentleman of a conſiderable eſtate, in the adjoining county.

Soon after my mother's marriage, her father was commanded abroad, and happening to be ſtationed in the Eaſt Indies, where in a few years he roſe to the rank of lieutenant-colonel, returned home with a fortune of near threeſcore thouſand pounds, which he had amaſſed by ſpoil and plunder, among the nabobs of that coun⯑try.

When my grandfather came home, he was preſented with two grandchildren, one by my mother, and another by my aunt. They were both daughters, which diſappointed the old ſol⯑dier extremely. He ſettled a thouſand pounds apiece, upon each of the children, and laying out the remainder of his acquiſitions on the purchaſe of a conſiderable eſtate, declared to his daughters, that he would make the firſt grand⯑ſon his heir. ‘A pack of piſs-kitchens, ſaid he, [29] by the Lord, I would rather leave my for⯑tune to the marine ſociety, than among a pracel of retromingents that are incapable of ſerving either their king, or their country.’ Soon after this propoſition, my mother declared a pregnancy, and about a month later, my aunt annonced the ſame,

Here I took occaſion to obſerve to my bloom⯑ing bedfellow, upon the grovelling ideas of an huſband and wife manufacturing, as it were, an heir for an eſtate, when compared to the ſublime and diſintereſted joys of two free lovers, regard⯑ing only their own mutual paſſion. From hence we launched out into the unbounded field of philoſophy and ſentiment, in which ſcamper ſhe acquitted herſelf with that ſpirit and refinement, which was natural to her.

—

CHAP. CV. Triglyph loquitur.

Kate. WHAT o'clock is it? 'Tis very late, my dear, the watch have juſt gone eleven. Well Kate, then I think it full time for us to —

The grammarians, rhetoricians, and annota⯑tors have contrived different points, marks, and notes, for diſtinguiſhing the ſeveral parts of ſen⯑tences, expreſſions, interrogations? exclama⯑tions! (parentheſis) references †, &c. "quotations," &c. as the comma, colon: ſemicolon; period, [bracket] aſteriſk *, &c. But there was much wanted a further figure of writing, for the quod [31] factu faedum eſt, which Mr. Carewe, being a great ſcholar, has happily introduced to us, from Oxford; and which nearly reſembles the apoſiopeſis, in rhetoric.

This we may ſtile a figure—not of ſpeech, in⯑deed—but rather, of ſilence; which may there⯑fore, not improperly be called the ſilent minute. This is not the hiatus, or mark of vacancy, which we ſometimes meet with in certain broken tracts or imperfect manuſcripts; but rather the ſign of pleonaſm, the full ſtop; the punctum ſtans, or conjugate point, of geometry; the punctum cri⯑ticum, of morals; the punctum generatum, in co⯑nics; the punctum ſaliens, or punctum lachrymale, in anatomy; or the point ſenſible, in phyſics, as Mr. Lock terms it. 'Tis finally, the dropping of the curtain, and cloſing of the ſcene.

This method ſeems to imitate the antient cho⯑rus of the Greek drama, which uſed to hint what was not thought proper to be brought upon the ſcene of action. For it was a rule, in thoſe chaſte repreſentations, never to ſuffer any thing to appear before the audience, which might give offence to decency, or humanity.

[32]Therefore all rapes and murders were intirely excluded from their performances. So that, then a days, if a reprobate, like ſome of our modern genius's, ſhould have had a delight in ſuch ſpectacles, he was obliged to ſtep behind the ſcenes, and make ſport for himſelf, of which ever kind he was in the humour for, either by ſtabbing an actor, or rummaging an actreſs.

But then, this expreſſion of before the audience, is to be underſtood literally, that is, before their eyes; for where rapes or murders happened to be any way neceſſary to the carrying on of the plot, they were always related to the public, by ſome by-ſtander, in all the particulars of the action. I mean the latter, only; for as to the firſt, what⯑ever diverſion there may be, it has really ſo little diverſity in it, that it by no means, affords us variety ſufficient for an ingenious deſcription. What an infinite number of different deaths has Homer introduced in his battles! No two men are wounded in the ſame place, nor by the ſame weapon. But truly, 'tis a dull thing enough to think of, that poor women, whether they will or no, can poſſibly be done, or un⯑done, but one way.

The Engliſh ſtage indeed, does not confine it⯑ſelf to ſuch reſtrictions; for there rapes, cuckol⯑doms, and fornication, are frequently exhibited [33] to the great delight and edification of the ſpecta⯑tors; and men are ſtabbed, or run through the body, and dying in convulſions for a quarter of an hour together, before the philoſophic au⯑dience. But the Engliſh, I ſuppoſe, are a freer, and a braver people, than ever the Greeks or Romans were, and all repreſentations partake of the genius of a nation.

CHAP. CVI.

PRithee where did I leave off, when you in⯑terrupted me, thou reſtleſs chum, ſaid ſhe? The point we were laſt upon, replied I, was the ſubject of pregnancy. I recollect it now, anſwered ſhe, and thus proceeded in her ſtory:

A little before my mother was delivered, my poor father was ſeized with a pleuretic fever, which carried him off, in a few days. About a month after, my mother produced a ſon, who was chriſtened Henry, after his grandfather, by whom he was immediately declared heir apparent, and the following month my aunt was alſo ſafely delivered of a boy.

[34]Juſt as theſe words were pronounced, the college bell tolled three—We aroſe, dreſſed, and iſſued forth to the outward apartment, where I had ordered, when I aroſe to breakfaſt, the moſt elegant repaſt that expence or the ſeaſon could provide. During the entertainment we were attended by dumb waiters, only, to permit the full freedom of converſation; and my lively meſſ-mate, having now thrown off the embarraſ⯑ment and reſtraint of a perſonated character, ſhewed her ſprightly female ſoul to be truly Epicurean.

I remember one reflection ſhe made, juſt as I had finiſhed the flaſk of champaigne, for ſhe drank but two glaſſes of it: Were I, ſaid ſhe, an heathen, I ſhould be apt to expoſtulate thus: If, as the ſtoics urge, all crimes be equal, why ſhould not every vice ſhock our nature, as much as murder does? and for my part, added ſhe, I cannot help imputing it as a ſin to the gods, to annex the ſenſations of pleaſure, to any kind of wickedneſs, whatſoever. 'Tis miſleading, con⯑tinued ſhe, thoſe weak perſons who are apt to be governed too much by reaſon and nature, which they unlearnedly take for the moſt irrefra⯑gable revelations.

We walked the park in the evening, the Welch Fuzileers did not appear, and we ſtrutted through [35] the throng, amidſt the applauſe of all the col⯑leges. She ingaged me to ſupper, at her apart⯑ments. I promiſed to follow her, and ſtepped aſide to a milliners, to buy ſome night-ſhifts for her, in order to preſerve the decency of appear⯑ances, for the future.

The next morning we awakened about eleven o'clock, dreſſed ourſelves, and came out to breakfaſt, after which ſhe thus continued her narrative:

CHAP. CVII.

THIS ſame Henry, ſaid ſhe, was myſelf. My mother, in the extremity of her grief upon my father's death, reſolving, like a chaſte matron as ſhe was, to live and die a widow, concluded that ſhe had then but one game to play for the fortune; and determined within herſelf, that let matters turn out as they might, ſhe would either bring forth a ſon, or elſe im⯑poſe an heir upon her father. One ſhould ſhuffle well who deals for an eſtate. The nurſe and midwife were bribed, and the cheat paſſed. For my grandfather was ſo rejoiced, and my uncle [36] ſo mortified, at this event, that the leaſt thought of matriculation, never once entered into either of their heads.

My mother reared me with the greateſt cir⯑cumſpection imaginable, hardly ever ſuffering me to be out of her ſight, and keeping my nurſe conſtantly to attend me, till I was fifteen years of age; which ſo ſcandalized the old colonel, that I heard him once ſay to my mother, By Mars, that fellow will ſoon beget ſofter brothers for himſelf, upon that wench there.

This home-bred and feminine kind of educa⯑tion, with the detaining me from a public ſchool, placing me under the private tuition of an old curate of our pariſh, and never ſuffering me to mix, or play with boys, uſed ſometimes, to put the old gentleman out of patience. You'll ſpoil that child, he would ſay, you'll rear him a neſt-cock, a coward; then fare him well, for me, for by the Lord, Madam, if ever he ſhould betray the leaſt ſymptom of that vice and diſgrace to my blood, I will transfer my eſtate from him to his couſin Tommy, that boxed a great hulk of a barber's boy ſo ſtoutly, before my face, t'other day.

My mother, upon theſe occaſions, would play him off with pleading the ſlightneſs and tender⯑neſs of my frame, which rendered it hazardous [37] to rear me after that careleſs and robuſt manner that other boys were treated in. ‘It was my grief for his dear father's death," ſhe would cry, "that has weakened my poor child's con⯑ſtitution, in the laſt month—Should I not then endeavour to repair the damage I have myſelf done him?’ He was tender-hearted, for he was brave, and ſuch reflections would ſoften him.

‘As for this ſame precious quality of cou⯑rage," ſhe would at other times ſay, "let it be ever ſo valuable, it muſt be too dearly purchaſed at the price of modeſty or religion, neither of which are ſufficiently taken care of, in the common, or what is ſtiled the liberal education of young men, in theſe days. But you, Sir, need have no manner of apprehen⯑ſion about the boy's wanting ſpirit, whenever proper occaſions ſhall call upon him to exert it. A man may be brave without being for⯑ward, and a grandſon of yours, Sir, though reared in a nunnery, would, like Achilles, ſoon betray that he was born a ſoldier.’ He was vain, and this would effectually ſtop his mouth.

CHAP. CVIII.

I WAS arrived at the age of fifteen, continued ſhe, before I had been let into the ſecret of my real ſex; and was hitherto kept ſo totally igno⯑rant of anatomy, that I even knew not the dif⯑ference of gender; and was at the ſame time ſo chaſtely bred, that the leaſt curioſity or reflec⯑tion about this matter, had never yet ariſen in my mind.

I uſed ſometimes, indeed, after twelve years of age, to be ſenſible of a remarkable difference between the kiſs of couſin Tom, and his ſiſter's, or my own; which puzzled me to account for, till I had reſolved it into our being both lads, of the ſame age, and ſuch near relations; and upon the whole, fairly concluded, that till the heart has become ſuſceptible of paſſion, the natural ſympathy of human nature, ſubſiſted ſtronger between thoſe of the ſame ſex.

But this philoſophical blunder of mine, was ſoon after exploded, when I was about thirteen: A young fellow, who taught the guitar, hap⯑pened to arrive in our neighbourhood. I had a tolerable voice, and intreated of my mother that I might be ſuffered to learn this inſtrument, to [39] accompany it, which ſhe conſented to. I found a ſort of pleaſure in looking at the young man, though he was not any way remarkably hand⯑ſome; but whenever he took hold of my hands, in order to place them properly on the guitar, I uſed to find myſelf affected with the very ſame kind of emotion I had before felt, when couſin Tom uſed to kiſs me. Certain private intima⯑tions, or inward ſenſations, I knew not what, or why, and which I could not poſſibly reſolve into any manner of ſentiment, or philoſophy, whatſoever.

This alarmed me extremely, I apprehended that I was contracting ſome dangerous diſorder, and mentioned theſe unaccountable effects to my mother. She bluſhed, caſt down her eyes, and ſeemed to be in the greateſt confuſion ima⯑ginable. I felt frightened and aſhamed, from ſympathy and filial tenderneſs, without being able to gueſs, or daring to aſk the reaſon. But the very next day, my muſic-maſter was diſ⯑miſſed; and I declare that I felt myſelf pleaſed at it, without knowing why.

CHAP. CIX.

SOON after this event, my dear mother be⯑gan to decline in her health—She had been ill for ſome time, of a ſlow fever on her ſpirits, which terminated in a gradual decay, under which ſhe pined for about two years. At length, finding herſelf drawing near her end, ſhe called me to her bed-ſide, wept, bleſſed, and embra⯑ced me.

Here my fair friend poured forth a torrent of pious tears, to the memory of her mother, which interrupted her ſtory, for that time; nor did I preſs her to renew it, the reſt of the day. And really, gentlemen, ſaid he, the recollection of her filial concern upon that occaſion, is ſo ſtrongly renewed, at preſent, in my own mind, that you'll excuſe me now, I hope, as I then did her, from purſuing this ſubject, till to⯑morrow evening.

Mr. Andrews and Mr. Beville bowed, Mr. Ca⯑rewe wiped his eyes, and after taking a ſilent turn or two, along the ſhore, they returned home together, ſupped, converſed, and parted.

CHAP. CX.

THE next evening, the Triumvirate return⯑ing to their former ſtation, amidſt the clump of elms, Mr. Carewe thus proceeded: That day, ſaid he, I dined and ſupped with my lovely orphan, but ſhe inſiſted on my returning home to my own chambers, at night. Our liv⯑ing ſo intirely together, both at bed and board, ſaid ſhe, may poſſibly be taken too much notice of. I confeſs too that I begin to feel myſelf a little frightened at our adventure, ſince this pauſe has given me ſome leiſure for reflection. Beſides, I really want ſleep and reſt. Farewel, farewel, ſaid ſhe, till the morning, and I will then call upon you to breakfaſt.

I replied, that I was neither raviſher, nor bravo, that I ſcorned to take advantage of an accident, or a ſurpriſe, and would never claim any other tye over her, than her own inclina⯑tions. But then, my charming Harriot, cried I out, and claſping her in my arms, will you not paſs the day natural then with me, to-morrow? If, replied ſhe, with a ſigh, and a ſmile, at the ſame time, and preſſing me cloſe to her boſom, grace ſhall not return in ſleep, unſought for, I [42] will. I bowed, ſhe bowed, then curtſied—we laughed, and I retired.

I had now, in my turn, ſome leiſure for my own reflections. I paſſed part of the night in them. I pitied her misfortune, and would re⯑pair it. But how? On my own part, I exa⯑mined well my breaſt, and found I loved her not. Adventure, frolic, and deſire, only, had attached me to her. That myſtic Gordian knot, of two entwined hearts, which time itſelf can ne'er reſolve, but the ſheers of Atropos alone muſt ſever, was wanting here. And on her part, ſhe had ſeemed to have acquieſced too readily in the intrigue; her converſation, ſince that event, appeared rather too free; and though ſhe ſtill preſerved her modeſty, ſhe had, me⯑thought, reſigned her chaſtity with too ſmall reluctance. The veni, vidi, vici, may enrich the ſpoils of war, but always impoveriſhes thoſe of love.

However, upon the whole, I firmly reſolved, at the hazard, nay the full expence both of life and fortune, to ſteer her ſafely through the auk⯑wardneſs of her preſent circumſtances; to con⯑firm her mind, if not in female, at leaſt in manly virtues; and to be her friend, guide, and champion too, through every incident of life, be her future conduct what it might. For [43] from me ſhe could never poſſibly deſerve ill, who had myſelf, too much undeſerved from her, al⯑ready. This reſolve then, ſerving me inſtead of a prayer, I folded my arms, and ſlept quietly till morning.

CHAP. CXI.

SHE came to breakfaſt, according to her promiſe, and immediately after, re-aſſumed her ſtory. My dear daughter, ſaid my mother— This expreſſion both ſurpriſed, and alarmed me. I thought that ſhe had fallen into a delirium, and was juſt going to expire. I threw myſelf on my knees by the bed-ſide, and taking hold of her hand, cried out, 'tis your ſon, 'tis Henry, dear madam, you are now ſpeaking to. I know full well, replied ſhe, who you are, but alas! you little know what you are; and I am now going to unſold a ſecret to you, that will aſto⯑niſh you much more, but will, at the ſame time, explain the propriety of that expreſſion, which has juſt now ſurpriſed you.

She then revealed to me the whole miſtery of my metamorphoſe, in the manner I have before [44] related it to you, and then concluded her ſpeech in theſe words: ‘My dear daughter, ſaid ſhe, for now you will give me leave to call you by that name, behold with fear and caution, the difficult and hazardous courſe you have for the future, to ſteer alone! I would have guided your little bark, and guarded this ſe⯑cret from you, for ſome years longer, had fate permitted. But I muſt now intruſt you to yourſelf, at the moſt dangerous time of life, without the protection of any other ma⯑tron, but your own ſenſe and virtue. 'Tis however, ſome conſolation to my mind, to think that your preſent maſk will ſcreen you from all outward perils, and I truſt that thoſe principles, both of honour and religion, in which I have ſo carefully educated you, even from your liſping years, have by this time, ſufficiently ſhielded you within.’

She then embraced me, and I parted from her in the utmoſt aſtoniſhment, and difficulty. I could not believe my ſenſes. I ſuſpected all this novel to be merely viſionary, either in my mo⯑ther's mind, or my own comprehenſion of it. I ran to my nurſe, and examined her about this ſtory, but ſhe confirmed every particular of it; and, to put the matter beyond all diſpute, gave me, alas! too certain demonſtrations of my ſex.

[47]The effect of this extraordinary diſcovery in me, is not to be deſcribed. My ſpirits ſunk ſuddenly, like thoſe in a thermometer, upon a chilling blaſt. I felt a ſenſation creeping through my veins, like an ague fit, with a ſort of timorouſ⯑neſs ſtealing o'er my ſhoulders, like children left in the dark. I felt aukward and helpleſs, like one who had loſt a limb; I wept my fall, mourned my imperfect ſtate, and like another Adam, bluſhed at the diſcovery of my nakedneſs. In ſhort, I was affected all over, rather like a perſon that had really ſuffered the metamorpho⯑ſis, from man to woman, than one who had been but barely informed of it. And becoming now a woman indeed, I fell from one hyſteric fit, into another, and laughed and cryed myſelf by turns, out of them again.

CHAP. CXII.

ABOUT two days after, my dear mother expired in my arms. I grew inconſola⯑ble: A double diſtreſs oppreſſed my mind, to loſe her, and to find myſelf! My grandfather [48] came to the houſe the day ſhe died, juſt time enough to give her his bleſſing, and to bid her farewel. He lamented her, after his manner, ‘Poor girl, ſhe was indeed a good creature! but good or bad, d'ye ſee me, we muſt all go, one time or another.’

Then turning to me, cried, Hearkee me, youth, no more of your piping and ſniveling now, for though you have loſt a mother, d'ye mind, you have got a much better thing, which is a father, child. You have been too long tied to an apron-ſtring already, but 'tis I that ſhall have the management of you, now. I deſign you for the army, d'ye mark me, but you ſhall go to the colleges firſt; for though I am not much book-learned myſelf, look you, I don't think it abſolutely neceſſary to be a blockhead, to be a good ſoldier. No—far from it—I have known ſeveral officers fight ſtoutly enough, though they had both ſenſe and learning to boot. The king of Pruſſia, d'ye mind, is not only the bra⯑veſt general in the world, but the compleateſt too, in other matters. Not that they ſignify, in the leaſt, believe me, as to the main point; but what I mean, is, that they don't hinder. As the renowned Don Quixotte ſays, The pen blunts not the lance—

[49]Now there's an example for you, my boy, fellow me that, I ſay—And indeed I don't doubt, but with a little of my inſtructions, after you have done with your books, for good and all, you may. I don't love much bragging about the matter, d'ye mind, but let me tell you, younker, for all that, I know the thing, that's certain. Nay, that's given up to me by all.

You may reaſonably conclude, ſaid ſhe, that I was by no means in a temper of mind, to re⯑liſh all this harangue, eſpecially the fighting part of it; however, I looked ſubmiſſion, called him my father, my only parent now; and promiſed him that his commands ſhould always be the rule of my obedience.

He lett off the houſe, brought my ſiſter and me home with him, and in about a year after, diſpoſed of her in marriage, with an additional portion of two thouſand pounds, to a gentleman of fortune in the neighbourhood; and placed me at this univerſity, about two years ago. The reſt you know too well, ſaid ſhe, and concluded her narration, with a ſigh.

CHAP. CXIII.

I Don't know how it might have ſtruck my readers, as probably few of them may be philoſophers, but I affirm, that from the firſt, I began to ſuſpect this extraordinary perſonage to be a woman. ‘He was not poſſeſſed of any great logical faculties, but had a refined taſte, a facility in languages, but in the deeper ſtudies and ſciences, dull and ſlow. He was fond and curious about experimental philoſophy, but never troubled his head about the reaſons of them,’ &c.^* Prithee are not theſe the characteriſtics of a woman? And need ſhe wear petticoats, to declare her gender.

Epictetus ſays, that ‘attempting to catch weak minds, with ſtudy, is like fiſhing for cuſtard, with an hook.’ Now I confeſs that this image is a very abſurd one, for it conveys no ſort of natural idea. Huſwives never throw cuſtards into a river, though the yellowneſs of the Tiber, upon the banks of which Epictetus lived, or rather ſtarved, might have led him to imagine they did. But if they had, ſurely no [51] alderman of thoſe days, unleſs they were more ſtupid than thoſe in the preſent times, which I think morally impoſſible, would have ever thought, as well as they love them, of ſuch an inſtrument to catch cuſtard with.

But your antient philoſophers had but ſlob⯑bering notions of things, in compariſon of our modern adepts; and as they are generally inter⯑preted, more by gueſs, than conſtruction, I ſup⯑poſe the ſenſe of Epictetus, to be, that women have rarely a ſufficient depth, for heavy lading; for that the weight which might ballaſt a ſhip, would ſink a boat. There may perhaps, have been amazons in literature, as well as in war; but all I contend for here, is, that let the Thracians, or Samothracians, boaſt what they will, there never was an army of them.

And this natural oeconomy, in the diſtribu⯑tion of parts, was certainly, moſt admirably deſigned, by Providence. The eaſtern allegory conveys the hint to us, in a very ingenious man⯑ner. Woman, 'tis ſaid, was formed of the ſlighteſt rib of man, on the left ſide, which em⯑braced the heart. Now, by a metonymy, let us ſubſtitute the heart for the rib; and this we know to be ſenſible of impreſſion, but incapable of reaſon. Women therefore, were given to us, for the ſole purpoſes of feeling, and ſhe who [52] would pretend to aſſume an higher character in life, in my opinion well deſerves a rib-roaſting.

Tacitus ſays of the Engliſh, when the Romans had eſtabliſhed an empire among them, Jam domiti ut pareant, nondum ut ſerviant. They were ſo far conquered, as to become ſubjects, but not ſlaves. And this ſhould be the motto of wives. A man and his wife may be compared to the nominative and genitive caſes, in gram⯑mar; the firſt always governs, the ſecond never. Women have confeſſedly certain privileges, but they become rebels when they would extend them to prerogatives. The Salique law—the Sa⯑lique law.

They were deſigned, not to harden our mo⯑rals, but to ſoften our manners, not to ſtiffen our philoſophy, but to relax our ſtudies. All ſubjects of taſte then, as Shaftſbury ſays they may be referred to ſenſation, fall properly enough within their province. Muſic, poetry, painting, dreſs, entertainments, &c. Topics of theſe kinds, though we ſhould differ about them, can never raiſe the heat of argument between us, ſufficiently high to interrupt that harmony and concord, which ſhould ever ſubſiſt among the ſexes; for you know the adage, de guſtibus non, &c. But ſhould ſubjects of ſcience once ariſe, then the argument, then the vindiction, then [53] the ſcholaſtic warfare begins! For of ſcience, man is proud, and woman vain.

CHAP. CXIV.

BUT with regard to the — you know what I mean, methinks our friend Mr. Ca⯑rewe is a little too ſevere, upon our heroine, in his late night thoughts^*. But as Noll Bluff ſays, he was then become as calm as a diſcharged culverin. This is the only ſeaſon for philoſophy. Prithee, what woman in the world, could have behaved otherwiſe, in her ſituation? Her mo⯑ther indeed gave her a chaſte education, but then ſhe takes and tucks up the poor girl's cataſtrophé, in a pair of breeches; and pray did you ever know any woman come to good, that wore them? Nay, even drawers are too much —They are ſymbolical.

Then again, what between her gender, and her garb, ſhe might be deemed to be neither man or woman, but both between; and between two ſtools—You know the reſt of the proverb.

[54]But ſhe reſigned her chaſtity too eaſily, you ſay—Perhaps ſhe could not help it. A lock ne⯑ver refuſes the key, when 'tis in order. This was an adage of Vulcan's, though ſome mytho⯑logiſts, with more probability, attribute it to the blackſmith's wife. Perſons may be burned in their beds, but would it be fair to ſtile them ſuicremators, upon that account? The flame might be none of theirs, though the combuſtibles were. The ſmell of fire, 'tis ſaid, renders the ſenſes lethargic, and 'tis too late to fly, when the flames ſurround us.

Now there are flames, even ſtronger than thoſe of fire; and whatever inclines, is more power⯑ful ſtill, than that which compels us. A reſiſt⯑ing combatant may wear out his antagoniſt, but to take away the power of reſiſtance, is a com⯑pleat conqueſt indeed. Now pray conſider the intire circulation of her blood ſuſpended for a quarter of an hour, then ſet a flowing again by the warmth of a young fellow's embrace; and the tepid tide ruſhing from the heart into all parts of the body, at once. Conſider that ſhe had been in a ſwoon, and that the ſenſes are the firſt things which awaken. Chaſtity might have continued ſtill aſleep; for in the moſt virtuous woman, it may ſometimes be taken napping.

[55]The ſtoics divide man, into three parts, the body, the animal ſoul, and the intellectual one. To the firſt, belong the ſenſes or notices; to the ſecond, the appetites and paſſions; and to the third, reaſon and virtue. Now as this is the order in which they ripen in our nature, it muſt certainly be the ſucceſſion of their awakening from our ſleep. I would have women therefore, be very careful to bolt their chamber-doors at night, ſo as to receive timely notice; for a world of miſ⯑chief may be done with two thirds of her, before ſhe may poſſibly be able to ſtretch and yawn herſelf into reaſon or virtue.

And as for her acquieſcing ſo readily in the affair afterwards, I am ſure we have all been told, that whenever a misfortune happens to us, we ſhould always endeavour to make the beſt of it.

But what will clear up my fair client's charac⯑ter beyond every blot of cenſure, is this, that the poor child was but three years old, at the time of her undoing. For it certainly is not fair to compute her age, but from the date of her me⯑tamorphoſe, which was at fifteen; and ſhe was only eighteen, at the time of her fall.

She compares herſelf to Adam, in the firſt criſis^*, and we may reſemble her to Eve, in the [56] latter one: For though I am the firſt divine that ever had charity or duty enough, toward our great grandmother, to make the leaſt man⯑ner of apology for her conduct, in a matter which was certainly more her misfortune, than her fault, I, as champion for the ſex, muſt aſk you now, what ſenſe or virtue could be expected in a brat of a year old? And Eve was really no more, when ſhe firſt played hell and the devil, with old nick; for from the very beſt accounts we have, it was the firſt year after her crea⯑tion.

And this method of interpreting original ſin, accounts for a difficulty which has ever puzzled both philoſophers and orthodoxians, with regard to the origin of blacka moors; which in the na⯑tural way, ſay they, muſt have required another Adam, or ſecond firſt man; but in the ſupernatu⯑ral way, I will be bold to affirm, that they are undoubtedly the progeny of the devil and Eve, in conjunctione copulativo. And this became far⯑ther manifeſt afterwards, when this globe came to be diſtinguiſhed into zones, from their naturally taking poſſeſſion of the torrid one, as being moſt congenial to the fiery conſtitution of this helliſh breed.

CHAP. CXV.

WE lived together, for ſome time, in the pleaſanteſt way in the world, by ming⯑ling love and books together, till my poor pope Joan began to perceive herſelf to be with child. At firſt ſhe knew not what ailed her, and did not in the leaſt, ſuſpect the truth of the matter. And in⯑deed how ſhould ſhe? She was always conſi⯑dered as a boy, and therefore women never ſpoke freely before her, as 'tis poſſible they may ſometimes do, among themſelves; and her mo⯑ther died, and her nurſe was diſcharged, too ſoon after the diſcovery, to inſtruct her in the nature of thoſe things.

And indeed, ſhe has ſince declared to me, that ſhe had not the leaſt notion, of any couple's being capacitated to beget children, except a mar⯑ried one. That having heard of the miſtery of marriage, the wedding ring, the indiſſoluble knot, that man and wife were thereby rendered one fleſh, &c. ſhe had careleſsly concluded, that there muſt have been ſome ſort of a free maſon's ſecret in the matter, which the prieſt had the ſole power of initiating the couple into, when he per⯑formed the ceremony. And that ſhe had ima⯑gined [58] what had paſſed between us, might have been indeed, the unchaſte joys of lovers, but could really never have conceived them to have been the chaſte duties of the marriage rites.

But when ſhe was made ſenſible of her miſ⯑take, ſhe grew extremely unhappy, ſhe upbraided me ſeverely, called me ſeducer, betrayer, &c. in one breath, and in another, preſſed me to marry her. I replied with a line in a Scotch ſong, ‘"Jockey would loo, but he wo'na marry,"’ adding, that ceremony among friends, was ab⯑ſurd, but to take up forms, where one ſhould leave them off, ridiculous to the laſt degree. That we had really as much matrimony already between us, as might ſatisfy any two reaſon⯑able people, and that a clauſe of ſurrender, always raiſed the value of any tenure. That marriage would be quite inconſiſtent with the plot that was carrying on for the eſtate, that it muſt expoſe us to the neceſſity of making a new confidant, which would certainly be too idle an hazard to run, for a bare punctilio. That I would take care to extricate her from this diffi⯑culty, with ſufficient addreſs, and it would be time enough then, to ſettle plans for future con⯑duct.

[59]This ſort of jeſt and earneſt apology, ſilenced, though not ſatisfied her; but ſerved however, to render her ſeemingly eaſy, for the preſent. She kept intirely within her own apartments, wore a looſe bagniane, wrapt about her, and received no viſits, except from me, on pretence of ſtudy⯑ing for a fellowſhip.

About a month before ſhe was to lye in, the long vacation happened to come on, and I took a private lodging for her, about forty miles from Oxford. We ſet out at night in a poſt-chaiſe together, and the next morning ſhe aſſumed an intire female garb, that I had ſupplied her with long before, at college, for the pleaſure and va⯑riety of ſeeing her a woman ſometimes, when we uſed to ſhut ourſelves up intirely in my cham⯑bers.

CHAP. CXVI.

LADIES, I am much afraid that there is one particular, in this ſtory, which will ſhock your faith extremely. A girl of eighteen, not to know how a womon is got with child! a probable, tale, truly! And yet I do really think [60] ſuch a thing may be very poſſible; firſt, becauſe ſhe affirms it; next, becauſe her mother and her nurſe guarded her equally from the converſe of man and woman. And they were much in the right of it to defend particularly againſt the latter, for fear of a diſcovery. 'Tis mother's maids that debauch all boys. I'll tell you the ſtory of my firſt ſurpriſe, ſome time or other, when I am in the humour, and I aſſure you it will en⯑tertain you vaſtly. Beſides, might ſhe not have read the ſtory of Jupiter and Ganymede, the Formoſum paſtor Corydon ardebit Alexim, the ac⯑count of Sappho and the Leſbian maids, the co⯑medy of Love's Labour loſt, or Concubitus ſine Lu⯑tinâ, &c? And is not a mixture of learning, apt to breed indigeſted ideas, and lead one into very unphiloſophical inferences?

And in the laſt place, who could ever imagine, from the mere light of nature alone, or from any manner of à priori reaſoning, without the aſſiſt⯑ance of experimental philoſophy, or à poſteriori evidence, that a woman could poſſibly be got with child, ſo ridiculouſly?

I have really known a few inſtances, myſelf, of this ignorance, in girls, who have lived very far in the country; and I remember a young lady once, of about ſeventeen, who upon hear⯑ing a groſs expreſſion one day, by accident, [61] came up to me, and repeating it, aſked me, as a ſcholar, what was the meaning of that hard word?

I met lately, among ſome French tracts, with an authentic ſtory of two young peaſants, which I will relate to you after my own manner, not having the book by me. Take it as follows:

CHAP. CXVII.

THE ingenious Monſieur Marmontel was ſo ſtruck with this ſtory, that he has worked it up into a pretty novel, and inſerted it among his writings, under the title of Hiſtoire Veritable, in order to diſtinguiſh it from ſome others, which were only founded in fiction. In the preface to it, he ſpeaks thus: ‘If it be dangerous, ſays he, to render young people too knowing, it is, on the other hand, rather more ſo, to let them remain too ignorant; for there are offences againſt laws, which do not [66] appear to be ſo againſt nature; and I am here going to afford you one inſtance how far inno⯑cence may err, when the bandage is kept too cloſe upon the eyes.’

You may ſee, ladies, from theſe examples, joined to that of mother Eve, that a ſtate of inno⯑cence, is a ſtate of fall. Therefore, as I have ever known you to ſwallow advice, as the ſand does rain, and to keep both ears open to it, that it may go in at one, and out at the other, I would re⯑commend it to you to be always, as to be ſure you are already, innocent as doves, but wily as ſer⯑pents, at the ſame time.

But in truth, girls, I cannot contrive what in the world to do with ye. Your mothers are quite at a loſs, between freedom and reſtraint, to know how to educate ye. It really requires a great depth in natural philoſophy, for ethics will not do alone, to be able to conduct ye ſafe through life, conſidering ye ſtill as free agents. Therefore women are unequal to the taſk, and men are improper for it.

What's to be done then? for my part, I prefer the eaſtern manner of cloyſtering ye, to any other. For as women muſt be ſlaves, either to opinion, or reſtraint, I think it much leſs ſeverity to put their chaſtity out of danger, than to annex infamy to the lapſe of it. Women are in a pitia⯑able [67] condition indeed! our ſex ſeduce them, and their own preven their reformation!

CHAP. CXVIII.

IN our new ſojournment we kept ourſelves quite retired, nor ventured to ſtir abroad, except to take a ſhort walk in the evenings, in a walled garden which belonged to the houſe where we lodged. We neither of us brought any ſer⯑vants with us, from the univerſity, for fear of a diſcovery, but I hired a man, and ſhe a maid, in the village where we were ſituated.

I ſuffered my ſhare of anxiety, as well as ſhe, during this interval, till one night about ten o'clock, after we had ſupped, the pains of la⯑bour came upon her. I called up the midwife, nurſe, and landlady to her, and then ran up to my own room, which lay juſt over her's. Her groans pierced my ears and heart. I could not ſtand them. I ran down the firſt flight of the ſtairs, in order to get out of the houſe, but as her pains increaſed, her cries became ſo ſhock⯑ing, that I had not reſolution enough to paſs by her door—I ran back again, and locked myſelf in, like one purſued for a murder.

[68]I felt like Jaffeir, when he had betrayed his friend to the rack. I opened the window, with a deſign of leaping out of it, into the garden, when I heard her ſcreeches ſubſiding to a moan, and the landlady, ſoon after, running up ſtairs, cried out, Your wife is ſafe, and I wiſh you joy of a ſon. I haſtily opened the door, caught her in my arms, and thanked her for the joyful news, but adding, in a generous tranſport, ‘'Tis well! but by Heaven I never will get her with child again, unleſs ſhe vexes me.’ The good woman cried Tuſh, you fool, is that the way you'll reward her labour? and ran laughing down ſtairs.

This happy event much relieved both our minds, and our joy was doubled in our preſent aukward circumſtances, that it was not a daugh⯑ter. We congratulated each other upon this occaſion, and as we were both of us univerſity lads, we reſolved to have all the antient ceremo⯑nies performed, in honour of our terrae filius. Accordingly, on the fifth day, we paſſed him through the rites of the amphidromia, and ap⯑pointed the feſtus nominalis, five days after, for his chriſtening; both of which were executed according to the moſt exact formalities, of the Greek and Roman antiquities.

[69]When the curate aſked me the name of the child, I anſwered Hermaphrodite. The parſon, miſtaking the name, for the nature of the infant, refuſed to go on with the ceremony. It is not orthodox, ſaid he, to give ſuch a creature bap⯑tiſm. It can never be a good Chriſtian, that's plain. How can it make a fair ſhew in the fleſh? how ſerve the Lord with all its members? how be fruitful and multiply? All which things I do af⯑firm to be required of a perfect Chriſtian.

I laughed at the doctor's miſtake, and told him that this was a patro-matro-nimic, given to the ſon of Mercury and Venus; and that I looked upon ours alſo, to be the child of wit and love, alluding to the mother's beauty, and my being reared in the lap of the muſes.

May be ſo, may be ſo, replied the doctor. I have forgot all your heathen ſtories, intirely— An heap of idle inventions, all of them. I ſtick to the Bible—I am ſure there are as extraordi⯑nary ones there—One need not turn to the Pan⯑theon, to look for them. And if they read the Bible at Oxford, inſtead of your Ovid's Meta⯑morphoſes, I am poſitively ſure and certain, that it would do every bit as well—nay better too, for one may learn a great deal of good out of the Bible, moreover. But Chriſtianity is diſre⯑garded [70] now-a-days, and all our youth are bred up perfect heathens.

In the interim of this diſcuſſion, the nurſe had ſlily unpinned the child's rocket, ſtripped up its flannels, and preſented it, heels foremoſt, to the doctor. He then put on his ſpectacles, which he had been twirling about his thumbs, during the harangue, and after examining the in⯑fant, matriculatively, cried, Ay, ay, this will do; this child is within a very few words of becom⯑ing an excellent Chriſtian; and then proceeded to the conſummation of it.

After the ceremony was over, ſhe ſmiled at my whim in the nomination of the child, but deſired, leſt perhaps other people might be led into the ſame miſtake with the doctor, that we ſhould ſtick to the male part of the derivation, and ſtile our ſon Hermes only, for the future. This I readily agreed to, and the doctor concur⯑red with us, ſaying, it certainly was a much more Chriſtian name, than the other.

During her confinement here, I never ſtir⯑red from her bed-ſide, except when I retired to meals, or that ſhe fell into a ſlumber; reading to and coverſing with her conſtantly, to keep up her ſpirits; and as we paſſed under the character of man and wife, and that I had changed my name, we had this ſame curate of [71] the pariſh to read prayers for us, morning and evening; and when ſhe was able to ſit up at meals, I aſked him frequently to dinner, which was a great relief to us both, as ſhe was become very reſerved and thoughtful, and that I began to grow intolerably uneaſy at the confinement.

CHAP. CXIX.

ABOUT a fortnight after ſhe was brought to bed, gentlemen, continued Mr. Ca⯑rewe, an adventure happened to me, which I ſhall relate to you here, in its proper place.

My landlord took me aſide, one evening, and told me that there was a lady juſt come to his houſe, who deſired to ſpeak with me. I never ſtaid to inquire who ſhe was, what ſhe was, or what her buſineſs? My only queſtion was, Where is ſhe? He led me down ſtairs to the par⯑lour, and opening the door, cried, Madam, here is the gentleman you want, and retired.

I walked into the room, and a lady richly dreſſed, remarkably tall, finely made, and about five and twenty, roſe gracefully from her ſeat, curtſied, and moved forward. I bowed, [72] and we advanced briſkly toward each other, I to ſalute her, and ſhe to ſhut the door, which ſhe did, and bolted it too, at the ſame time, taking a kiſs en paſſant. Then returning to her ſeat, and placing me cloſe by her, ſhe turned a very handſome face toward me, and thus began:

The freedom I have taken with you, Sir, muſt certainly ſurpriſe a ſtranger, but the buſineſs I have to propoſe to you, will probably do ſo much more. I have been married theſe ſeven years, to a gentleman in this neighbourhood; and my huſband has really behaved toward me, during all that time, not indeed as well as it was poſſi⯑ble, but as well, I ſuppoſe, as men generally do to their wives; ſo that upon that ſcore, I have no manner of complaint againſt him.

How irkſome, dear Sir, muſt it then be, to a woman who has no charge to bring againſt an huſband, on her own part, to be reduced to the ſad neceſſity of urging one, and of the blackeſt dye too, againſt him, on a foreign account; without malice, reſentment, or the leaſt man⯑ner of provocation, to impel her to it.

Yet ſuch, however, is my unfortunate ſitua⯑tion, continued ſhe, applying her handkerchief to her large blue eyes; for my huſband has been lately guilty of a moſt barbarous, cruel, and premeditated murder, which not only cries [73] aloud to Heaven for vengeance, but to me in a moſt particular manner, for juſtice, as I am per⯑haps the ſole perſon alive, who can detect this villany, as being the only one who knows any thing of the malice praepenſe, which could have induced a man, in other things tolerably good, to perpetrate ſo atrocious a crime.

Nothing, you may be aſſured, dear Sir, con⯑tinued ſhe, could have induced me to enter into ſuch a proſecution, but the clamorous cries of juſtice, and of blood, which ſuperſede all other obligations, and make me dread the divine ven⯑geance on myſelf, as an accomplice, ſhould I ſuffer my ears to be ſhut againſt their urgent calls.

You may think it extraordinary, perhaps, that I ſhould addreſs myſelf to you, who are a ſtranger, and a man of no power or authority, in this ſhire. But ſhould I have applied to any of the neighbouring juſtices, I was afraid, as they are all my huſband's friends, leſt they might privately convey an hint to him to make his eſcape, to lock me up, or probably, by ſome more effectual method, to put it out of my power ever to appear againſt him.

I bethought myſelf, therefore, of placing my⯑ſelf and my cauſe, under your protection; for having ſeen you ſeveral times at church here, [74] and taken notice of your reſpectable appearance, as a young man of fortune and faſhion, and be⯑ing informed, upon inquiry, that you were come to reſide, for ſome time, at this houſe, I believed that your interfering in this matter, would not only aſſiſt me to obtain juſtice, but alſo ſcreen me from the violence and reſentment of my huſband, upon this melancholic occaſion. Here ſhe cloſed her charge, continuing ſtill to weep, as ſhe had done almoſt through the whole of her harangue.

I was ſhocked, aſtoniſhed, and concerned. For God's ſake, madam, ſaid I, what are the particulars of this horrid murder? what inward conſciouſneſs have you to accuſe him upon? or what outward circumſtance, to prove him guilty of the fact? Sir, replied ſhe, the body was found murdered, in a pit, and the perſon's horſe lay killed juſt by him, to prevent his running home to raiſe the alarm too ſoon. My huſband was the laſt perſon known to be in his company, and has for ſome time, ſuſpected him of an in⯑trigue with me, ſince which ſurmiſe he has never ſuffered him to come within his doors, bearing him conſtant grudge, and deadly malice.

CHAP. CXX.

I Told her that I did not ſee ſufficient grounds, upon the whole of the ſtory, to take away a man's life, who had any rank or character in the world; but your internal evi⯑dence, madam, ſaid I, which ſeems the moſt material, with you, will never ſway, nor ought it, with a jury. I therefore adviſed her to return home, to ſay nothing of her intended proſecu⯑tion, which ſhould for ever be buried in ſilence with me, to leave the detection of this crime to Providence, and the puniſhment of it to the laws; for that, if there was any foundation, from facts or circumſtances, to charge the mur⯑der upon her huſband, there would probably, ſoon ariſe more natural and unqueſtionable pro⯑ſecutors againſt him, than a ſuſpected, and pro⯑voked wife could ever poſſibly be deemed.

What effect can your evidence probably have, added I, except to fix the indelible ſtain upon your own character, of two the moſt abomina⯑ble and unjuſtifiable crimes in nature; an of⯑fence againſt an huſband's bed, and an attempt upon his life? The firſt may ever remain pro⯑blematical, if the latter does not add demonſtra⯑tion to it. The adultreſs will hunt for the precious [76] life. And with regard to him, continued I, it muſt rather ſerve to acquit, than condemn him; for the very cauſe of your ſuſpicion, may in ſome ſort, be deemed the reaſon of his excuſe.

The higheſt injury and mortification a man can poſſibly receive, went I on, is from an of⯑fence of this nature—The reſentment and pro⯑vocation muſt therefore, riſe, in proportion to the wrong. This is ſo well underſtood, and ad⯑mitted of, by legiſlators, continued I, that there is always an indulgence ſhewn, in the admini⯑ſtration of the laws, upon the fatal effects of any ſudden tranſport of paſſion, on ſuch an occaſion.

But perſons may not always be able, or ſuf⯑ciently prepared, to execute their reſentment, upon the firſt diſcovery; and as the Chriſtian code ^* has not thought proper to adequate a pe⯑nalty to the offence—for what are fines or impriſonment, to a man's own ſenſe of the wrong?—I really think that a reſentment, ſhewn upon the firſt opportunity, as well as upon the firſt provocation, may be perfectly agreeable to reaſon, though not, it ſeems, to law. He will not regard any ranſom, neither will he reſt content, though thou giveſt many gifts. Nor may this be deemed of the nature of malice praepenſe, nei⯑ther, [77] while the injury continues ſtill inſtant to the ſoul, and that the ſenſe of it may rather gain ſtrength, from reflection. For jealouſy is the rage of a man, therefore he will not ſpare, in the day of vengeance.

Now, to ſum up all, madam, ſaid I, and riſing from my ſeat, give me leave to add, that the juſtice which you ſay, and which I ſhall ſtill preſerve charity enough to preſume you are actuated by, is much miſtaken in this point; for there are, believe me, let the ſtoics urge what they will, certain duties, within duties, which may render that action, which would be juſt in one, unjuſtifiable in another.

CHAP. CXXI.

SHE ſeemed extremely confounded, roſe and walked toward the window, wiped her eyes, and then turning about to me, with a conſtrained compoſure in her air; So young a preacher, ſaid ſhe, I have never heard before, and you may be an orthodox one too, for aught I know; but this I am ſure of, that after the ſteps I have already ta⯑ken, this day, in firſt charging my huſband with [78] the murder, and then eloping from him, it is now too late for me to think of returning home again. Even ſhould he receive me, how could it be poſſible for us ever to live on any terms, together, after his having ſuſpected me of adul⯑tery, and my accuſing him of murder!

I have therefore no reſource left me now, ſaid ſhe, with a ſigh, and countenance full of diſtreſs, but to purſue this point, at leaſt ſo far, as to frighten him into ſome terms of ſeparate mainte⯑nance; which, after what you have ſaid to me, upon this extraordinary occaſion, ſhall, I aſſure you, be the utmoſt of my malice againſt him. And ſurely, Sir, ſaid ſhe, catching hold of my hand, and falling on her knees before me, you will not refuſe me your humane and generous aſſiſtance, ſo far at leaſt, as may be requiſite to extricate an unfortunate woman, out of ſo ſhock⯑ing a dilemma.

I raiſed her up in my arms, and—I am quite aſhamed of it, gentlemen, ſaid he, looking at Andrews and Beville—I could not refrain from embracing her. I had really conceived the moſt virtuous abhorrence, of her crimes, but—I don't know how it was, I found the kiſſing her, moſt wickedly pleaſant.

I then promiſed to take her perſon under my protection, though I would not patronize her vice; [79] and telling her that it would not be proper for me to be ſeen any more in her company, for the remainder of that evening, I left her in the care of my landlady, and retired to ſee how my fair invalid had reſted ſince I had parted from her.

I found her juſt awakened from a refreſhing ſlumber, and with that ſteady calm temper which ſhe had conſtantly preſerved, through the whole courſe of her confinement in this place. She was thoughtful, but not grave; eaſy, though not gay; and had that kind of even chearfulneſs always about her, which flows rather from a compoſure of mind, than a mirthfulneſs of heart.

I did not mention a word of my adventure below ſtairs, and had given the ſame caution to the whole houſe, as I was afraid that the ſhock⯑ing circumſtances of the ſtory, might have too much affected the weakneſs of her ſpirits, in her preſent invalid ſtate; and that poſſibly, it might have alarmed her with a little jealouſy, alſo, as there was ſufficient reaſon to ſuſpect, that the lady's chief concern about the matter, might have been for the loſs of one galant, and her principal end in applying herſelf to me, be for the compaſſing another.

I ſat and converſed with her, till her nurſe-tender diſmiſſed me, and then retired up ſtairs [80] to my own apartment, read for an hour or two, and went ſupperleſs to bed.

CHAP. CXXII.

THE next morning, about eight o'clock, I was awakened by ſome body coming into my chamber; and as I never ſhut the windows, at night, in order to riſe early, I perceived a gentleman whom I had never ſeen before, walk into the room, in boots, with a pale, frightened look, and a piſtol in each hand. I called out to him to ſtand, and declare his buſineſs, inſtantly, or I would fire at him; leaping into the floor, on the oppoſite ſide of the bed, and ſnatching up one of my piſtols, which lay on a chair, juſt by it.

He anſwered me as quick as I could ſpeak, in theſe words: Dear Sir, I aſk pardon for this abrupt appearance, and be aſſured that I wear not theſe arms, to offend you, but to defend myſelf; and ſo far from meaning to aſſault you, Sir, I am rather come hither to require your protection. I then deſired him to lay down his arms, on the table, and take his ſeat, till I [81] ſhould have put on my cloaths. He did ſo, but while I was dreſſing myſelf, proceeded thus:

I am come, Sir, ſaid he, to compleat the adventure you had with a certain lady, yeſter⯑day evening. I am, alas! the unfortunate huſ⯑band of that wicked woman, who in revenge for my not having repudiated her, ſome time ſince, which I am now convinced ſhe was diſappointed in, is at preſent, endeavouring to ſet herſelf free from the marriage chain, by the moſt diabolical ſtratagem, imaginable. She eloped from me, yeſterday evening, continued he, after ſome very warm expreſſions, on both ſides, ſhe quit⯑ted the room in a rage, and left me in ſuch aſto⯑niſhment and confuſion, that I did not know ſhe had gone away from my houſe, till the bell rang for ſupper.

I then ſent ſervants all round the neighbour⯑hood, to inquire after her, and about five o'clock this morning, one of them returned back and informed me, that ſhe had been ſeen alighting at this houſe, from behind a tenant of mine, who lives in a little village near me. I was ſtill ſit⯑ting up, ſo mounted my horſe, and rode off di⯑rectly hither.

As ſoon as I arrived, I inquired from the landlord, what he knew about her, and he told [82] me that when ſhe came to his houſe ſhe deſired to ſpeak with the gentleman ſtranger who lodged here, that he immediately introduced you, Sir, to her, and then left you together, in the parlour; that you remained there but about half an hour, and then retired up ſtairs to your own apartments, for the remainder of the night.

I then deſired him to ſhew me the chamber where ſhe lay, and having left my piſtols in his charge, for fear of alarming her, I went ſoftly into the room, opened the window-ſhutters, and then going to the bed-ſide, gently put aſide the curtain, to ſee if ſhe was awake. She opened her eyes, juſt at the time, looked at me for half a minute, before ſhe could recollect herſelf, then ſhrieked out, and hid her head under the cloaths.

I ſat down by the bed-ſide, and deſired her to be under no manner of apprehenſion of any vio⯑lence from me, that I only came to expoſtulate with her, calmly, upon her haſty expreſſions, and precipitate flight; and alſo deſired to know, how far ſhe intended to carry her wickedneſs and diſobedience.

She then uncovered her head, and with a ſteady countenance, replied, that ſhe really deemed me a murderer, and had therefore fled from my houſe, in fear of her own life; that, on the [83] way, her conſcience had urged her to a proſecu⯑tion againſt me, and that deſpairing of juſtice, from any of my own quorum, ſhe had applied to a ſtranger, for aſſiſtance, who had generouſly promiſed it to her.

By this time I was dreſſed, and ſitting down by him, repeated to him all the circumſtances of the charge his wife had brought againſt him. I told him that there was certainly foundation enough, to put him upon his tryal, at leaſt, that guilty, or not, this affair muſt be attended with conſiderable ſcandal, trouble, expence, and ha⯑zard. But that be he criminal, or be he not, taking all circumſtances together, I compaſ⯑ſionated his unhappy ſituation, and if he would candidly relate to me the whole truth of the ſtory, I would be his friend, ſo far, as to put a ſtop to the iniquitous and unnatural proſecution, on his wife's part.

Sir, replied he, with an expreſſion of joy and ſurpriſe in his countenance, your generoſity and humanity have won a ſecret from me, which I never ſhould, nor indeed ought to have revealed, to any other perſon breathing; but now, ſaid he, riſing, and lifting up his hands and eyes to the ceiling, with the ſame ſincerity with which I in⯑treat of Heaven forgiveneſs for my offence, I will confeſs my crime, in this article, fully to [84] you. So ſaying, he returned to his ſeat, and thus began:

CHAP. CXXIII.

MY father died ſoon after I became of age, and left me, who was his only child, a clear eſtate, of about a thouſand pounds a year. I lived an idle, debauched life, like other young men, till I was two and thirty. At that unlucky aera, I firſt ſaw this woman, fell in love, and married her, without a fortune.

She was then, about eighteen, and from what ſhe appears to be this day, one may eaſily judge what a charming perſon ſhe muſt have been, at that age. We lived in perfect harmony together, for near ſix years, during which interval, ſhe bore me one ſon, and a daughter.

About a year ago, and near the unhappy end of this too happy period, a gentleman arrived from the univerſity, at his ſeat about four or five miles diſtant from me. As this is a neighbour⯑hood in the country, and that I had been for⯑merly well acquainted with his father, I paid in due courſe, the firſt viſit to him.

[85]He was a young man, of about two and twenty, not handſome, but of a genteel perſon, and had that peculiar eaſy air about him, which denotes both birth and breeding. He was hardly endowed with even a moderate ſhare of under⯑ſtanding, but had that kind of livelineſs, and nonchalance in his manners, which is too apt to captivate women, becauſe it does not alarm them ſufficiently to put themſelves upon their guard.

In about a month after, he returned my viſit, and ſtaid a week with us. He was all frolic, and diſſipation. He gave a ſhift, to be run for by the girls of the village, a hat, to be cudgeled for, a ſaddle, for a horſe-race, and tobacco, to be grinned for by old women. He made me ſend for a fiddler, and ſummon all the young people in the neighbourhood, to a ball; and uſed to din our ears, in the morning, with the noiſe of his hounds, and French horns.

He gave us an invitation at parting, and in a few days, we returned his viſit. The ſame kind of active idleneſs and extravagance, continued while we ſtaid there. Strange, giddy creature! my wife would ſometimes ſay, he is as innocent and undeſigning, as an infant—but he will run through his fortune and conſtitution, as other young heirs do, before he has given himſelf time [86] for the enjoyment of either. A friend, ſuch as you are, ſhe would add, who has ſo much the advantage of him, in years and ſobriety, muſt be of vaſt ſervice, to prevent his falling into the hands of harlots, and ſharpers. I thought as ſhe ſpoke, and therefore incouraged a frequent in⯑tercourſe between us.

CHAP. CXXIV.

I Have ſeldom known a good end come of inmates, of this kind, in a man's houſe. The huſband is ſometimes en deſhabille, both in temper, and habit. The friend always decked out, in dreſs and chearfulneſs. The huſband careleſs, the friend attentive—the huſ⯑band old, and the friend new. Novelty and compariſon give the advantage. Freedoms in⯑creaſe, and it is never fafe for a woman to be familiar, but with her husband. There are cer⯑tain periods in female virtue, which philoſophers ſtile critical minutes, when chaſtity, by long watching, I ſuppoſe, begins to nod, and the [87] cloſe beſieger muſt, ſooner or later, catch her off her guard.

An old and faithful ſervant, who had been butler to my father, and continued in the ſame ſtation, with me, came to me, one day, about a month ago, and after a good deal of heſita⯑tion and difficulty, gave me ſome hints of a criminal intercourſe, between my wife and my friend. I caught fire, and in a peremptory tone, commanded him to reveal all his knowledge in that affair, without the leaſt reſervation or diſ⯑guiſe.

He then told me, that the morning before, as he was going to wind up the clock, on the ſtair⯑caſe, he ſaw him going into his miſtreſs's bed-chamber. I was ſurpriſed, at firſt, ſaid the poor old man; but conſidering his free careleſs man⯑ner, that he might not have known your ho⯑nour was up, and called in to rouſe you, or might have imagined ſhe herſelf was up, and have gone in to hurry her to breakfaſt, I did not harbour much ſuſpicion, at that time; eſpecially as I ſaw you all, ſoon after, at the tea-table, together, and that I did not perceive the leaſt manner of guilt, in either of their countenances, which I ſuppoſed that no wicked perſons could ever diſguiſe.

[88]But, this morning, continued he, as I was coming down from my own room, later than uſual, with my ſhoes in my hand, to avoid making a noiſe as I paſſed by your door, I per⯑ceived him again coming out of my miſtreſs's chamber, upon which I turned back, for a while, to let him paſs by, as if unnoticed. I then be⯑gan to grow uneaſy in my mind, ſaid he, and thought it my duty to inform your worſhip, of ſuch practices.

I was ſtruck dumb for ſome minutes, and then directed him to lie on the lurch, the next morning, and the moment he ſhould ſee him go into the room, to come and acquaint me of it. I went immediately into the cloſet, and charged my piſtols, afreſh. I endeavoured to appear eaſy and compoſed, all that day; I did not ſtir out, indeed, but walked about the par⯑lour, humming a tune, or ſat in the window, reading a pamphlet, till dinner. In the evening, we played parties of picket together, and I took notice of many freedoms between them, both in words and action. Catching hold of her hand, when ſhe cut the cards, or preſented them to him to be dealt. Free ſpeech▪ and arch looks; with other ribaldry, of the ſame ſort. Such impertinences might have paſſed unnoticed, at another time, but trifles light as air, &c. We [89] ſupped, and parted, about eleven o'clock, all in ſeeming harmony.

The anxiety of that night, is not to be ima⯑gined. I doubted, I believed—I heſitated, I reſolved—I hoped, and I deſpaired. I recollec⯑ted a thouſand circumſtances, to think her inno⯑cent—a thouſand others, to deem her guilty. Her touch diguſted me. I lay on the ſtock of the bed, ſlept little, and waked in a perfect fever. She ſlept ſound, and did not in the leaſt, per⯑ceive my diſturbance.

The next morning, I roſe early, in order to give iniquity fair play, and retired to my ſtudy; where I waited with impatience, till my confi⯑dent came to tell me, that my wife was come down to breakfaſt, and he had not obſerved any thing, of what he had lain in wait for, though he had kept his ſtation, ever ſince he heard me go down ſtairs, till that every moment.

O Sir! cried he out, at this period of his diſ⯑courſe, is it not a ſhocking thing to ſay, that I felt myſelf diſappointed, at this report! but ſuch, however, was my wretched ſituation. Delayed revenge is like a late feaſt, the appetite palls upon it. This day paſſed over, in the ſame manner as the foregoing.

CHAP. CXXV.

THE next morning, the butler came run⯑ning to me out of breath, and told me he had juſt then, ſeen him go into the chamber. I deſired him to remain upon the ſpot I left him, till I ſhould call him up. I walked up ſtairs, di⯑rectly, went into the room, with a piſtol in my hand, and ſhut the door after me. 'Tis too late to hide your baſeneſs now, villain, ſaid I, in a low voice, but I will, notwithſtanding, ſpare your life. Riſe inſtantly, open the window, and leap out into the garden; then return into the houſe, call for breakfaſt, and leave the reſt to me.

He flew to obey my commands, and as ſoon as I had ſhut down the window after him, I opened the door, and going to the ſtair-head, called up John. Friend, ſaid I, I cannot find him here, but do you go in and ſeek for him. He declined it, till I preſented the piſtol to his breaſt. He then ſearched the room diligently, and upon his diſappointment, looked aghaſt, and trembled.

Old man, ſaid I, fear nothing; your infor⯑mation has ſhewn an honeſt diſpoſition in you, [91] but your eyes begin to fail you. You muſt have miſtaken me, who might have gone in and out, the two former mornings, and this day you muſt have taken one of the maids for a galant. The poor fellow then threw himſelf upon his knees, acknowledged his error, crying, that threeſcore and ten had rarely eyes to be depended upon, and intreated forgiveneſs, both of God, and us.

I granted his pardon, ſaid I would intercede with his miſtreſs, bid him never mention a word of the affair, and deſired him to go down ſtairs, and lay the tea-table. But how was his ſurpriſe augmented, and his miſtake confirmed, when he met the gentleman in the parlour, and intreating for breakfaſt, ſaying that he was obliged to ſet out for London, that very morn⯑ing.

I then returned into the chamber, where my wife had lain ſilent, and motionleſs, during the whole tranſaction. She roſe up, on her knees, conjuring me to believe her innocent, the truth of which ſhe offered to certify to me, by the moſt ſacred oath. She ſaid that the young man had always a giddy free romping way with him, which ſhe had frequently reprimanded him for, and had finally threatened to inform me of it, if he ſhould continue his impertinence. But that in [92] thought, word or deed, a veſtal was not purer than ſhe, and then burſt into a flood of tears.

I replied, that I hoped, for my own ſake, and had charity enough to believe, for hers too, that no criminal intercourſe had ever paſſed between them; that her indiſcretions had been indeed, almoſt unpardonable, but that I had given ſuf⯑ficient proof of my having deemed them only ſuch, by my command of temper, upon this trying occaſion, with the ſtratagem I had made uſe of, in order to ſcreen her character even from a footman's cenſure; and that I hoped her con⯑duct would thenceforth, become thoroughly re⯑formed, from a grateful ſenſe, of my behaviour, and a proper condemnation, of her own.

She did not come down to breakfaſt, but after the table was removed, and the coaſt clear, the gentleman made me many aſſeverations, and ſwore all the uſual oaths, of men of honour, upon ſuch occaſions. To which I anſwered, that my wife's innocence reſted not upon his juſtification, that I dared not even to think her guilty, though I believed him to be a villain, which I would then reſent, more emphatically by deeds, than words, if the regard I had already ſhewn by my late contrivance, toward her character, had not reprieved him from my vengeance. He ac⯑knowledged [93] his inhoſpitality, aſked my pardon, and retired with precipitation, and confuſion.

CHAP. CXXVI.

MY behaviour, upon this occaſion, con⯑tinued he, muſt appear very extraordi⯑nary, to you, and ſo indeed it was; but my reaſons for it, were theſe: Had I found them together, the firſt day, as I expected, I ſhould certainly have ſhot him through the head, and might probably, have diſpatched her too, imme⯑diately after him. But the diſappointment, and the interval, had given me time for reflection. My reſentment was by no means abated; but my prudence and my pride, had tied down its hands.

I did not think her actually guilty, at that time, though her behaviour ſince, and at pre⯑ſent, has now fully convinced me that ſhe was. There are a ſort of women, who from a ſhame⯑ful neglect in their education, will too freely give, and take, improper liberties; thinking it ſufficient virtue to abſtain from mere matter of [94] fact. I have ſeen women ſometimes, handle and preſent a piſtol, out of a bravo, who would be terrified to death, at the thoughts of letting it off. I hoped the beſt, and imagined ſhe might be one of theſe. Though, after all, where is the dif⯑ference, between a wife who is really, or only ſeemingly guilty? If, as the verſe ſays, ‘"She ſtill is virtuous, if ſhe ſo is deem'd,"’ the reverſe of this maxim has, I am ſure, much greater truth in it.

In the next place, the thoughts of my dear children, came acroſs my mind. I believed them both my own, and loved them, with a true father's fondneſs. Could I then think of expo⯑ſing their mother, the mother of my daughter more particularly, to infamy? for a mother in diſhonour, is a reproach to the children. My own pride alſo, came in bar, on the apprehenſion that ſuch misfortunes, from the unreaſonable and unaccountable opinions of the world, gene⯑rally occaſion a man to fall into contempt.

All theſe conſiderations, joined together, ope⯑rated upon my mind, and wrought my temper to that calm conduct, which I manifeſted upon this mortifying occaſion. They governed my behaviour toward her alſo, for there is certainly no medium, between ſeeming to think a wife [95] guilty, and turning her out of doors; and it hurt my pride leſs, to appear credulous, than tame.

CHAP. CXXVII.

MY wife did not, by any means, behave properly, upon this criſis, though poſſibly ſhe meant to do ſo; ſhe was very ill-tempered, and inſolent, perhaps from imagining that mild⯑neſs and humility, might argue a ſenſe of guilt; and rendered the poor old butler ſo uneaſy in his ſervice, that he gave me warning, in a week after this adventure; which obliged me to diſ⯑charge him, and ſettle an annuity on him, for life.

Thus matters went on, a little aukwardly, be⯑tween us, for about three weeks, till the day be⯑fore yeſterday; when I happened to go to dine at a neighbour's, in a free way, without invita⯑tion, or knowing who were to be of his com⯑pany. There I chanced, moſt unluckily, to meet the perſon who is the ſubject of our preſent tragedy. We took no manner of notice of each other, which however, being in a mixed com⯑pany, [96] was not obſerved. The bottle went briſkly about, and I drank hard, and in an ill temper, which is always a dangerous thing.

When we broke up, and came to mount our horſes, this gentleman's ſervants were out of the way. He was preſſed to ſtay, and anſwered, that he was under an engagement to ſome com⯑pany at his own houſe, that night, but lamented the want of one of his men, whom he called his guide, as he knew the road, acroſs the country, and that it was now late, and dark. No matter for that, replied our hoſt, follow your friend, there, ſaid he, pointing to me, to his avenue-gate, 'tis not half a mile about, and it is ſtrange if you are not able to find the way from thence, which you have been galloping to and fro, both night and day, for theſe twelve months paſt.

This unlucky reflection increaſed my rancour. I made no manner of reply to the propoſition, but mounting my horſe, bowed to the gentle⯑man of the houſe, and rode off. This abſurd perſon followed me. I was piqued at it. It ap⯑peared a freſh inſult. It was making too ſlight of my reſentment. I mended my pace to get rid of him, but he purſued me ſtill. I had not the leaſt thought of it, the inſtant before. I am con⯑vinced that this may have been often the caſe. People ſhould be particularly careful therefore, [97] never to indulge, as we are too apt to do, that malice, or habit of mind, which may temper them for a crime that opportunity, or the devil, may ſuddenly tempt them to.

Juſt when we came to a certain paſs, I turned into a field, and pulling up my bridle, cried out to him, I have taken the lead from you, long enough—I now reſign it to you. Puſh away, acroſs this fair field, and we ſhall recover the road again, at the end of it. He clapped ſpurs to his horſe, and in an inſtant I heard them both, in full ſpeed, fall tumbling down the precipice. I liſtened for a minute, but heard neither mo⯑tion or groan, from man or beaſt. I was ſtruck with horror—I grew ſober in a moment—I re⯑pented too late. And through the awful ſilence, and horrid darkneſs of the night, rode home a wretch indeed!

This, Sir, concluded he, is the intire truth, and total circumſtance, of my unhappy ſtory; and to ſhew you that I am not quite guilty, I have been obliged to let you into the ſecret, how far I am ſo. Not guilty, perhaps, according to the laws of man, but too ſurely criminal, to the full, againſt thoſe of God!

CHAP. CXXVIII.

HE then told me, that the coroner's inqueſt had brought in a verdict, of accidental death, the evening before, as no marks of vio⯑lence, appeared upon either of the bodies, but what had been occaſioned by the fall. Thus you ſee, Sir, ſaid he, upon what ground I ſtand, with regard to any proſecution about this affair; ſo that nothing but the confidence which your generous deportment, with the kind hint you have dropped of extricating me out of this dif⯑ficult buſineſs, have tempted me to place in you, need have induced me to let you into the ſecret of my being, in any manner acceſſory, to this murder, which in all my future prayers and pe⯑nitence, I ſhall ever conſider, and endeavour to atone for, as one, in all its moſt horrid and cul⯑pable forms. Amen!

He then claimed my promiſe, about quaſhing the indictment: I told him how I had reaſoned, and how far prevailed with the lady, the even⯑ing before. That, upon what I had heard, from both parties, I could judge that there was now no poſſibility of their ever living together, again, and that I thought he would make a prudent [99] bargain, in giving her a bill of divorce, with two hundred pounds a year, to get quietly rid of this troubleſome and unhappy affair. He embraced me and the propoſal, together.

I went down ſtairs to acquaint my fair client with this negotiation, and ſhe willingly accepted of the terms, on condition that I ſhould be her truſtee. I mentioned this article to the husband, who very readily conſented to it. I ſee plainly, ſaid he, her further ſcheme in this: You are an handſome young fellow, and ſhe has no deſign, I dare ſay, of retiring into a nunnery. She would keep up an intercourſe with you. Be it ſo. She has now the world before her, where to chuſe, and though it is ſome conſolation to my humanity, at the ſame time, I think ſhe has better fortune than ſhe deſerves, to fall into the hands and protection of a gentleman of worth and honour, he was pleaſed to add, as you, Sir, appear to be.

Immediately upon this, I ſent off an expreſs to the next town, for an attorney, who came, and while the gentleman and I were at break⯑faſt, drew up the article for a ſeparate mainte⯑nance; we then went into the room, to the lady, for their mutual ſigning and ſealing; which when over, he roſe from his ſeat, made a low bow to her, without ſaying a word, but [100] threw a bill of fifty pounds into her lap, and let fall ſome tears. Then turning toward me, thanked, embraced me, and retired.

This moving ſcene affected me, extremely. It was near half an hour before I could get the better of it. Had I been twenty years older, I I might poſſibly not have got rid of it, ſo ſoon. She appeared a good deal diſcompoſed, alſo. She wiped away a few tears, cried, ‘Dear Sir, am I not extremely to be pitied? But 'tis paſt, 'tis over now; and 'tis a jeſt to think of reſiſting deſtiny.’ This is a fine ſalvo that ſome folks have got—They ſin away, without remorſe, and impute their crimes, to fate.

CHAP. CXXIX.

I Then went up ſtairs to ſee how my fair priſoner had reſted, and found her juſt done breakfaſt. She aſked me where I had been truanting, for the hour paſt, and I replied, that there had happened a ſmall law-ſuit in the neigh⯑bourhood, that I had been appointed umpire, [101] on both ſides, and had ſettled the diſpute to the intire ſatisfaction of the parties. Ay, ſaid ſhe, with a ſigh, you can be good, if you pleaſe. I ſtaid with her, reading and talking to her, by turns, till her chicken came upon the table, and then retired to my own meal, as uſual, for the flavour of beef or mutton were yet too ſtrong for her.

I went down ſtairs, paid a viſit to my new ward, and joined my dinner to hers. Our behaviour toward each other, was a good deal conſtrained. She thought, perhaps, that a free carriage might have given me too ſlight an opinion of her character; and I imagined, that a cavalier air, on my part, would ſeem too much like taking advantage of her preſent ſituation. We drank a bottle of wine together, after din⯑ner, talked of indifferent matters, and I then took my leave, pretending ſome extraordinary buſineſs called me away; for I had given a cau⯑tion to the family not to acquaint her with my particular engagements in the houſe, and ſhe ſeemed a ſtranger to them herſelf. At parting, ſhe invited me to return to ſupper, which I pro⯑miſed.

I drank tea and played picquet with my firſt charge, till nine o'clock, and then retired. I felt myſelf uneaſy, all the evening. I was diſſa⯑tisfied [102] with the diſingenuouſneſs of my own conduct, and was alarmed at my entering too far into vice. I had virtue enough to condemn ſuch courſes, but not reſolution ſufficient to quit them.

After ſupper, the fair refugee and I appeared a good deal more at our eaſe together. We en⯑tered into a very galant converſe, made a jeſt of prudes, and ridiculed parſons; deemed matri⯑mony but mere form, and that the unlucky ex⯑preſſion, of man and wife becoming one fleſh, was apt, from the very idea of homogeneity, to make them conſider each other, too much as the legs or arms, of the ſame body, affording little more enjoyment in the conjugal embrace, than if they were only hugging themſelves. Obſerved, that David was a man after God's own heart, without troubling ourſelves to fix the aera when he became ſo. Preferred the Canticles, in the literal ſenſe, to all the reſt of the Bible; and agreed, that Epicurus was the beſt, of all moral philoſophers.

We drank two bottles together during this entertainment; toward the cloſe of which, ſhe began to grow full of ſorrow, and lamented her misfortunes—I became full of compaſſion, and comforted her. She ſeemed perfectly pleaſed with my company, and wiſhed frequently, as [103] ſhe was ſo kind to expreſs herſelf, to be poſſeſſed of my ſex, ſenſe, and ſpirit. They are all at your ſervice, Madam, ſaid I—There is a nation in the world, who think that by killing an enemy, they ſhall be endowed with all his fa⯑culties, and I would die to ſerve you. No, no, replied ſhe, you are not my enemy, and I think I could ſooner kill myſelf, than injure you. The good-natured creature!

Well then, ſaid I, there is another way of compaſſing your flattering wiſh. You have read the Eaſtern Tales, I preſume. There is a ſtory among them, of a certain derviſe, who poſſeſſed the faculty of ſhooting his ſoul into any dead body he pleaſed, and re-animating it again, while his own lay a breathleſs coarſe beſide it. This fable, believe me, Madam, is verified among us adepts, at Oxford, now-a-days; and I myſelf have been thoroughly initiated into the myſtery of tranſmigration. Take an example now, ſaid I, go ſtretch yourſelf, at full length, upon that couch there, in the very poſture of a dead perſon, and counterfeit a trance. I will then inſtantly let fly my ſoul into you, upon the wings of love, and revive you again, to the wonderful delight of all ſpectators; while my inanimate body ſhall then lie panting by your ſide.

[104]It was now the ſeaſon which midwives diſtin⯑guiſh by the title of gander-month. A bill of di⯑vorce reduces it to ſimple fornication, and the conſent of an husband, abſolves even that crime. However, I did not venture to urge this laſt ar⯑gument to her, for fear of making her refractory. Three reaſons muſt be very inſufficient indeed, if they cannot furniſh out an excuſe, among them. —

An artichoke and a pine-apple have the ſame ſhape, but what a difference in the flavour!

The next morning, ſhe hired a poſt-chaiſe, and drove off to London.

CHAP. CXXX.

HERE'S a rake for you, ladies, with a witneſs! Yea verily, with two. Two ſtrings to his bow, i'faith. But to ſpeak ſeriouſly now, prithee whoſe fault is it, his, or yours? The affair with the man-lady, d'ye mind, was none of his ſeeking, I am ſure. He happened [105] to meet with it, where no man living would have gone to look for it. He was ſearching for a wound, only, when this ſame hiatus valde riden⯑dus, preſented itſelf to his view. Obſtupuit, ſtete⯑runtque, &c. And, as Falſtaff ſays, Rebellion lay in his way, and he ſtumbled upon it.

If women will come into young fellows bed-chambers, and then fall into fainting fits there, what in nature, can a man do, but like a quack, apply the panacea, to them? His laboratory has no other drops, no other hartſhorn, no other cordial, but this.

And as for this here gentlewoman, neither did he ſeek her either. Did he ſtir acroſs the thre⯑ſhold of the door, to meet her? Did ſhe not come to the very houſe, dragooning him? Might he not uſe the ſe defendendo plea? I think 'tis all fair, after a man has firſt tried what effect an exhortation may produce. Could the parſon of the pariſh, himſelf, have done more? And you muſt acknowledge, that Mr. Carewe did preach a moſt excellent ſermon, to her. Though, how he came by ſo many texts of ſcripture, without having been bred at Glaſgow, I cannot conceive. And in the courſe of his homily too, he gives a prudent hint to all galants with re⯑gard to cuckolds. Foenum habet in cornu, he ſays—

[106]A word more. With regard to what the huſ⯑band ſays, about the nod of chaſtity, which may be ſtiled the nod of aſſent, or critical minute, I am to inform you, that the French phraſe for this ſame expreſſion, is L'heure de berger, or the ſhep⯑herd's hour. Now if the character of a nation, as is reaſonably enough affirmed, may be known from its proverbs, I muſt congratulate my fair country-woman in having the advantage, in point of chaſtity, over their neighbours, even in the great proportion, of ſixty to one. This frail criſis holds only a minute, with Engliſh women, but laſts a full hour, with French females.

CHAP. CXXXI.

WHEN I found that my fair academie was perfectly recovered, I began to re⯑new my galantries toward her again. One night, after we had ſupped and parted, as uſual, I re⯑turned back from my apartment, with my night⯑cap in my pocket, and went into her bed-chamber. I found her on her knees, and earneſt at prayer, I was confounded, and retired into [107] the ante-chamber; where I ſtood muſing, till I heard her begin to move; but before I could gain the door, ſhe had ſhot the bolt on the inſide, and walked away to the farther end of the room. I became ſenſible of a certain inward rebuke, upon this occaſion, and immediately returned up ſtairs, to my own chamber.

The next morning, we met at breakfaſt; du⯑ring which we appeared under a mutual con⯑ſtraint and aukwardneſs, toward each other. After the tea-table was removed, I attempted to open the converſation, upon the laſt night's inci⯑dent, but faltered in the firſt ſentence; upon which ſhe interrupted me thus—‘Never, never, Mr. Carewe, muſt we meet again, on any other terms but thoſe of friendſhip. A wo⯑man may be betrayed into error, by another's crime, but it muſt be her own vice that ſuf⯑fers her to continue in it. I have had, by this time, ſufficient leiſure for reflection, and have paſſed ſevere ones, on my former con⯑duct. But I rejoice in the ſmart, which heals whilſt it corrodes. Good God! cried ſhe out, in a paſſion of tears, was it not enough, that I ſhould ſink, at once, from man to wo⯑man, but that I muſt again fall, even below the only character eſtimable in her, too!’

She was going on, but I interrupted her by [108] catching her in my arms, in a ſudden tranſport of generoſity, and fondneſs, and offering to marry her, that very inſtant. "No," ſhe replied, and wreſting herſelf from my embrace, ‘you have once denied me that happineſs, already—'Tis enough—I will not accept it now: For I ſhall never receive from your honour, what I can⯑not owe to your love. Had you ever loved, before, I might perhaps, be led to accept of the preſent cool terms you offer. That dan⯑gerous criſis once over, I might poſſibly, be induced to compound for your friendſhip and eſteem; but while I have that hazardous aera to dread, I muſt always keep a reſerve over my own affections toward you, which would be inconſiſtent with that union, which your generoſity alone has challenged you now to proffer^*.’

‘Ever ſince that fatal day—or rather happy one, as I may now deem it," continued ſhe, when you revealed to me the unfortunate ſituation I was in, my thoughts have con⯑ſtantly turned inward on myſelf. The ſpring of that religious and virtuous education, with which my dear mother had imbued my mind, reverberated then ſo ſtrongly on my [109] heart, that it quickly awakened every pious ſenſe, which avocation, idleneſs, and plea⯑ſure, had till then, lulled to ſleep.’

She ſpoke all this, with a collected ſpirit, and ſtoiciſm, which aſtoniſhed, and charmed me. It raiſed my eſteem for her, to the higheſt pitch, but at the ſame time, affected me with ſuch a [110] tenderneſs and contrition, that I could not poſ⯑ſibly refrain from tears; which ſhe perceiving, called out to me in a manly tone, and with a ſmile at the ſame time, What, Mr. Carewe, ſaid ſhe, are you going to change your ſex, alſo? ‘For ſhame, added ſhe, ſhake off this wo⯑maniſh weakneſs—Arouſe, and be a man.^*’ I recovered myſelf, but made no reply.

This whole day we ſpent together, in a gene⯑ral converſe, through which I behaved myſelf with the higheſt politeneſs and decorum; both in my deportment toward her, and in avoiding the moſt oblique hint, which might revive in her mind the remembrance of our former con⯑nection. This charming woman ſeemed much flattered with the reſpect and delicacy of my manners; ſhe declared that ſhe ſincerely eſteemed this day to be the happieſt, and moſt pleaſant, we had ever ſpent together, and I endeavoured to think ſo.

The next morning, ſhe hired a poſt-chaiſe to carry her to her grandfather's, where ſhe told me ſhe deſigned to ſtay during the remainder of the vacation, and then return to the univerſity, to [111] finiſh her ſtudies. She dreſſed herſelf, en cava⯑lier, and wrapped herſelf up in a roclaure, pre⯑tending to be afraid of catching cold on her jour⯑ney, ſo ſoon after her lying in. She made a preſent of all her femalities, to the daughter of the houſe, ſaying to me in a low voice, Farewel, now, for life, to my poor helpleſs ſex. Then committing the care of our ſon and nurſe, to our hoſt and hoſteſs, we tenderly embraced, and ſhe hurried into the chaiſe, with a precipitation which betrayed her not to be yet quite miſtreſs of her philoſophy.

I remained for ſome time, at the gate, looking after the carriage while it continued in view, and contemplating upon this virtuous and ex⯑traordinary woman; I then returned into the houſe, diſcharged my bills, embraced my Hermes, took poſt-horſes, and rode back to college, not ſo pleaſantly indeed, but much more com⯑poſed in mind, however, than when I left it.

CHAP. CXXXII.

I Paſſed a very uneaſy time of it, there, for a week. I felt an aukward want of half my⯑ſelf, and if not the moſt neceſſary, at leaſt the pleaſanteſt part of me. I was dull in company, and melancholic, when alone. I began to ſuſ⯑pect I loved her; but this I was ſure of, that had ſhe given me time enough for it, I ſhould certainly have done ſo.

At one while, I was for carrying her off, and raviſhing her into matrimony. Nor was this generous thought at all checked, by reflecting on her large fortune, for that article I was firmly reſolved to have made eaſy to myſelf: I ſcorned to accept the portion of fraud, and would have reſtored it to the rightful heir.

At another time, I had one curioſity already gratified, and another ſtill to ſatisfy; namely, to try how long a ſpliced chaſtity could hold out, and whether this experiment might not be like new wine put into old bottles, or a new piece into an old garment. At length, time and uſe, which generally blend all our wants and loſſes with the common complexion of life, reſtored my careleſneſs and ſpirits to me again.

[113]On the commencement of our term, my dear Levis Agyeu ^* returned to college. As ſoon as I heard of her arrival, I went to wait on her at her apartments—She received me with great civility and affection, but immediately putting on her hat, ſaid it was a fine morning, and deſired the pleaſure of my company to take a walk with her in the park, as ſhe wanted a little private converſation with me, which might be inter⯑rupted by other viſitants. I approved of, but was diſſatisfied at, this caution of hers.

When we were alone in the park, ſhe told me that the old colonel ſeemed extremely rejoiced at her viſit, but much concerned at ſeeing her look ſo pale and thin. You have ſtudied your eyes out, my child, ſaid he, and 'tis high time to be done with that ſame work, now. You have been chewing upon three years of crabbed learning already, at that ſame univerſity, as 'tis called, beſides all you ſwallowed before, at ſchool, and if you are not as wiſe as Solomon, by this time, the devil's in it for me. But there's an end of all farther puzzling now, as I have lately procured a cornetcy for you, from my old friend the ſecretary of war; and I long ſadly, to ſee you ſtrut the parade, in your mili⯑tary uniform, ſhortly.

[114]You know, ſaid ſhe to me, that I am no Amazon, and yet this declaration of his did not diſtreſs me ſo much as you might naturally ex⯑pect—I was prepared for it, from his frequent reſolutions, in that way, and had therefore, furniſhed myſelf with an anſwer. I returned him thanks for this, and all his other kind intentions in my favour, but added, that with regard to the profeſſions of life, it was always both pru⯑dent, and reaſonable, to grant the party en⯑gaging, ſome liberty of choice, in a matter of ſo much moment, both to themſelves and others.

Zounds, ſaid he, thou isn't afraid, is thee? No, Sir, I replied, with an aſſured countenance, I thank God, that I fear nothing now, but him⯑ſelf and you. But it is my duty to the firſt of theſe moſt ſacred obligations, continued I, which makes me heſitate about too implicit an obe⯑dience, to your commands. Very fine, very fine! replied the colonel, all this begins very finely indeed, but tell me quickly, now, with⯑out any more of your logic, or ſophiſtry, what the devil is all this about?

CHAP. CXXXIII.

I Thus went on. When I entered upon the ſtudy of natural philoſophy, Sir, at the univerſity, I was charmed and ſurpriſed at the internal art and contrivance of the al⯑mighty artificer, in many ſubjects, which I had looked upon ſuperficially, before. Still as I proceeded, ſtill as my knowledge improved, in mathematics, gravitation, attraction, and aſtronomy, my mind enlarged, and my ſoul was impreſſed with a ſenſe of awe and wonder, at the amazing greatneſs, goodneſs, and oeconomy of Providence. Nor needs all this to refute the fool of David^*—Shew him but a ſtraw, and when he has accounted for that, let him then diſpute a Deity.

Afterwards, Sir, when I had entered into my courſe of moral philoſophy, I quick perceived the duties, the relations, the dependencies, both of civil and religious obligations. I almoſt thought the ſyſtem perfect; but there ſeemed ſtill to be ſomething yet wanting. I loved vir⯑tue, but feared not vice. I adored the Deity, [116] but feared impiety, in prayer. I aſked for bleſ⯑ſings, and yet dreaded them as curſes. There needed two things, yet, abſolutely neceſſary to compleat the ſcheme. Certain ſanctions for our virtue, and a revelation, to inſtruct our wor⯑ſhip.

Theſe great deſiderata then, directed my inqui⯑ries toward religion. I here found all was per⯑fect harmony. The ſcene extended, my views enlarged, the concordance, between divine and human things, apparent; virtue encouraged, and vice deterred. And to ſum up all, a form of worſhip appointed, which aboliſhed idolatry, inſtructed prayer, and reſtrained enthuſiaſm.

What the devil, is all this for, interrupted the old ſoldier? Was this harangue neceſſary, ſaid he, to let us know you were a Chriſtian? I always honoured religion, as much as you, or any ſcholar of Oxford, or Cambridge, either; ay, by G—, as much as the chaplain of our regi⯑ment, himſelf, who, by the Lord, was as ho⯑neſt, and jolly a fellow, as any of the corps. But a man may ſerve God, and his king, and country, too, at the ſame time, I hope. Grant me but that, and there's an end of the argu⯑ment.

You are certainly in the right of it, Sir, replied I, and your obſervation is indeed, very juſt. [117] But then, Sir, in return, I hope that you will allow me there may be more ways than one, of doing all three. How in the name of God, now, is that poſſible, anſwered he? can we pre⯑ſerve the proteſtant religion, Hanover, or Old England, any other way, but by fighting?

Dear Sir, ſaid I, I am far from diſputing the neceſſity of fighting, for as the world is at pre⯑ſent conſtituted, there muſt be ſoldiers, as well as other handicraftmen. But pray, Sir, is not a divine, inſtructing his congregation, or reform⯑ing his pariſh, more ſerviceable to God, the king, and his country, than a colonel of horſe, or foot, exerciſing his regiment on the parade?

Is not the making of good ſubjects, more ne⯑ceſſary, than the training of ſoldiers? One may be hired, the other not—What ſo fitted to make men brave, as religion? And what to regulate the diſcipline of an army, as morals? The di⯑vine, then, is neceſſary, in the firſt inſtance— The ſoldier, only in the ſecond. The ſoldier's profeſſion, is but temporal and temporary. The divine's, celeſtial and eternal!

Preach me no preachments, interrupted old Mars; a parſon, indeed, were he ſuch as I am afraid few parſons are, might perhaps, do ſome ſervice to religion, and his country, in the way you ſuppoſe; but never tell me, man, that all [118] the preaching in the world, can ever be able to defend Hanover. No, no, Bilbo is the word, there, and right or wrong, nolus, volus, we muſt all fight for Hanover, that's a ſure thing.

I replied, there was no fear but there would be always people enough found to fight for Hanover, or a caſtle in the air, if they were paid for it; but as all men were not to be ſoldiers, we might be left at liberty to chuſe our profeſ⯑ſions; and that, for my own part, I had for ſome time, been ſenſible of ſo ſtrong a propen⯑ſity toward putting on the gown, that I took it to be an inward call from the ſpirit, to enter into holy orders.

Call me no calls, replied old Teſty, you are a coward, ſirrah, I ſee you are. You are no man, but an hodmandod^*, and would rather fight the devil, than a Frenchman. Call of the ſpirit! No, ſneaker, 'tis want of ſpirit that is your call, and like a criminal, flying for his life, you would take ſanctuary in a church, would you? Yours is no call, I ſay, 'tis proffered ſervice, and you know the proverb, you ſh—n a—e fellow you.

Call of the ſpirit, forſooth! but 'tis neceſſary that ſome people ſhould pretend it, or how few [119] of the pulpits, in England, would be filled, now-a-days! How many do I know, myſelf, who were never called by the ſpirit, nor ever call upon it, either. But buſineſs muſt be done; and they marry and chriſten, as well as the beſt; for a parſon's a parſon, and there's an end on't. What the devil need we deſire more?

But here's another difficulty, continued he, you have brought upon me too, by your ſtrange notions of ſpirit and pulpit, and ſuch tringum-trangums—What will your quaking ſpirit help me to do now, with the commiſſion, that I have laid out all my intereſt to procure for you, and which I muſt now return ſo thankleſsly, upon my friend's hands again? By no means, Sir, ſaid I, you may diſpoſe of it more properly, than even by giving it to me—My couſin Tom, Sir, will readily accept of it. It will be looked upon as a kind of preſent to him, and I would willingly obviate every occaſion of jealouſy, which might poſſibly, ariſe between us.

And ſo, by G—d, I will, replied he, ſharply, and if I ſhould leave him my eſtate too, what would you ſay to that, youth! I ſhould ſay no⯑thing, Sir, but ſhould think, that as you have made the fortune by your own valour, you have certainly a right to beſtow it according to your own favour; and if, Sir, added I, your [120] opinion or inclinations, ſhould point him out, as the more worthy object, I ſhall be perfectly reſigned, both to the diſpenſations of Providence, and yours.

Pugh, pugh, ſaid he, you won't let me have my own way, in any thing, I ſee—I am not uſed to theſe old-fangled notions, and I don't know, for the blood of me, how to deal with them. I wiſh, with all my ſoul, that either you, or I, were different ſort of people, that we might underſtand one another, rightly. But let us have done with it now, child, ſaid he, and go bid them lay the cloth for ſupper.

CHAP. CXXXIV.

YOU may be ſurpriſed, perhaps, ſaid ſhe, at the eaſineſs with which I ſeem to have reſigned a fortune in which might be compre⯑hended all the flattering proſpects and enjoy⯑ments of life. But, Mr. Carewe, purſued ſhe, with a ſigh, I had already ſhaken hands with this life. And though I think I have now hap⯑pily attained to ſuch a pitch of firmneſs and fortitude of mind, that were it poſſible to be [121] either my duty, or obligation, to fight, I could this inſtant draw the ſword, and like another Joan d' Arc, ruſh into the midmoſt battle. But to enter a volunteer in arms, would have been a preſumption unbecoming my real character, and therefore I declined it.

And as to the worldly conſiderations, which might naturally have perplexed me, upon this occaſion, continued ſhe, I had already wrought my mind to this determination about them. I do not think that female virtue conſiſts in chaſtity alone, though certainly, both pru⯑dence and decency require this to be our diſtinguiſhing character. This duty we owe, firſt to religion, and next to ourſelves; but juſ⯑tice is an higher point of virtue, becauſe we owe this, both to God, to ourſelves, to our neigh⯑bour, and to the rights of civil ſociety.

I had hitherto carried on the deceit, in obe⯑dience to my mother's commands—But ever ſince I began to conſider things in an higher light, and to compare my firſt and ſecond duty, together, I had reſolved to act, in this matter, that equitable, and ingenuous part, which I am certain ſhe would herſelf direct, were ſhe now to return upon earth, to inſtruct me.

What then had I to apprehend from my grandfather's reſentment, but that event which I [122] had before reſolved upon in my own mind? The virtue of the act, was already perfect in reſolve, and the merit of the gift I was willing to reſign to another. I could not imagine that my grandfather would have caſt me off to abſo⯑lute beggary; and any reaſonable proviſion he might have made for me, would have ſerved to ſupport me in that ſcheme of life which I had already reſolved upon: For I am determined, ſaid ſhe, to put on the gown, for one additional reaſon more than my dear mother gave me for wearing a male habit; which is, that a reſpect to my profeſſion, may reſtrain both that prophane, and immodeſt manner of ſpeaking, before me, which I have already ſuſtained too much of among men.

I was charmed, ſaid Mr. Carewe, at the no⯑bleneſs of ſoul, in this virtuous woman, but was ſomewhat mortified, however, to find that I was not capable myſelf, of the ſame refinement of ſentiment, in one particular; for I confeſs that I felt diſappointed at her having prevented me from recommending to her the very action, ſhe had already reſolved upon; and from offering her three hundred pounds a year, out of my own fortune, in conſideration of her reſigning the eſtate to her couſin; which I aſſure ye, gentle⯑men, [123] ſaid he, had for ſome time paſt, been fully my purpoſe.

I was going once to mention this to her, but thought it might have had a diſingenuous air; and in ſhort, ſaid he, I was really, as much puzzled, as old Square Toes, himſelf, to know how to deal with her old-fangled notions, as he ſtiled them, and almoſt wiſhed as he did, that either of us were different ſort of people.

However, this not ſincerely, for I thought it too ſoon for myſelf, to quit the purſuit of plea⯑ſure, and indeed, for her too; as the ſmall ſnack ſhe had got of it, was hardly, in my opinion, worth ſo much repentance; but as grace comes earlier to ſome people, than to others, I would not wiſh to diſturb her peace, or attempt to interrupt her courſe of virtue, but for a moment, to gratify even my warmeſt de⯑ſires; for I was reſolved, upon all occaſions of this kind, to qualify, as much as poſſible, the ſinner, with the ſaint; and never to mix up a greater potion of vice with my pleaſure, than was juſt neceſſary as a vehicle to it. By which means, I ever retained an hank in hand, as the jockeys phraſe it, to pull up, before I was got to the brink of the precipice.

CHAP. CXXXV.

WHILE I was revolving theſe things in my mind, the fair prolocutor thus went on. The next morning, ſaid ſhe, after break⯑faſt, the old gentleman called me into his apart⯑ment, and after ſome minutes ſilence, during which time he ſat muſing and looking at the fire, he lifted up his head, and turning his face toward me, in a good-humoured tone of voice, Mr. Parſon, ſaid he, I could not well ſleep, laſt night, for the ſermon you preached to me, yeſterday evening.

It put me in mind of your poor mother, ſhe was a great reaſoner, and would ſometimes ar⯑gufy the caſe with me, till ſhe uſed to put me into a paſſion, for I always hated women's prate. But it does well enough in a man, eſpe⯑cially a ſcholar, as you are; for what does peo⯑ple learn for, d'ye ſee me, if they don't ſhew it? Therefore, I conſent, d'ye mind, that you make yourſelf a parſon, as ſoon as you will, and though I muſt ſay that you have diſappointed me hugely, in my firſt deſign for you, I don't doubt, in the leaſt, but you may be a good man yet, for all that; and we will now be as good [125] friends as ever, ſaid he, and ſhaking me by the hand at the ſame time.

I thanked him on my bended knee, but he ordered me to riſe quickly, ſaying, Never kneel, child, but to the king, God bleſs him, or your prayers—That is my notion, ſon, and I don't doubt but I ſhall ſee you chaplain to our regi⯑ment yet, and you ſhall be ſo, believe me, ad⯑ded he, if ſtrong drink can kill a parſon, and that I have any intereſt with ſome people, and I never ſay a thing that I don't mean to do; that's my way, d'ye mark me?

You'll live a roving, jolly life, of it, then, you dog you, and know more of the world, in one year, there, than you would do in ſeven, in this pariſh, or the next. But I have ſent for your couſin Tommy, and will give him the com⯑miſſion you know. No—you ſhall give it to him, yourſelf, it ſhall be your gift, it will make him love you, and I would have families live well together, child, after I am dead and rotten.

He then gave me the ſecretary of war's letter, which mentioned that he had procured a cor⯑netcy for him, at his requeſt, in the — regiment of cavalry, and deſired him to write the perſon's name, at the bottom of that letter, and return it to him immediately, in order to have the commiſſion filled up. I thanked him [126] for the pleaſing office he had aſſigned me—For giving, is certainly one of the pleaſanteſt things, in the world.

In the evening, my couſin arrived, equipt perfectly à la militaire; for my aunt, in compli⯑ment to the martial enthuſiaſm of her father, had ever ſince he was put into breeches, affected to have him dreſſed like an officer, with cock⯑ade, ſword, and gambadoes. He is perfect maſter of his exerciſes, which, with a little ſmattering of French, is the only part of educa⯑tion his parents had ever attended to. He has an handſome, genteel perſon, and has that kind of forwardneſs and air of confidence, which perſons who know one thing, a little, and are quite ignorant of every thing elſe, are apt to aſ⯑ſume. He had lately challenged a young apo⯑thecary, in the town where his father lived, for ſaying, that it was ridiculous to ſee a chit pretend to ſtrut about, with a ſword on, who was only of fit ſize, to wear a glyſter-bag armed And the piſtol and the peſtle were going to it, ding dong, when ſome friends happened to interpoſe, and put an end to this martial ſtrife.

After the mutual ſalutes were over, I took him aſide into another parlour, and ſhewed him the letter from the ſecretary of war. He con⯑gratulated me upon my good fortune, but ſaid, [127] with a ſigh, that he would rather be in poſſeſ⯑ſion of that commiſſion, than of the old Don's eſtate, for that the army was the only profeſſion for a gentleman, all the reſt of the world being divided into payſans, and bourgeois; and that he longed moſt bloodily, to be at ſlaſhing work with the French.

Then couſin, ſaid I, you ſeem to be a much fitter perſon for this buſineſs, than I am, for upon my word, I bear no manner of malice to any people breathing, not even to my foes. So ſaying, I careleſsly took up a pen, which lay on the table, and writing down Thomas Irwin at the foot of the letter, preſented it to him.

He kiſſed it, hugged me, and drawing his ſword, made ſeveral paſſes at an old Windſor chair, ſwearing that there ſhould not be a French⯑man in the world, by the end of the campaign; and that he would then gather all the women together into a ſeraglio, and people the king⯑dom over again, himſelf, with good Pro⯑teſtants.

Come along, my gallant ſoldier, ſaid I, and pay your acknowledgments, where they are more properly due; for the gift is our grand⯑father's, though he was ſo kind as to appoint me the giver. We then went up ſtairs to the old gentleman's room, where the briſk cornet [128] returned him haſty thanks for his preferment, and inſtantly begged leave to ſet out, that even⯑ing, for London, to deliver the letter, and ex⯑pedite the commiſſion. The good old man cried, There's a lad for you that is in haſte to fight, then gave him his bleſſing, with a bill of an hundred pounds, and diſmiſſed him.

CHAP. CXXXVI.

HERE we were interrupted, by the coming up of three or four of our college ac⯑quaintance, with whom we walked a few turns, till the bell ſtruck three o'clock. I then preſſed her to come home, and dine with me, which ſhe refuſed; upon which I offered to go home with her, that ſhe might be at liberty to finiſh the reſt of her ſtory, if any yet remained, but ſhe re⯑plied, that ſhe had nothing prepared at her chambers, and propoſed to the reſt of the com⯑pany, that we ſhould all go to the tavern toge⯑ther, which was agreed upon.

After dinner, we entered into a lively conver⯑ſation, in which ſhe bore her part with great wit and ſpirit, and ſeemed to be more chearful and [129] diſingaged in her manner, than I had known her for many months paſt. This ſtruck me as a confirmation of her virtue. The conflict ſeemed to be over. My heart exulted with joy.

We drank our friends, in the uſual courſe, and then one of the company, who had been appointed magiſter bibendi, propoſed a round of ſentiments, and began himſelf decently enough, with the joys of friendſhip, love, and wine. The next turn fell to me, and I gave the ſeaſon of May, and the age of fifteen. But this ſort of chaſte archneſs, did not long continue, for the next perſon called upon, launched out beyond all innu⯑endo, which began to give my delicate friend ſome uneaſineſs. She caſt a look of diſtreſs, to⯑ward me, and I immediately put a ſtop to the round, by acquainting the company that our friend there, had lately taken the reſolution of going into orders, and that ſuch ribaldry muſt certainly be offenſive to him. She bowed, and the reſt were ſilent,

I then propoſed, as we were all ſcholars, that we ſhould toaſt ſome claſſical rounds, of me⯑mories, beginning with the philoſophers, while we were ſober, and reſerving the poets for our more jovial cups. The fancy took, becauſe the thought was new, and each perſon declared his ſect, by his toaſt. Plato led the way, becauſe [130] he wore good cloaths, and kept a good table. Democritus came next, becauſe he was a merry fellow, and taught, long before Copernicus, that the world turned round. Then followed Zeno, not on account of the ſeverity of his philoſophy, but becauſe he had done juſtice on himſelf for it, by an halter.

When it came to my turn, I named Ariſtip⯑pus, on account of the character that Horace gives of him, Omnis Ariſtippum decuit, color, & ſtatus, & res. Then my fair philoſopher con⯑cluded the round with Socrates, as being, in the opinion of Eraſmus, a Chriſtian, before Chriſtianity; and then immediately, roſe up, and quitted the company. I offered to attend her home, but ſhe forbad it; ſaying, that ſhe had her lectures to look over before examina⯑tions; and appointed me to meet her, the next morning, in the park, as before, to conclude her ſtory. I returned to my company, and finiſhed the evening, a la mode.

CHAP. CXXXVII.

THE next day, I met my charming friend, ſaid he, at the time and place appointed, and after a quarter of an hour's converſation upon general topics, ſhe proceeded with the thread of her narration. Thus far, ſaid ſhe, had I tolerably well extricated myſelf, from a very difficult piece of buſineſs; but my principal point had not been yet obtained. There was a matter of much higher conſequence, ſtill to be diſpoſed of, which I confeſs I was ſo impatient to have adjuſted, that I was, one or twice, very near declaring the whole ſecret of my diſguiſe, to my grandfather, had not a tenderneſs for my mother's character, prevented me.

I then determined with myſelf to keep the matter ſtill a ſecret, thinking that no accident could diſappoint the honeſt purpoſe I had already framed; for ſhould I happen to die before my grandfather, the eſtate would devolve of courſe, into the right line; and ſhould I outlive him, I might then reſign it, with equal advantage to my couſin, as at preſent.

However, ſome ſcruples aroſe, that juſtice delayed, was in ſome ſort, juſtice denied, and that it was always prudent to be honeſt, while [132] one may, leſt the general frailty of human na⯑ture, might perhaps, obſtruct the fair intent, when the time may call upon us to perfect it by action. Beſides, ſaid ſhe, the matter lay a dead weight upon my mind, and I was impatient to get rid of it, in order to dedicate my whole ſoul, to the contemplation and enjoyment of philo⯑ſophy, and religion.

Upon this reſolve, I went up directly, into my grandfather's chamber, who was much con⯑fined by the gout; I took occaſion to commend the ſpirit and accompliſhments of my couſin, in which he ſeemed heartily to join me with a certain martial joy in his countenance, at the ſame time. I added, that I imagined he muſt have been juſt ſuch a briſk young fellow, him⯑ſelf, at his years, all fire and activity. The very counterpart, exactly, replied he, with a ſmile of ſatisfaction. I am extremely ſorry then, Sir, ſaid I, that you have not ſuch an heir, to repreſent you; who might ſerve to perpetuate your fame, and keep your character alive, after you are gone, better than I can poſſibly do, in my confined ſcheme of life, who am likely to hide both, under a gown, and bury their me⯑mory, in ſome country cure.

What do'ſt mean, boy, replied he, with a good deal of ſurpriſe? Han't I told you already, [133] that we are as good friends now, as ever? Pri⯑thee, what ſort of a crotchet haſt got in thy noddle, at preſent, lad? Pray explain it quickly, now, without more ifs or ands. To which I replied, that I was then come to juſtify my cha⯑racter to him, by giving a convincing proof of the ſincerity with which I had made my option of the gown, in preference to the ſword, by begging leave to renounce all future pretenſions to his favour, with regard to the eſtate. That as I did really mean to ſequeſter myſelf in⯑tirely, from the world, firmly reſolving never to marry, ſo great a fortune might be either a temp⯑tation, or an incumbrance to me. For that for⯑tune, titles, rank, and grandeur, are dangerous ſophiſters, and too often perſuade us that the falſe goods of life, are the true ones. That his other grandſon was more likely to wear it with honour, and being capable of buſtling in camps, and ſhining in courts, and ſenates, was a fitter perſon to put foremoſt in the world, at the head of a family which his own virtue and bravery had ſo lately brought into reſpect and notice. That for my part, I ſhould perfectly acquieſce, in whatever portion his kindneſs might think proper to allot me, which though ever ſo ſmall, ſaid I, if I have virtue, will be as much [134] as I ſhall want, and if not, will be more than I ſhall deſerve.

The good old man, continued ſhe, at theſe words, burſt into tears, ſaying, at the ſame time, in an hurrying manner, Boy, boy, you were born to be my plague, and are ſtill croſſing me, in every ſcheme I have. But perceiving that my tears fell faſter than his own, he cried, Prithee be quiet, child, and don't diſtreſs me any far⯑ther—Don't be angry, I don't mean what I ſay, to vex you, all I meant, was—But indeed, I don't know what to mean, or ſay, you have made ſuch a fool of me. We continued both ſilent, for ſeveral minutes, before we could ei⯑ther of us compoſe ourſelves ſufficiently, to ſpeak any farther, upon the ſubject.

We then entered into ſeveral expoſtulations, on both ſides, but upon finding me determined in my purpoſe, he at length, acquieſced in my propoſal, and aſked me upon what proviſion I had formed my oeconomy. Speak, ſaid he, and be it what it will, you ſhall have it, by G—. I declined this offer, ſaying, that it would not be becoming in me, to parcel out his bounty, nor to ſtipulate conditions, as if I was ſelling the eſtate, only thus far I might pretend to preſcribe, that I ſhould prefer a ſum of money to an an⯑nuity, [135] in order to have ſomething in my power, to leave, to friendſhip, or to charity.

Well then, my dear child, ſaid he, I gave your ſiſter three thouſand pounds, d'ye mind, and I will give you four, if that will content you. But, hearky me, cried the worthy ſoldier, at the ſame time, don't be mealy-mouthed about the matter, in the leaſt, for you ſhall have what you pleaſe, as I told you before. I ſaid 'twas ample, bowed, and thanked him.

The next morning, continued ſhe, he ſent for me into his chamber, and ſhewed me the draught of the preſent will he deſigned to per⯑fect, by which he had made the proviſion of four thouſand pounds, in my favour, and ſettled his eſtate on my couſin, but with a remainder over, to me, in caſe he ſhould not leave any heirs male behind him—For you deſerve it, ſaid he, if I had ten eſtates, by the Lord, you deſerve them all.

I expreſſed a proper ſenſe of gratitude, upon this occaſion, ſtaid with him till he could hobble about the houſe, received his bleſſing, and came off hither, to finiſh my ſtudies, ſaid ſhe, and to take upon me the profeſſion of holy orders, which I have already declared to you.

CHAP. CXXXVIII.

DUring the courſe of her ſtory, I was af⯑fected, and amazed. I dropped tears, at ſome parts of it, and would have praiſed her, in others, but that there appeared a nobleneſs, and a ſpirit, in her virtue, which ſeemed above it, and awed me into ſilence. I found myſelf in a ſituation, too difficult to be deſcribed. Your own ſentiment and delicacy, Gentlemen, ſaid he, muſt repreſent it to you. I could not ad⯑mire, without lamenting, nor commend her, without condemning myſelf.

However, there was one part of her diſcourſe, which had dwelt upon my mind ever ſince the firſt propoſition of it, and which I then laid hold of, to extricate my ſpeech. I was diſ⯑pleaſed at her purpoſe of going into orders. She was perfect enough, intrinſically, and needed not the cloak of ſanctity: and cleric pride, joined to female vanity, methought would be enough to demoliſh the pureſt ſaint, that ever was canonized. I therefore, took occaſion, from this ſubject, to open my mouth, and gave her the following opinion upon it.

[137]I told her, that there was ſomething very un⯑orthodox, in her ſcheme. Women are ordered to keep ſilence, in the churches, ſo that the buſineſs of catechiſing, preaching, or exhorting, can never become any part of their province. That were there even no offence, in the thing itſelf, yet the diſingenuouſneſs of the act, was unwor⯑thy of her. That the carrying on a deceit, at the foot of the altar, even with the beſt intent, was dangerous hypocriſy. Nor was ſuch a pious fraud at all neceſſary to her purpoſe, as we may dedicate our ſervices to Heaven, under any character, or in any profeſſion. And that the world is, at preſent, ſo conſtituted, that the pre⯑cept, or example, of one virtuous layman, would have more effect, than the preaching of ten parſons.

I added, that ſhould ſhe even be able to pre⯑ſerve the ſecret, during her life, her death at laſt, moſt certainly would reveal it. That the ſtory of pope Joan, was a diſgrace even to that reli⯑gion, that was before a diſgrace to itſelf; and that this diſcovery might ſupply ſmall wits and libertines, with matter of ſcoff, would bring a reflection upon her memory, and occaſion her body to be the object of public view. I will ſet thee as a gazing-ſtock. I will ſhew the nations thy nakedneſs, and the kingdoms thy ſhame. Nahum.

[138]She aſſured me that ſhe had never conſidered the matter in any of theſe lights, before. That knowing of no ſalique law, in ſcripture, to ex⯑clude women from the miniſtry^*, ſhe had pre⯑ſumed that nothing but negative cuſtom merely, which eſtabliſhes no law, ſtood againſt it. But that what I had juſt hinted to her, had ſtruck her in ſuch a way, as to make her ſuſpect, that ſhe had uſed ſomewhat of that kind of ingenious ſophiſtry with herſelf, which ſhe had already condemned, in her dear mother. But that at preſent, ſhe found both her ſcruples and deli⯑cacy ſufficiently alarmed, to reſolve on laying aſide her purpoſe. She then thanked me for my advice, and concluded her ſpeech by ſaying, that ſhe was pleaſed to owe me any thing.

I ſnatched her hand, with eagerneſs, crying out, ‘My charming ſaint, 'tis impoſſible that you ſhould ever be indebted to him whoſe life and fortunes you have already, ſo fully purchaſed. The pittance you have com⯑pounded for, with your grandfather, is too ſcanty a proviſion for you, for life—Take half my eſtate, in addition—I here moſt’— [139] Hold, Mr. Carewe, interrupted ſhe—Keep your fortune, but amend your life. This would be true generoſity to me, indeed; and this the only preſent, be aſſured, I ſhall ever accept of, from your hands.

However, ſaid ſhe, ſeeing me affected, and confounded, let us ſtill continue friends, for life. I find a perfect diſpoſition, in myſelf, to⯑ward this chaſte connection, and I ſhould hope that your heart, however libertine it may be, is not totally devoid of all Platonics, neither. Some company appeared in ſight, and came ſtrolling up to us juſt as ſhe had finiſhed this expreſſion, and ſhe retired home, immediately afterwards.

Yes, my cherub, ſaid I to myſelf, and gazing after her, my friendſhip, my admiration, my eſteem, can never poſſibly be raiſed higher, to⯑ward any mortal object. Then why, O nature! haſt thou ſuffered love to be a paſſion diſtinct from theſe! I would this moment, ſacrifice my life for thy ſervice, and yield my fortune in exchange for love. But 'twill not be—My fated hour is not yet arrived, and chance, not choice, muſt fix my deſtiny!

CHAP. CXXXIX.

THIS reflection of Mr. Carewe, is both na⯑tural and mortifying, at the ſame time. How muſt it hurt one's moral, not to be able to raiſe, or direct our paſſion, toward an object, whom reaſon, honour, virtue, and obligation, even with the addition of youth and beauty, may point out to us, as in this, and frequent other inſtances, has been the caſe?

And, on the other hand, how muſt it pique our pride, to be reduced to wear the chains of ſome idiot, of an harlot, or, what is infinitely worſe, a ſhrew, even with beauty and youth, but often, without either? of which I could quote you many examples.

A friend of mine, who, though a man of both ſenſe and ſpirit, had laboured for ſome years under this predicament, after many fruit⯑leſs ſtruggles to ſet himſelf free, compared him⯑ſelf, aptly enough, to a lion in heraldry, held faſt by the lower parts, and pawing to get looſe.

Diſtinct from that charming, and rational union of hearts and minds, which is the gene⯑ral ſympathy of the moſt perfect natures, there ariſes ſometimes, a certain extraordinary and [141] unaccountable fever in the blood, more a phrenzy, than a paſſion, and rather an inſtinct, than a ſentiment, which it is ſaid people are, at one time or another of their lives, afflicted with.

Moſt people are born with the ſeeds of this paſſion, as well as of the ſmall-pox, in their conſtitution, which ſooner or later, break out, as the blood, or humours of the body, happen to be apt, or fit, to nouriſh the diſtemper. Theſe two unavoidable incidents are ſo much alike, in ſeveral particulars, that I ſhall carry on the allu⯑ſion, the better to illuſtrate my ſubject.

One is a diſorder in the blood, and the other an impreſſion on the mind, from the firſt of which, no temperance, or art in phyſic, and from the latter, not the beſt ſenſe, or moſt exerciſed phi⯑loſophy, are able to defend us.

I ſtile this ſort of love, an impreſſion on the mind, to diſtinguiſh it from all ſentimental paſſion, or any principle in human nature—excluding all manner of deſire, admiration, or eſteem, in⯑ſpired by youth, beauty, or merit—As theſe may be fairly accounted for, from phyſical, or moral reaſons; and may conſequently, become effects, as often as theſe cauſes ſhall operate.

But the love I mean, is a mad enthuſiaſm of the ſoul, a ſingular caprice of the affections, that [142] ſometimes, makes us doat on what, at another time, we ſhould fear to look on. Tis a fancy, that paſſes beauty, ‘Alba liguſtra cadunt, vaccinia nigra leguntur;’ 'Tis a ſenſe which is enamoured of folly, a ſight that blinds us, a thraldom we rejoice in, a plague which we ſolicit—In fine, a faſcination, a criſis, or anomalous effect, which like the operations of witchcraft, proceeds unaccountably, without any apparent cauſe, deducible either from reaſon or nature.

We often eſcape both infections, where one might naturally, have apprehended the greateſt danger, and catch them, perhaps, at a time, when we may have the leaſt reaſon to imagine any probability of our being affected. We are [143] often ſtruck, at firſt ſight, and ſometimes, by the moſt unamiable objects—So that I have known perſons to catch one, as well as the other, from a ſhock.

When people fancy that they have been more than once, affected by this diſorder, it muſt be by miſtaking ſomething elſe for it, as the mea⯑zles often may impoſe itſelf upon the patient, for the ſmall-pox.

There is one lucky circumſtance then, in which they both agree—That we are never at⯑tacked by either, more than once in our lives— But, alas! how ſlight our triumph, when ef⯑fects ſometimes remain for life, almoſt as mi⯑ſerable, as the malady! ‘Such another victory, as a certain general ſaid, would undo me.’

In love, the ſtruggling for an heart, is like wreſtling for an egg; where though you gain the prize, you get it broken.

CHAP. CXL.

THIS term compleated my college courſe, and my guardian acquainted me, that he had entered my name in the Temple books. The night before I was to leave the univerſity, I gave a parting ſupper, to my ſelect friends, among whom I had principally invited my fair Stoic. But ſhe excuſed herſelf, by a billet, in which were only theſe words: Tender adieus are apt to leave impreſſions—'Tis eaſier to fly, than ſtrug⯑gle. Farewel.

Soon after I had gone to the Temple, I be⯑came of age, and ſettled accounts with my truſ⯑tees. The ballance in my favour, was but about five thouſand pounds, the reſt of my income having been expended upon my main⯑tenance and education, and the diſcharging of ſome incumbrances which had affected my eſtate.

As ſoon as I received this money, I was re⯑ſolved that he firſt act of my manhood, ſhould be a deed of juſtice, and honour. I therefore immediately laid cut four thouſand pounds, in the funds, and incloſed the debentures to my [145] generous friend, at Oxford, with only theſe words in the cover: ‘For Hermes Carewe.’

CHAP. CXLI.

I WAS now entered upon a more enlarged ſcene of life and action, had an unreſtrained dominion over my own fortune, and was not accountable, either for my diligence, or idle⯑neſs, to any one, but myſelf—the worſt of all maſters, let people boaſt of liberty as much as they pleaſe. My ſtudies were quite of a dif⯑ferent nature from any thing I had been uſed to read before. It was beginning ſchool again. I would recommend Coke upon Lyttleton to be always taught, immediately after grammar, while the memory is ſtrong, and before the mind may have imbibed the leaſt tincture of taſte, or po⯑lite erudition. For as the ſtudy of it is a work of labour, not of genius, it comes to great diſ⯑advantage after Virgil, Homer, Cicero, or Demoſthenes.

[146]However, I tugged away at this oar, for ſome time, till the world began to get hold of me. I had more preſumption than knowledge, and greater ſpirit than judgment; which naturally, led me into two fatal errors, at once. I ima⯑gined, that my underſtanding required no far⯑ther improvement; and that a thouſand pounds a year, needed no oeconomy. I was naturally full of fire—But, for want of fuel to maintain the flame, I ſpent myſelf in a blaze.

I ſet up an equipage, and kept a pack of hounds, about ten miles from London. I hired a genteel valet de chambre, out of livery. I em⯑ployed the moſt faſhionable taylor, and left the rates of every thing, to himſelf. I ſtruck myſelf out of commons, lived in taverns; and— rented private lodgings, near the Temple.

I learned more of life, at this ſchool of the world, in ſix months, than I had known at Oxford, in the five years that I was ſtationed there. For though we had treble the number of ſtudents, at the univerſity, yet they were not enough their own maſters, to exhibit that infinite variety of characters, with which mankind abound. If you ſee one Frenchman, one Spaniard, one Ita⯑lian, [147] you are furniſhed with ſpecimens of their ſeveral nations; but you may be acquainted with an hundred Engliſhmen, without knowing the Engliſh.

It would be an endleſs taſk to enumerate, or deſcribe all the various characters I met with in this microcoſm; ſome of which, indeed, exceeded to ſuch extravagance, that they might more pro⯑perly be ſtiled caracatura's, of mankind; while others were ſo very anomalous to human nature, that you would imagine I was deſcribing the te⯑nants of ſome other planet, inſtead of our own ſpecies.

This diverſity was more apparent among the Templars, than in any other ſet of men in Eng⯑land; becauſe they live more upon an equality together, and are leſs reſtrained by the deco⯑rums of mixed ſocieties, where different profeſ⯑ſions, different ranks, and different ſexes, join. So that Every man in his humour, may be juſtly ſtiled The Temple Comedy. To which may be ad⯑ded one very unhappy cauſe alſo, which is, that they are, in general, tied down by no cer⯑tain mode, or ſyſtem of religion, theirs being mere philoſophic deiſm, alone.

[148]And here, gentlemen, ſaid Mr. Carewe, as I have ſpent ſome years in this ſociety, I think proper to juſtify myſelf from certain ſuſpicions, which may poſſibly, have ariſen in your minds, upon this occaſion. And I will now give you a ſincere, and ingenuous confeſſion of my faith, with regard to this moſt dread, and intereſting article; and which I ſhall attempt to explain, upon the ſimple dictates of reaſon alone, without the diſcuſſing of myſterious ſyſtems, or venturing into the inextricable labyrinths of polemic di⯑vinity.

CHAP. CXLII. Mr. Carewe's Confeſſion of Faith.

IN the firſt place, I take it for granted, that whatever there may have been, in profeſſion and practice, there never was a real atheiſt, in belief. Some omnipotent, omniſcient monad, ſome cauſe of cauſes, light of light, there muſt have been, before all worlds, neceſſarily, inde⯑pendently, [149] and ſelf-exiſting, coeval with eter⯑nity.

In the next place, I believe, that this intelli⯑gence did, by ſome ſupernatural conviction, in⯑dependent on reaſon, or philoſophy, manifeſt, or reveal itſelf, to the firſt race of mankind. I draw my argument, from the number of erro⯑neous, abſurd, and unnatural ſyſtems of reli⯑gions, and beliefs, which have appeared in the world, from the moſt early ages of record.

For had religion its riſe from the pretence of legiſlators, or been the reſult of mere philoſophy, the ſcheme of it would have been contrived more conſonant to human reaſon, like that of the Turks, which is conſiſtent enough in its doctrines, though erroneous in its faith. But the pureſt revelation from heaven, handed down by tradition, and interpreted by prieſts, muſt neceſſarily have involved both our belief and worſhip, in all the impiety and blaſphemy, of the heathen rites, and pagan ſuperſtitions.

The greateſt philoſophers, with Socrates at their head, finding the world in ſo forlorn a ſtate, cried out to Heaven, for a new revelation, to diſpel the miſts of ignorance, and reduce our wanderings into the right line. It was reaſona⯑ble to hope for ſuch a guide, from the goodneſs and juſtice of our Creator; and from our know⯑ledge [150] and experience of the ways of Providence, I firmly believe, that whatever is beſt to do, it always does perform.

I think that the Chriſtian religion has at length ſupplied this great deſideratum, by conveying to us the moſt perfect moral, and the pureſt wor⯑ſhip, that ever yet was propoſed to man. If we remain ſtill in error, 'tis ſurely the ſafeſt one we can poſſibly fall into. For the proofs, both in⯑ternal, and external, are ſo conſiſtently framed, that the whole wit and philoſophy of mankind, cannot defend from the illuſion. We err with ſaints, we err with wiſdom, we err with virtue, we err with piety; we err with infidelity con⯑verted, and teſtifying its conviction through the martyrdom of death and tortures! Heaven muſt then, either reward our faith with glory, accept the will in atonement for the deed; or pardon with impunity that error, which itſelf hath ſuf⯑fered to be with ſo much plauſibility impoſed upon us.

I conſider then, a deiſt, who writes, or ar⯑gues, upon the religion of nature, alone, as he cannot poſſibly be an infidel to Chriſtianity, upon conviction, to be an immoral man, and a dan⯑gerous citizen of the world. We have, alas! too frequent, and ſad experience of the ſtrongeſt ſanctions of rewards and puniſhments, being [151] too weak for the luſts and paſſions of men; and whoever would attempt to ſet us ſtill more at liberty from the reſtraints of virtue, muſt probably, have conceived ſome miſtaken intereſt in the indulgences of their own vice, or in the tempting of others to the ſame fatal latitude.

In fine, without ever entering into a religious argument, upon the ſubject, we may venture to pronounce a profeſſed atheiſt, or deiſt, to be ei⯑ther fool, or knave; becauſe they but diſcourage the good, and ſet the bad more at liberty.

An atheiſt is certainly, the moſt credulous fool breathing. He believes, contrary to all philoſo⯑phy, that matter produced motion firſt, and that then, they both laid their heads together, and created intelligence.

We cannot conceive thought to be immaterial, ſay ſome philoſophers; but can they conceive matter to be intelligent? We are conſcious of our own ideas, therefore we have undoubtedly a conception, of ſomewhat, diſtinct from matter.

It is much more philoſophic to imagine, with Berkley, an univerſe of ſpirit, than with Hobbes, an univerſe of matter; for it is certainly, more rational to think, that ſpirit might create, or, ac⯑cording [152] to Berkley's metaphyſical refinement, impreſs the idea of matter, than to ſuppoſe, that mere matter could ever rouſe itſelf, to thought, or action.

CHAP. CXLIII.

I DID not think it proper or decent, to in⯑terrupt Mr. Carewe, while he was at con⯑feſſion; for though I ſometimes, pretend to be jocular, give me leave to aſſure the reader, that the greateſt heathen of Greece, or Rome, ne⯑ver had an higher reſpect for virtue, nor the dul⯑leſt parſon in a country cure, a more ſtedfaſt faith in the Chriſtian religion, than the perſon who here aſſumes the title of Biographer Tri⯑glyph.

This being premiſed, and finding that Mr. Ca⯑rewe does not chuſe to treat you with a deſcrip⯑tion of any of the characters he hints at, as it would lead him into ſome ſatyrical ſtrictures, which are, by no means, his turn of wit, I ſhall here entertain you with one ſtory, out of his budget, which is a moſt extraordinary, and cer⯑tain [153] matter of fact, already known to many of my London readers:

CHAP. CXLIV.

SOON after I had been ſettled at the Tem⯑ple, continued Mr. Carewe, I received a letter from the fair Divorcée, which had been returned to me from Oxford. It was in theſe words:

This hint rendered me uneaſy. She had be⯑trayed dangerous principles, and I was afraid of entering into any manner of connection with her. I did not care to have her name joined to mine, on my firſt ſetting out in the world. Men's characters are generally marked, though very unfairly, by their firſt ſteps in life. 'Tis hard to judge of perſons, at an age when their paſſions are ſtrongeſt, their diſcretion weakeſt, and their [159] experience leaſt. My firſt adventure with that lady, was naturally unavoidable. This would have been morally premeditative.

Upon this reflection, I immediately ſat down and drew a bill upon her huſband, for the half year's ſtipend; which received due honour by the return of the poſt. The next day, I went to the Royal Exchage, inquired for Mr. Seawell, and paid him the money, for his fair lodger; taking his receipt, in her name. I deſired him to deliver my compliments to the lady, and make an apology for my not waiting on her, at that time; as I was then going out of town, &c.

CHAP. CXLV.

THE firſt maſquerade that was exhibited in London, after my entrance at the Tem⯑ple, I prepared myſelf for, in the gayeſt, and moſt ſuperb manner I could deviſe. I dreſſed myſelf perfectly en Turc, and carried the folly to ſuch extravagance, that the expences of my ha⯑bit, and appurtenances, amounted to above an hundred pounds.

[160]The vanity of human nature is unaccounta⯑ble, in ſome things. What poſſible advantage or enjoyment, could I have purpoſed to myſelf, from ſo magnificent an appearance; unknowing others, and myſelf unknown? To ſpend mo⯑ney upon paſſions, or purſuits, is defenſible, but 'tis really, a ſort of ſuicide in oeconomy, to ſtab one's fortune, without having either pleaſure or profit in view.

The oddneſs and variety of the appearances, ſurpriſed and diverted me, for ſome time; but I ſoon grew tired of the farce; and felt myſelf offended at ſeeing human nature ſo deformed, and ſo diſguiſed. I had no rational amuſe⯑ment here, for I could neither enjoy ſociety, nor ſoliloquy. At one time, I compared myſelf to Adam, when he had collected together all the animals of the creation, to call them names. At another time, a more ſerious image occurred to me, of the laſt day, when all the various na⯑tions of the earth, ſhall be gathered into one groupe, for judgment.

Such reflections, with the intolerable warmth of the room, ſoon began to lower my ſpirits, and I retired frequently, to the ſide-boards, to recruit them. I happened to drink too freely there; and afterwards, ingaged too indiſcreetly at play, with a ſett of perſons whoſe characters [161] I was as little acquainted with, as with their maſks.

I had the misfortune to have won conſiderably at firſt, which excited my paſſion, and joined to the wine, threw me intirely off my guard. I puſhed away at every thing, accepted all manner of betts, without waiting to compute the odds, and loſt and won, by turns, without ever con⯑ſidering how the balance of accounts ſtood for, or againſt me; till upon the ſumming up of the reckoning, at the cloſe of the night, I found myſelf indebted to ſundry unknowns, to the amount of three thouſand, five hundred pounds.

I felt myſelf in a very aukward and diſtreſſed ſituation, at this period, as I had not above three hundred pounds about me, at that time. I took off my maſk, to let my creditors ſee that I was not afraid to ſhew my face, though at the ſame time, I acknowledged to them, that I was aſhamed to do it; that I was unuſed to play, and had ingaged myſelf, unawares, beyond my preſent means. I told them that I was a perſon of fortune, ſufficient to anſwer their demands, and offered to go with them to a tavern, and paſs ſecurities for their reſpective claims.

They refuſed me this indulgence, ſaid that play-debts were not recoverable at law, that it was probable a man who could, among perfect ſtran⯑gers, [162] accept of betts, beyond his purſe, might be likely to plead the ſtatute, when called upon for payment; that they were gentlemen, perſons of honour, would be treated as ſuch; and ſo forth.

While they were, one and all, bullying after this manner, they ſurrounded me, and ſeemed to make one common cauſe of it, as in truth, I believe they were an aſſociated gang; ſo that I had great reaſon to apprehend ſome harſh treat⯑ment, or unhappy event, from this fooliſh ad⯑venture; from which I was preparing to defend myſelf, after the beſt manner I could, and had juſt laid my hand to my ſcymetar, when a little man, in a domino, who had ſtood cloſe by my ſide, from the time I had entered into play, and had frequently warned me, unheeded, inter⯑poſed on my behalf, and addreſſing himſelf to the banditti, ſaid that he did not look upon the debt in ſuch a deſperate light as they ſeemed to do; that from my dreſs, my indiſcretion, and my ingenuouſneſs, it was reaſonable to ſuppoſe me to be a young man of modern faſhion. That, ac⯑cording to the gameſter's phraſe, he was ready to back his opinion with his money, and that, if they would but wait his return, for a few mi⯑nutes, he would bring caſh ſufficient to ſatisfy their demands.

[163]He retired immediately, took a chair, came ſoon back, with Eaſt-India bonds to the amount of my debts, and divided them among the ad⯑venturers, in proportion to their claims. I was affected with a proper ſenſe of gratitude, upon this occaſion, and invited the little Domino to a tavern, in order to paſs a ſecurity to him for his generous loan; but he excuſed himſelf, ſaying, that he was in reality, an uſurer, that a ſimple obligation would not anſwer his purpoſe, and he would wait upon me, the next morning, to breakfaſt, and there propoſe his terms. I thanked him, however, and gave him my addreſs—We then ſhook hands, and parted.

I was extremely happy, at having got ſo well rid of this unluky adventure, and quitted that groteſque aſſembly, with a full reſolution of never wearing a fool's coat there, again, during my life. Juſt as I was going out, I was accoſted by a female maſk, in a Grecian habit, and of an engaging figure, who addreſſed herſelf to me, in theſe words—I am in a difficult ſituation, Seignior, I have miſſed my company, in the crowd, I am afraid of venturing home alone, and beg leave to place myſelf under your Highneſs's protection, to convey me ſafe to my lodgings.

Yours, extempore, ſaid I, then taking her by the hand, put her into a chair, deſiring her to [164] lead the way, and followed her in another. When we ſtopped at her door, I bad her farewel, and directed my chair to the Temple; but ſhe inſiſted on my going in to drink a glaſs of wine, and receive the thanks of her friends, for my politeneſs and galantry toward her.

I bowed obeiſance, handed her into the houſe, ſhe led me into her own apartments, then ſhut⯑ting the door, let fall her maſk, and ſprang my fair Divorcée into my arms. —

CHAP. CXLVI.

THE reader, perhaps, may here inquire, how the Divorcée ſhould know Mr. Ca⯑rewe's name, and addreſs, or he himſelf happen to be informed of either of theſe particulars, re⯑lative to her huſband; as none of them appear to have been provided for, already. But it is more than probable, that the truſt-deed, between theſe parties, was drawn up by the attorney, [165] with all the uſual forms and requiſites; among which, the real names of the contractors, with their additions, and abodes, are always fully expreſſed.

I muſt confeſs, however, that my friend, Mr. Carewe, has rather too ſuccinct a manner of telling a ſtory—too little of the narrative, by a great deal. Witneſs the cloſe of the laſt chap⯑ter, with many other diſappointing inſtances, of the ſame kind, in various and ſundry places of his memoirs. He might, perhaps, have been pardonable for omitting thoſe minutiae, at firſt, becauſe he might not have immediately foreſeen that they would be neceſſary in the proſecution of his ſtory; but here he was certainly inexcuſa⯑ble to neglect it, and ſhould have interrupted himſelf, with a ‘But, Gentlemen, firſt it is neceſſary to inform you, that"—Or, "I had forgot to mention to ye, in the former part of my adventure with this ſame lady, how &c.’

I would give fifty guineas, with all my heart, that this ſame laconic Triumvirate had been bet⯑ter read, than they appear to be, in the modern novels and memoirs which are publiſhed here every day; and I would ingage to make cent. per cent. of my money, by it, too. For there is certainly, matter ſufficient, in their ſtories, to [166] have furniſhed out a third volume to this work, had they been properly ſkilled in the manner, ſtile, and conduct, of ſuch performances. But ſo far from ſupplying me with any helps of this kind, I really think that I ſhould hardly have ſqueezed out more than a ſingle volume, from among this coſtive Trio, if I had not eked out a ſecond, by the addreſs of introducing myſelf ſo often, no matter how impertinently, into the ſcene, and choruſſing it away, chapter after chap⯑ter, in the manner I am holding forth at pre⯑ſent.

I agree with Mr. Carewe, intirely, that maſquerades can never anſwer any fair purpoſe, in England. It might have been a good contri⯑vance enough, in Italy, where they were firſt contrived, becauſe the only freedom that nation enjoys, is under a vizard. But, to adopt ſuch a ſcreen in theſe kingdoms, was really ſuperfluous, And the preſent age ſeems to be ſenſible of this abſurdity, at laſt; for maſquerades have been abo⯑liſhed of late, ſince liberty has become ſo very bare-faced, as it appears to be in theſe days.

You ſee here, another mere caſual adventure, of poor Mr. Carewe's. He had taken all pru⯑dent means, and virtuous reſolutions, imagina⯑ble, againſt renewing any manner of commerce with this very dangerous woman—But, he hap⯑pened to take off his maſk, at play, and ſhe im⯑mediately [167] lays violent hands upon him. Now what ſecurity, in this wicked world, for male chaſtity! For if men ſhould ever become coy, women will moſt certainly, ply ſtratagem againſt them.

CHAP. CXLVII.

THE next morning, ſaid Mr. Carewe, I roſe early, my double obligations to my little Domino, both of equity and honour, ren⯑dered me uneaſy. The fair Divorcée preſſed me to be frequent in my viſits, I promiſed, her maid lent me a riding-hood to conceal my Grand Seigniorſhip, and led me out through a back door, into a private alley. I ſoon met a chair, and re⯑turned pleaſed, and diſſatisfied; reſolving, and irreſolute; home to my chambers in the Temple.

After breakfaſt, my friend Domino called upon me, and brought a bond, ready filled up, for the money exactly, which he had advanced for me the night before. I thought it prudent in him not to add the fee of uſury, in the obligation, but after I had ſigned the deed, [168] I threw my purſe upon the table, and deſired him to pay himſelf whatever gratuity he pleaſed, out of it.

But he declined my offer, ſaying, that the expreſſion he had thrown out, the night before, was merely made uſe of to conceal himſelf the better—That he never had dealt in uſury or extortion; but being caſhier to a company of merchants in the city, he uſually attended, in⯑cog. at public places of play, in order to pick up ſecurities for money which he could venture to make free with; and which it might be im⯑prudent in him to hazard in trade, or lend out in the offices of notaries, leſt it ſhould take wind among the company.

Then putting the bond into his pocket, and riſing up from his ſeat, I hope, Sir, ſaid he, that this tranſaction, inſtead of a debt, may be⯑come a purchaſe to you. A proper reflection upon this marked occaſion, may turn your loſs to gain. The entering into play, in your cir⯑cumſtances of fortune, ſufficient, but not a⯑bounding, is, give me leave to ſay, unpardon⯑ble indiſcretion. 'Tis riſquing what you want, for what you do not need. 'Tis Aeſop's fable exactly, hazarding the ſubſtance, to graſp the ſhadow.

[169]You ſeem, Sir, continued he, to be a young man, juſt entering into life, of a liberal, and in⯑genuous nature, and a few more admonitions, from experience, may, and I hope will, be both uſeful and neceſſary to you. Always leave your purſe at home, never carrying more money about you, than the probable expences of the day; for you'll find more borrowers than lenders, in this world, believe me. As you ſhould con⯑ceal your vices, out of decency, ſo ſhould you even your very virtues, out of prudence; other⯑wiſe, the leaſt worthy objects, being the moſt forward, will be apt to throw themſelves in your way, preventing modeſt merit. Seek occaſion, rather than ſuffer it to ſeek you; and let your liberality be the reſult of virtue, not of weakneſs. This ſaid, he bowed, and retired.

He was a mean-looking, middle-aged man, and mechanically dreſſed, which made his re⯑fuſing the praemium, with the officious friend⯑ſhip which he teſtified toward me upon this occaſion, ſeem the more unaccountable, and extraordinary. In fine, his words and actions were ſo much above his appearances, that I could only reconcile them in my mind, by ſetting the whole of this matter down to the account of character, with which, as I obſerved before, our nation ſo peculiarly abounds.

[170]His exhortation had this good effect upon me, that I immediately put down my equipage, and diſpoſed of my hounds and hunters in the country.

CHAP. CXLVIII.

I HAD promiſed the Divorcée to ſee her again, and accordingly paid her a viſit in a few days after, with a purpoſe though, of with⯑drawing myſelf from any manner of future en⯑gagement with her, but without that abruptneſs which would have been inconſiſtent with the decorums of galantry. It was in the evening, I found her at home, and Mrs. Seawell, at whoſe houſe ſhe lodged, at tea with her.

Mrs. Seawell was about twenty years old, and had been two years married. Her huſband had been a widower, and appeared to me, when I ſaw him on the Exchange, to be above ſixty. She was of a middle ſtature, fair and plump; ſhe had bright dark cheſnut-coloured hair, and very white teeth^*; but what was extremely [171] remarkable, they were naturally brilliant cut, ſo that when ſhe ſpoke, or ſmiled, the glittering ſpangles would catch the eye, and rivet your attention, like the baſiliſk.

Her other features were nothing extraordinary, except her eyes, which were a dark blue, with more of languiſhment than ſpirit in them; but ſhe had a certain riantcy about the lower part of her face, which was extremely captivating. In fine, the contraſted air of her features, might well be compared to a tragi-comedy, there was ſuch a mixture of mirth and melancholy in them.

She did not appear to have much underſtand⯑ing, but whenever I ſpoke, ſhe ſeemed to ſhew an attention that was flattering; and when I hap⯑pened occaſionally, to throw out any little com⯑pliment of galantry toward her, it would in⯑ſtantly diffuſe ſuch an air of aukward fondneſs, o'er all her countenance, as was at once ex⯑preſſive, both of paſſion, and compliance.

We three played parties of picquette, and ſup⯑ped together. It was poſt-night, and Mr. Sea⯑well did not quit his office, while I ſtaid. Nor indeed, did either of the ladies ſend any very preſſing meſſages to invite him up ſtairs. I di⯑vided my addreſſes as equally as I could, between them, felt my ſituation difficult and diſtreſſing, [172] promiſed that my viſits ſhould be frequent, and retired home to the Temple—No—It was to my private lodgings near it—Chanting out Mac⯑heath's ſong to myſelf, all the way.

CHAP. CXLIX.

THE next day, ſome young Templars dined with me, we went in the evening, to the play, picked up more company there, and went all together, to ſupper at a tavern. Here, gen⯑tlemen, ſaid Mr. Carewe, I bluſh to own, that I was a ſecond time, led into deep play; though without deſigning, or deſiring it. But reſolution was never among my heroics; and I have ever been the ſlave of my company. One is too apt to be aſhamed of diſſenting from their fellows, and falſe modeſty is a pimp to vice. I loſt at firſt, and puſhing away to retrieve myſelf, was finally involved for four thouſand pounds—Pur⯑chaſing anxiety at the rate of a thouſand pounds an hour.

I could not ſleep all night; I felt ſhocked at my own madneſs; I recollected my good friend Domino's advice, too late, and eked it out [173] with more ſevere reflections of my own. Gaming is a vice, not a paſſion. Paſſions have bounds, vices none—It ſhould not be called a love, but a luſt of play—'Tis not natural, but accidental, to mankind. What Addiſon ſays of ſwearing, may be here applied; that no one can plead the being born of a gaming conſtitution. Ambition is con⯑nate; 'tis emulation; it both excites, and exer⯑ciſes noble and generous faculties; it has, or may have, ſome great and liberal end in view. Play is merely ſelfiſh; and confines the ſoul to mean and ſordid objects. No man ever yet ventured his fortune on the die, with a purpoſe of relieving the poor, aſſiſting the diſtreſſed, or reſcuing an oppreſſed people, with his ſucceſs. A gameſter comprehends the character, both of fool and knave; for he ſets out a dupe, and re⯑turns a ſharper. But what ſignify all ſuch re⯑flections! the world will never be the better for them—For 'tis not ſober counſel, but ſad experience, that will ever make men wiſe!

CHAP. CL.

THE next morning, I began to meditate upon methods of diſcharging this moſt irkſome incumbrance, and recollecting that I had ſome valuable woods on my eſtate, I wrote directly to my agent, to get them valued, and then come up to London. He did as I had directed, and told me the purchaſe was com⯑puted at about five thouſand pounds; upon which I deſired him to publiſh the ſale in the papers; comforting myſelf after my too careleſs manner, that thoſe trees, which had been before, but neſts for ravens, were likely now, to become habitations for men.

Soon after the advertiſement had appeared in print, I received a viſit from my extraordinary friend, the little Domino, who, after ſome ſhort intercourſe of civility, aſked me what ſudden emergency had preſſed upon me, ſince our part⯑ing, to ſacrifice the honours, as he expreſſed him⯑ſelf, of my eſtate? Has any public calamity fal⯑len upon the times? Is ſome dear friend, or fond connection, languiſhing at preſent, in a gaol? Or—I was piqued at his ſarcaſm, and interrupted him peeviſhly, with ſaying, that of⯑ten [175] the heavieſt circumſtance of being in debt, was the rendering oneſelf liable to the overbear⯑ing inſolence of purſe-proud creditors; that I was not accountable to any perſon whatſoever, for the exerciſe of a dominion over my own eſtate, &c.

The Domino collected himſelf, upon this rebuke, and made an apology for the freedom he had uſed, by aſſuring me that he came to wait upon me, merely as a friend, and was pre⯑pared to advance whatever ſum I might need, upon the preſent occaſion, in order to ſpare my woods, which he told me he was informed would not be in a condition to fell with advan⯑tage, for ſeveral years to come.

I felt myſelf aſhamed at the folly and extra⯑vagance which had humbled me to ſuch morti⯑fying circumſtances; my reſentment imme⯑diately ſubſided, I thanked him for his friendly offer, accepted it, paſſed my bond to him for four thouſand pounds, and ran to diſcharge my notes of honour, on the inſtant.

CHAP. CLI.

WHEN I had compoſed myſelf a little after this diſagreeable adventure, I went to amuſe myſelf, one morning to Leadenhall-ſtreet. I found the two ladies ſitting together, and Mrs. Seawell attempting to read a French book into Engliſh, for the entertainment of her friend, who did not underſtand a word of the language.

She ſtopped, on my coming in, but I begged ſhe would proceed for a page or two, that I might be able to judge how far ſhe was a miſ⯑treſs of French. She read on a little farther, but finding her to be a mere dictionary ſcholar, like moſt of our modern tranſlators, I took the book out of her hand, and conſtrued a few pages with an eaſe and fluency which pleaſed them both.

It was Le Sopha; and coming to that paſſage, where the writer, ſpeaking of the proneneſs to intrigue, in women, imputes it principally, à le de ſaeuvremnt perpétuel dans lequel elles languiſſent, I ſhut the book, crying out in a tranſport, Deus no⯑bis haec otia fecit! and putting it into my pocket, aſked the ladies to take the air with me a little [177] way out of town, promiſing that I would finiſh the remainder of the novel for them, in the coach. They accepted the invitation, and we drove off to Ranelagh together.

The day was fine, and after we had walked a turn or two, in the gardens, we ſat ourſelves down in an arbour, and the ladies claimed my promiſe of reading the Sopha to them. To which I replied, that I would firſt give Mrs. Sea⯑well ſome inſtructions in French, as ſhe ſeemed to need only a few leſſons in the auxiliaries, to become a compleat ſcholar. The dear pupil appeared pleaſed at my propoſal, the other lady oppoſed it, but being out-voted, was obliged to ſit dully, and impatiently by.

I then began pedantically enough, with the verb avoir, and went very ſeriouſly, through the indicative and imperative moods; but when I came to the optative, potential, and ſubjunctive parts of the conjugation, the very titles hinted an applicable ſubject to me; ſo digreſſing from old grammar, I laid hold of this opportunity, of telling her in French, that the difficulty of ſepa⯑rating her from her companion, had reduced me to this ruſe d'amour, to frame an occaſion of de⯑claring the pureſt, and warmeſt paſſion for her, that I had been ſtruck at firſt ſight, and this ſo ſtrongly too, that ages could neither increaſe nor [178] diminiſh my flame—That—But here perceiving her countenance falling into ſome confuſion, I quick ſhifted my diſcourſe to ſome of the tenſes of the verb, and then ſpeaking to her in Engliſh, deſired her to repeat any ſpeech, pſalm, or prayer, ſhe had by heart, in French, in order to try her pronunciation.

She then ſpoke a ſtanza or two of Une Chanſon à boire; and having by that time, recovered her⯑ſelf a little, concluded it by thanking me for the compliment I had paid her, and aſſuring me, in a ſort of heſitating voice, and embarraſſed man⯑ner, that while I ſhould preſerve the decorums of Platonics, which was all her preſent circumſtances could admit of, ſhe would return my paſſion with the warmeſt friendſhip and eſteem.

All this ſhe ſpoke in a broken and interrupted manner, as if ſhe was only trying to recollect the remainder of her ſong; then ſpeaking in Engliſh, ſaid, with an arch ſmile, that this was enough for the firſt leſſon, and turning to her friend, cried, Indeed, my dear, you miſs a vaſt pleaſure, in not underſtanding French. During all this while, the diſcontented lady ſat by, throwing out, every now and then, ſuch inter⯑jections as theſe: Vaſtly entertaining! perfectly polite! Some folks are rude to ſhew their breed⯑ing! Is this the beau monde! This what they [179] call the bon ton! What! the gay, the inge⯑nious Mr. Carewe turned ſchool-maſter, to teach parrots to ſpeak! &c.

CHAP. CLII.

AFTER this manner, and in walking, we amuſed the time, till Mrs. Seawell, look⯑ing at her watch, told us it was juſt three o'clock, and full time to ſet out toward London. I was ſent off, to order the coach to the door, and returning ſoon back led the ladies into a little parlour, where a ſmall, but elegant colla⯑tion had been prepared, by my private direc⯑tions on our firſt coming into the houſe.

I immediately ſeated myſelf at the table, in⯑treating the favour of my fair gueſts to take their places on each ſide of me, which the Divorcée readily conſented to, and placed her⯑ſelf directly on my right hand; but Mrs. Sea⯑well heſitated a little, leſt her huſband might be diſpleaſed at her ſtaying abroad, without notice. The other laughed at her ſcruples, ſaying, My dear friend, 'tis good policy ſometimes, to act a little irregularly, in innocent and indif⯑ferent [180] matters, ſo ſhall you be at liberty in things of higher moment. Practiſe ſwimming, my girl, within your depth, and it may ſave you at a plunge. She ſmiled, and bluſhed. She ſeemed in the moſt delicate temper imaginable—at once both willing, and afraid. I aroſe, took her by the warm, trembling hand, preſſed it tenderly, and ſeated her at the table.

We were each of us extremely lively, drank briſkly, exhauſted all the modern wit of ſentimen⯑tal toaſting, and our whole converſation was ſupported with ſpirit and galantry. The Di⯑vorcée ſpoke her opinions pretty freely, upon this latter ſubject; and while ſhe meant only to juſtify her own amour, ſhe was, without per⯑ceiving, or intending it, aſſiſting mine.

When we had got into the coach, to return to London, I propoſed to my pretty pupil, that we ſhould converſe in French together, for a while, upon any common topic, juſt to try how far ſhe had profited of my leſſons, in the morning. The other lady, who in truth preferred plain Engliſh, objected, but was, as before, over-ruled in the queſtion, which left us again at our liberty.

I took advantage of this ſecond favourable criſis, to urge my now increaſing paſſion, with the united warmth of youth and wine; to which ſhe anſwered, in a tender accent, that if ſhe had [181] never done ſo before, ſhe did, at that inſtant, moſt cordially wiſh, that ſhe had never been yet married. To this objection I quick replied, that hearts were made before vows, and that nature was prior to obligation; adding, that if ſhe would make herſelf perfect miſtreſs of the language we were then converſing in, ſhe muſt intirely ac⯑commodate herſelf to the manners of that nation, who are our inſtructors in it.

To give you an example, now, continued I, all the difference that the polite French make, between matrimony, and intrigue, is, that they term the firſt menage, and the latter manege—The tranſpoſition of a ſingle letter only—So that the ſtricteſt moraliſt can make but a literal error of it, at moſt. To youth, and paſſion, mel⯑lowed by champaigne, any ſophiſtry is good logic^*. I kiſſed her at parting, and in return, ſhe preſſed my hand. I lay at my private lodg⯑ings that night, and the next morning diſ⯑charged them.

CHAP. CLIII.

WHAT Mr. Carewe ſays, of the Divor⯑cée's helping forward his intrigue, with Mrs. Seawell, puts me in mind of a note of the Greek ſcholiaſt, upon Menander's Fall of Woman. It is quoted, in Latin, by one of the commen⯑tators upon Ovid, De arte amandi; and my tranſlation muſt be from this latter, having ne⯑ver ſeen the original.

‘To employ one woman, to inveigle another, is like ſetting a knave to catch a knave. A fe⯑male confidante, or companion, will contri⯑bute more to the ſucceſs of an amour, in one month, than the galant's own aſſiduity, for twelve. Conſider the times and ſeaſons, they are together; with the power of example, ad⯑ded to precept. Another's courage inſpires one's own^*.’

[183]Here follows an anatomical diſſertation on the body female; with a phyſical account of the ef⯑fects of paſſion upon the noble parts, the head, the heart, the &c. and the whole is concluded with this quaint expreſſion—‘In ſhort, ſays he, women undo one another, like cockles.’

This image is really ridiculous enough, but 'tis in the ſtrong manner of the antient ſimile; and I have never been able to ſee the hinges of two cockles, turned againſt each other, ſince, and niggling themſelves open, without thinking of the old ſcholiaſt on Menander, or The Fall of Woman.

CHAP. CLIV.

WE three had frequent parties together in London, at the play, the tavern, and the china-ſhops, where I laid out a good deal of money, in preſents, to both of the ladies; for I thought it neceſſary to ſhew ſome more certain tokens of fondneſs and galantry to my lovely [184] Seawell, than mere profeſſions, and careſſes^*. And to have neglected the ſame compliment to the other lady, might have raiſed both a jealouſy and a ſuſpicion, and would not have been either prudent or polite.

However, all my caution did not avail me long; for my attentions, my languiſhments, on one ſide, with ſome unpardonable neglects and omiſſions, on the other, ſoon viſibly marked the preference. The forſaken fair had betrayed a good deal of uneaſineſs and pique, at this, once or twice before; but one night, after ſup⯑per, at a tavern, when my pupil and I were ex⯑changing a few bons mots, in French, ſhe ſtarted up from the table, expreſſing her reſentment, in theſe words:

Though I do not underſtand your tongues, ſaid ſhe, I do your eyes. I have long ſuſpected it; but being ſlow to cenſure—or perhaps, to think ſo meanly of my own age, or perſon, as to imagine they could, for many years yet to come, be uſed to cloak another's amour, I have — But I am treſpaſſing on your pa⯑tience, [185] or rather impatience, I dare ſwear— Waiter, call me a chair—I ſhall leave you to⯑gether, incontinently, ‘here to conſummate your unfiniſhed loves.’ A chair—a chair—below there—

She was an alarming figure all together. Her eyes flaſhed fire, her cheeks fluſhed blood, her whole frame was convulſed; and her charms became, at the ſame inſtant, both heightened and deformed. Enraged beauty ſtrikes us with a peculiar kind of ſhock. It raiſes a contraſted ſenſation in our breaſts, both of love, and aver⯑ſion. We are affected, at once, with horror and compaſſion.

I attempted all in my power, to ſoothe her rage—Denied the charge, and in my hurry and confuſion, vowed that ſhe, and ſhe alone, was the true object of my real paſſion—That— But before I could frame, or add another ſylla⯑ble, my ear was aſſaulted by a dying moan, and turning my eye quick about, I perceived the fainting Seawell falling from her chair. I fled to her aſſiſtance, caught her in my arms, called her my life, my love—In plain Engliſh—having quite forgot my French, in this moment of diſ⯑traction. I leaned her back, ſprinkled water in her face, and kiſſed it dry again, till ſhe reco⯑vered.

[186]All this while the enraged Roxana went on ex⯑claiming againſt my diſingenuouſneſs and per⯑fidy, and ringing the bell, for a chair. I or⯑dered a ſecond to be called; ſhe flung herſelf into one, I placed my poor trembling pupil in the other, and ran along by the ſide of it, vow⯑ing, profeſſing, and ſtammering, all the way, till we got near her houſe; then ſlunk off, for fear of being eſpied by the jealous termagant, and returned home to the Temple, in the utmoſt perplexity and confuſion.

CHAP. CLV.

I Could not compoſe my ſpirits ſufficiently, that night, to lie down in my bed, and ſat up till day-break, muſing o'er the taper. My reflections ran thus: I was apprehenſive leſt the violence of the diſappointed Divorcée, might tranſport her to expoſe the fair victim to her huſ⯑band. I was reſolved to vindicate her actual in⯑nocence, and to ſupport her through the conſe⯑quences of our mutual indiſcretion, ſo far as it had already proceeded; and was ſo affected with [187] the dangerous ſituation to which my libertiniſm had reduced her, that I reſolutely determined never more to re-viſit Leadenhall-ſtreet again; and compounded for the loſs of a fond miſtreſs, by the getting rid of a jealous virago.

Having thus far qualified the difficulty and uneaſineſs of my mind, I began to turn my thoughts inward on myſelf—What a life is mine! without purpoſe, or end!

Youth flies, and fortune waſtes! In what a ven⯑ture am I ingaged, and what a ſhipwreck muſt he endanger, whoſe gale is paſſion, whoſe pilot inexperience, and whoſe port is no where!

Then, upon comparing my Temple, with my college life—That, letters, love, and oeconomy —This, diſſipation, debauchery, and extrava⯑gance—I ſtarted from my chair, crying out, Where is ſhe, my lovely academic, now? my virtuous miſtreſs, my diſintereſted friend, my ſociety alone! O! why not ſum up all theſe dear appellations, in one ſtill more dear, and [188] comprehenſive term, my wife! And ſhe ſhall be mine, if love, approbation, and ſelection, can intitle me to her; or that the confeſſing my⯑ſelf the baſe Indian, now repentant, may win her from her delicacy and ſcruples. But is ſhe not already ſo? Our ſouls are one, and our bo⯑dies have been each other's.

With theſe reflections, and with this reſolve, I laid me down to reſt, and awakened with the ſame. For ſleep, by compoſing my ſpirits, and calming my reaſon, had but the more firmly determined my purpoſe. I perceived the vanity of life, the clearer, where nothing ſtable is, but love and virtue; which when conjoined, ſtake this world as an earneſt of the next.

CHAP. CLVI.

MY ſentiments, with regard to the charming Eloiſa, were not, at firſt, ſolely the de⯑ductions of reaſon, but rather the inſpirations of paſſion. This will ſurpriſe you, perhaps. I had parted from her, with tolerable eaſe to my⯑ſelf, becauſe I had the ſatisfaction to have no manner of apprehenſions ſubſiſting upon her own account. I had left her ſafe, both in for⯑tune and in virtue. So far had I acquitted my⯑ſelf, to the calls of honour, and the claims of juſtice; and on my own part, I had youth, fro⯑lic, and adventure, before me, to keep up my ſpirits, on the parting.

But, I had never paſſed a day, ſince our laſt adieu, without wiſhing for her ſociety; nor a night, without longing for her fellowſhip. Wo⯑men and wine had loſt their flavour; company became inſipid, books dry, and amour wanted zeſt. In fine, ſhe was my health, which I had inſenſibly enjoyed, in the poſſeſſion, and only lamented, in the loſs.

My laſt night's ſhock had, like a burning-glaſs, collected all theſe ſcattered rays of love and vir⯑tue together, in an inſtant, and their vis unita [190] force was irreſiſtible. My reſolves are ſudden, and my action quick. I took poſt-horſes imme⯑diately, and drove down to Oxford.

My inquiry about her, there, was fruitleſs. I was informed, that he had lived intirely ſequeſ⯑tered, from the time I quitted college, appear⯑ing only at the public lectures, and the public ſervice; and that as ſoon as he had taken his de⯑gree, he had ſtruck his name out of the books, and retired, whither unknown, without having taken leave of any body.

I lay that night in the town, and was pre⯑paring to purſue my dear fugitive further, the next morning, when ſome ſelect friends of mine, who had become fellows of the univerſity, and had been informed of my arrival, came to the inn, and arreſted my courſe. We loved one another, we walked together o'er the claſſic ground; particularly the park, where my dear chum had related to me all her tranſactions with her grandfather; and O! where the action with Ap Shones had happened, which was the prologue to my happineſs.

We ſpent the day together, often ſpeaking of our pretty collegiate, as they called her, and at ſeve⯑ral times I was in danger of expoſing the ſecret, by the tranſports that I found it difficult to reſtrain, upon the mention of her name. I loitered at [191] old Alma's for a week, purpoſing every morning to depart. My ſtronger affections urged me to go, but my more immediate ones induced me to ſtay. Such is the nature of man!^*

CHAP. CLVII.

FROM Oxford I proceeded to our former ſojourn, for the double pleaſure of em⯑bracing my little Hermes, and hearing, proba⯑bly, ſome account of his dear mother. But in both was I diſappointed. My old landlady in⯑formed me that about a month before, a very pretty young gentleman, who called himſelf my wife's brother, and was as like her as a twin, had come to his houſe, brought a maid-ſervant in the chair with him, and carried away the child, who had been long weaned, and was a fine healthy, lovely boy.

[192]This additional circumſtance ſunk my ſpirits to the loweſt ebb. I felt a double loſs at once, a wife, and ſon—And in the latter, was deprived alſo, of the only clue I had to trace the mother by. I was now arrived at the ne plus ultra of my purſuit; for I neither knew her grandfather's name, or abode. She had never mentioned him to me, by any other title than the Old Colonel, or Grandſire.

Nor indeed, had I ever aſked her any thing about the matter myſelf, becauſe, from the auk⯑ward circumſtance of my own family affair, I did not chuſe to be communicative in the like particular, myſelf. Nay, the ſame reſerve I have ſtill continued to preſerve, even toward you, gentlemen, ſaid he to Mr. Andrews and Beville, for Carewe is not my real name, but only one that I have aſſumed to myſelf becauſe I did not care to uſe my own, while my father and I re⯑main upon ſuch unhappy terms.

Thus was I blown out to ſea, again—But though I loſt my haven, I was reſolved to take what care I could of the cargo; and for one in⯑ſtance of it, I immediately wrote a letter to the gentleman with whom I happened to have the adventure at this houſe, deſiring him to make his remittances of alimony through the hands of Mr. Seawell, for the future; telling him that [193] I found it very inconvenient to act any longer as agent in that buſineſs.

I did not, however, reſign the office of truſtee at the ſame time—The moſt worthleſs perſon, the greateſt criminal, has a right to juſtice from us, though not to favour; and a breach of con⯑fidence is ſomething more than an offence againſt morals.

CHAP. CLVIII.

I FELT myſelf in the world alone. I had now no point of view to guide my perſpective, no referable object to direct my actions toward. The mind is active, and like a conjured demon, will raſe, or build a church, according to the ſpell that raiſed it: ‘Tam ficti pravique tenax, quam nuntia veri.’ I returned back, forlorn, to London, to folly, intemperance, and to ſingle joys. However, I ſhut myſelf up in my chambers, at firſt, and ſtudied law with great application, in order to [194] keep my attention from wandering upon outward objects, and to attach it to ſome rational pur⯑ſuit in life.

About a fortnight after I had thus ſequeſtered myſelf from the world, I received the followed billet, one morning:

This note alarmed me. I concluded that ſome aukward piece of buſineſs muſt have fallen out, from the jealous reſentment of the Divorcée. But whatever it might be, I was reſolved to bear myſelf through it, like a man; ſo putting on my ſword, I took coach, and drove off directly to the rendezvous appointed.

When I arrived at the houſe, I was led into the parlour, where I found Mr. and Mrs. Sea⯑well together, and alone. He was walking in a diſturbed manner, about the room, while ſhe ſat weeping in the window. Juſt as I gueſſed, ſaid I to myſelf, Mr. Seawell received me with [195] a formal and embarraſſed air, and his wife, wiping her eyes, roſe quickly from her ſeat, and running toward me, cried out, Oh! Sir—our poor unhappy friend is loſt, ruined, and undone.

I was ſhocked greatly, at this ſtate of the caſe, but began ſoon to grow eaſier in my mind, than I had felt myſelf on my entrance, and de⯑ſiring to be informed of the nature and circum⯑ſtances of that unfortunate lady's difficulties, Mr. Seawell gave me the following account:

CHAP. CLIX.

A Young merchant Jew, juſt entered on the 'Change, having had frequent buſineſs to tranſact at my counter, was often invited to my table, where this lady was always one of the company. She threw out her lure, and incou⯑raged his addreſſes, extempore. This was ob⯑vious enough on the firſt interview; but as there may be flirts, who would not be ſtrumpets, I ſuffered the amour to be carried on before my face, for about a fortnight; till her behaviour at laſt, her affecting always to ſit by him, her lay⯑ing hold of his hand to fix him in diſcourſe, her fond inclinings, her gloting eyes, &c. began to [196] give me ſuch offence, and alarm too, on ac⯑count of the example before my wife, that I marked it to both the lovers, the laſt night they ſupped together here; and forbore aſking him farther than my counting-office, for the future, whenever his buſineſs gave him pretence to call upon me.

This difficulty embarraſſed the inamorato's a good deal, and reduced them to the neceſſity of making appointments elſewhere. They met in the park, at the play, and other places, which are not material to the ſtory, therefore I ſhall now paſs on to the preſent criſis of this bu⯑ſineſs.

This morning ſhe was arreſted at my houſe, upon an information for having ſtolen a diamond ring, value five hundred pounds, from the Jew. She immediately threw herſelf at my feet, con⯑tinued Mr. Seawell, ſupplicating me not to ſuffer her to be hurried away to a gaol, before ſhe had an opportunity of ſpeaking a word or two with the merchant, whom ſhe intreated me to go for, in perſon, and bring to her, on the inſtant. My wife joined in the requeſt, I prevailed on the bailiffs to wait my return, and immediately re⯑paired to the Jew's lodgings.

He told me the whole courſe of the intrigue, ever ſince the laſt evening they had paſſed toge⯑ther [197] at my houſe, till two nights paſt, when ſhe was prevailed upon to ſup with him at his own lodgings. Here, ſaid he, I happened to amuſe her by ſhewing a parcel of valuable jewels, which had been conſigned to me by a correſpondent at Venice, and were that evening juſt come to hand.

Yeſterday morning, ſaid he, I miſſed the ring in queſtion, and wrote her a civil line, to know whether ſhe had taken it way, either in miſtake, or jeſt, to alarm me? To which ſhe replied, that ſhe knew nothing at all of the matter, had not even diſtinguiſhed the ring from the reſt of the jewels, and laſtly, that I was welcome to her affidavit, if I ſhould be mean and ungene⯑rous enough, to charge her ſtill with ſo baſe a fraud.

Her anſwer confounded me, continued he. I could no longer ſuſpect her, after this laſt para⯑graph—though ſhe is a Chriſtian—Such was the Jew's expreſſion. I then looked all through my bureau again, ſearched my rooms and my pockets, above twenty times; but in vain. By this time, ſaid he, the day was far ſpent, ſo that it was late before I could go about the city, to give notice at all the jewellers ſhops; but had the mortification to find that my warning came too late, for that the ring had been diſpoſed of [198] at one of them, early in the morning, by an ordinary woman, who appeared to be a ſervant-maid.

Upon this I began to challenge the purchaſer, for having ventured to buy ſuch a commodity, in ſo clandeſtine a manner; but he ſtopped me ſhort, by acquainting me that, in this particular, he had conducted himſelf with ſufficient mercan⯑tile caution; for, upon ſuſpecting the perſons who had offered the ring to ſale, he had threat⯑ened to detain her till ſhe ſhould be able to give him a ſatisfactory account, both of herſelf and the jewel.

Upon this, ſaid he, ſhe led me to one Mr. Seawell's houſe, in Leadenhall-ſtreet, where a lady, of a very reſponſible appearance, who, it ſeems, lodges there, vouched the property to be her own. Upon which I returned with the wench, back again to my ſhop, and paid her, before witneſſes, what I hope may be deemed pretty near the value of the ring.

After this, continued the Jew, I thought I had no other meaſure to keep, but that of juſ⯑tice. I immediately gave in examinations be⯑fore a magiſtrate, and have now delivered the wretched woman over into the hands of the law, where ſhe ſhall abide her doom, for me. I preſ⯑ſed him to come along with me to ſee her, at [199] leaſt, as ſhe had ſo earneſtly requeſted, but he peremptorily refuſed. For to what purpoſe, ſaid he? I would not forgive the debt, even to a Jew; much leſs the theft, to a Chriſtian.

I then returned home, concluded Mr. Sea⯑well, and delivered the priſoner up to the bailiffs, who carried her immediately away, and lodged her in the Poultry-compter. That fooliſh chicken-hearted woman there, added he, fell into diſtraction, at the merited diſtreſs of her hopeful friend, and wrote you the note which has brought you, Sir, hither, and given you a trouble that I apprehend can poſſibly anſwer no manner of purpoſe, in the world.

The lovely Seawell then falling on her knees before me, implored my aſſiſtance toward reſcu⯑ing our poor unhappy friend, from her miſera⯑ble ſituation. I would ſnatch her from the ground, but ſhe was immoveable in her ſuit. I promiſed every thing in my power, ſaid that it was not eaſy to frame any manner of device, on the inſtant, but I would fly to comfort her, and conſult together all poſſible means of ſaving her life, at leaſt. Juſtice forbids it, added I, but humanity intercedes, even for vice. I then raiſed the ſuppliant fair; but in the midſt of my moral, found myſelf, e'er I was aware, preſſing her hand, ſomewhat too tenderly.

CHAP. CLX.

WHEN I entered the gaol, I felt myſelf affected with a crowd of ſenſations and reflections; the noiſome ſcents, the ſallow com⯑plexions, the ſqualid garments, ſhocked my ſight and ſmell. But I found myſelf much more diſ⯑turbed at the boiſterous merriment I heard among the priſoners; which made their wretch⯑edneſs appear ſtill more wretched; and added Bedlam to the Mint.

I ſpied the unhappy woman ſitting in a corner of the common hall, her face all pale with guilt and dread, her arms croſſed over her breaſt, and eyes turned up to Heaven; while a parcel of raggamuffins, male and female, were rifling her pockets for garniſh. The oppreſſed oppreſſing!

How I felt, is not to be deſcribed. Her beauty, her vice—her ſituation, her ſex—That form which I had once folded in my arms, with fondneſs and deſire! her jealouſy, my vanity— her diſtreſs, and my compaſſion! I ſcattered money among the contending mob, ſeized her arm, and hurried her into an inner room, be⯑fore ſhe could perceive who I was. Then taking her gently by the hand, and beginning to [201] ſpeak I know not what, my tongue ſtood ſtill, and my eyes o'erflowed.

The moment ſhe obſerved me, ſhe gave a loud ſhriek, her ſtrength failed her, and ſhe ſunk down upon the floor, murmuring to herſelf, ‘This is too much, O juſtice! to be con⯑fronted with the perſon who knows ſo many vices in me! loaded as I am with guilt, this added ſhame reaches beyond my powers!’ It gave me extreme ſatisfaction to find her ſuſcep⯑tible of any ſpark of virtue, of humility, or con⯑trition. I raiſed her up, embraced her, bid her repent, hope, and depend upon my utmoſt ex⯑ertion in her defence.

She then confeſſed the felony to me, pretend⯑ing that had I been conſtant to her, this misfor⯑tune could never have happened; that love alone, with me, would have ſatisfied all her deſires; but finding herſelf diſappointed in that fond wiſh, ſhe had reſolved to make all her future amours ſub⯑ſervient to her intereſt.

She told me that with this view, ſhe had en⯑gaged in an intrigue with the Jew, becauſe he was reckoned rich. That ſhe had endeavoured to get money from him, once or twice, on pre⯑tence of being conſiderably in debt, but ſound him to be a mean-ſpirited fellow; and that ſhe was tempted to ſlip the ring into her boſom, [202] in order to pay herſelf; imagining that perhaps he might not have readily miſſed it from among ſo large a parcel of jewels; or that if he ſhould, ſhe might poſſibly not have been ſuſpected; might wheedle him out of it; or finally, com⯑pound the matter with him, by reſtoring it again. But—having once obtained the quiet poſſeſſion of the prize, ſaid ſhe, my avarice began to lay violent hands upon it; and the temptation proved, alas! too ſtrong for my weakneſs.

Thus, continued ſhe, did I ſap the founda⯑tions of my honeſty, as I had done before of my chaſtity, by ſalvo's. My firſt failure—I may deem it my only one—For one breach in virtue, renders a woman bankrupt for life. Honour is our true virginity—Diſhonour never ſtrikes us twice—My affair with the unfortunate young man that is dead, ſaid ſhe, with a ſigh and a tear, was never intended, or the conſequences even apprehended, by me. He was forward, and took freedoms, which I permitted, rather for want of breeding, than of modeſty; and I find⯑ing ſtill my purpoſe honeſt, indulged too great a latitude to my actions; determining however, moſt reſolutely, to oppoſe the laſt attack.

But alas! he had gained ground on me, ſo gradually and inſenſibly, that the laſt favour, be⯑ing but little more than what he had obtained [203] the day before, I was ruined, e'er I perceived my danger. She then concluded her account of that adventure, with this very juſt and prudent reflection; Women, ſaid ſhe, who do not take up arms, againſt the firſt attempt, will ſcarce be⯑come heroines, upon the laſt.

CHAP. CLXI.

I Staid to dinner with her, in this wretched ſcene, endeavouring to ſupport her ſpirits by frequent aſſurances of my friendſhip and com⯑paſſion, which I promiſed to exert for her ſer⯑vice, to the utmoſt ſhilling of my fortune; but at the ſame time, ſtrongly recommending to her an unfeigned penitence, and a thorough refor⯑mation of life. Prepare yourſelf for death, ad⯑ded I, not through deſpair, but by the only preparation that is fit for life. Hope, and virtue. She wept, vowed, and prayed.

At parting, I deſired her to give me the mo⯑ney ſhe had received on the ſale of the ring, that I might carry it to the Jew, and endeavour to bribe him into a compoſition of the felony, with [204] it. Here ſhe fell into tears again, exclaiming out, Oh, Sir! too ſurely is folly the natural con⯑comitant of vice! I thought I ſhould have ſcreened myſelf, by employing another perſon, and one unknown, to diſpoſe of the jewel; and I imagined I might have ſafely intruſted my own maid, who had lived with me ſince we were both of us children—but ſhe has never returned to me, ſince ſhe received the money.

No matter, I replied, the expedient I intended, ſhall be ſupplied out of my own purſe—So pro⯑miſing to return the next morning, I retired, without taking any other leave of her, than by a bow, and adieu. A gaol is no ſcene of galantry, and after my firſt tranſport of humanity toward her, was over, I kept quite clear of all manner of dalliance, for the remainder of the day—both upon her account, and my own. Vice is con⯑tagious, as well as diſtemper; and I was re⯑ſolved to hold no farther connection with it, than what was barely neceſſary for its cure.

However, I felt myſelf extremely uneaſy at leaving the unhappy woman in ſuch a place, and circumſtance, alone, and would have given bail for her myſelf, but I was told by the gaoler, that a poſitive felony would not admit it. I then gave him five guineas, to treat the lady with the ut⯑moſt humanity and reſpect, had her placed in [205] the beſt apartment of the houſe, and calling in at the firſt bookſeller's, in my way home, ſent her a preſent of a Bible, a Prayer-book, and Sher⯑lock's two diſcourſes upon Death and Reſurrec⯑tion.

CHAP. CLXII.

I WAS impatient, Mr. Reader, till Mr. Ca⯑rewe had finiſhed the laſt chapter, that I might indulge myſelf in the opportunity of ſay⯑ing a few words, upon a ſubject which he touches a little at, in the beginning of it. Namely, a gaol.

Every perſon's humanity, though ever ſo uni⯑verſal, ſtill ſelects to itſelf one favourite object of compaſſion. Some, the lunatic—others the beggar—ſome, the ſlave; and others, the cri⯑minal. Mine is the Marſhalſea priſoner.

The lunatic is a ſad object, indeed! Swift ſaid that this was a ſight which he could never look on, without an inward ſhock. I am, my⯑ſelf—God preſerve my ſenſes! as much affected at this appearance, as he could be, though I have not ſo much wit to loſe—Sed miſerum eſt [206] perdere naulum—But then, this is conſidering the madman as an object, merely—for, as a ſubject, he is frequently an happy creature—and fools bid faireſt for that character!

The mendicant enjoys freedom, air, and cha⯑rity—Turkiſh captives, or galley-ſlaves, have exer⯑ciſe, and its ſweet lacquey, reſt. And even theſe, or mine, or row, in hopes of redemption— For ſuch is the miſtaken charity of Chriſtians, that they often paſs by the moans of Southwark, and the Fleet, to ſet ſlaves free in Barbary! The Culprit! why he is not a priſoner for life—but for death, only. His confinement is but ſhort— Aut cita mors, aut victoria laeta!

The confined debtor is a wretch, who vexed with all their griefs, has not a ſingle ſolace of their reliefs. He has the Bedlamite's reſtraint, without the ignorance of his miſery! he is a beggar, without freedom, air, or charity! a ſlave, without the wholeſome viciſſitudes of la⯑bour and reſt! a priſoner, without the permu⯑tatio foelix, of death or liberty! The criminal may have ſome hope, from the favour of a jury, or the mercy of a judge—but the harſh creditor is, at once, both judge, jury, and executioner too, to the extremeſt letter of the law. The Jew of Venice was tender-hearted—he would have a pound of fleſh only, and let the reſt go free— [207] the Chriſtian gaoler ſkeletons the whole body with pining want, manacles the limbs to noi⯑ſome dungeons, and waſtes the mind in repi⯑nings and deſpair!

I ſpeak not here, of common caſes, for I truſt in my Redeemer, that there are but few like this; for many debtors have ſubſtance, and ſome creditors want not humanity—but I ſpeak only of thoſe wretches, who cannot pay, and thoſe greater ones, who cannot forgive ^*. Under theſe mutual circumſtances, I know ſome who feel, and others who fear, a gaol, from thoſe who calling themſelves Chriſtians, know no other text in ſcripture but this, there ſhalt thou remain, till thou haſt paid the uttermoſt farthing.

The legiſlature would certainly interpoſe, in ſuch hard caſes as theſe, but upon the preſump⯑tion that no human creature can be totally devoid of humanity. The bankruptcy act does not reach it. This reſpects only failures in trade. Acts of grace come neareſt to the remedy; but theſe are rare, and partial; paſſed only upon extraor⯑dinary occaſions, and extending but to priſoners, and exiles, under certain reſtrained deſcriptions.

A ſtanding act, of this kind, comprehending every perſon, and at all times, who was willing to take the relief of it, would be neceſſary to abrogate this ſummum jus, this tyranny within the [208] law, would be—a turn upon the word is un⯑avoidable here—the moſt gracious act of power, that could be well deviſed, and moſt becoming of that government, the principles and ſpirit of which are founded in liberty.

CHAP. CLXIII.

AS ſoon as I returned home, ſaid Mr. Ca⯑rewe, I ſent a note to my good old friend Domino, addreſſed for him at the compting-houſe, where he had directed me to pay the intereſt of my bonds, as it ſhould become due; begging the favour of him to let me have five hundred pounds, if poſſible, the next morning, upon a very preſſing occaſion.

He came to me the next day, before ten o'clock, and brought the money along with him, telling me, while he was filling up the bond, that this was the laſt ſhilling he had, at preſent, or might perhaps, for ever have it in his power to lend. No matter for that, replied I, ſo far as relates to myſelf, for I have had a ſufficient ſurfeit of extravagance already, and I promiſe you, that as ſoon as I ſhall have got rid [209] of a certain difficult buſineſs, which I am juſt now engaged in, I will retire from the world, to books, and oeconomy, till love and matri⯑mony, which I am now in queſt of, added I, with a ſigh, ſhall engroſs me ſole. Little Do⯑mino much commended both of theſe prudent and virtuous reſolutions, and took his leave.

I flew immediately to Leadenhall-ſtreet, to requeſt the favour of Mr. Seawell to carry this five hundred pounds to his friend the Jew, and tempt him to withdraw the proſecution; as I thought that a colluſion of this kind, might be more ſucceſsfully managed in privacy between themſelves, than by the negotiation of any third perſon. It was with great difficulty I could pre⯑vail on him to tranſact this affair, but by the aſ⯑ſiſtance of his wife's tears and intreaties, we at length got him out of the houſe.

Mrs. Seawell remained in the parlour with me, till her huſband's return, expreſſing great apprehenſions and concern for her friend, one minute, and begging of me, the next, to tell her the whole ſtory of our amour, for that ſhe loved to hear little novels, vaſtly. I defended myſelf, by replying that the preſent occaſion was too ſerious a time, to amuſe with ſuch light tales as this, while the life of the unhappy ſub⯑ject of it, remained ſtill under ſuſpence; and [210] that memoirs, of the kind ſhe ſeemed to ima⯑gine ours to have been, were very improper and dangerous recitals for wives to liſten to.

Lord bleſs me, how you talk, now! replied ſhe, how differently from what you uſed to do! but the extremity of your grief for the fair pri⯑ſoner—though ſhe is much fallen off, in my opinion, in that particular, of late—has, I be⯑lieve, made a ſwaddler of you. Prithee now, could your telling an arch ſtory of our friend, among ourſelves here, have any manner of effect upon her tryal? And for my own part, I really cannot ſee why any wife in the world might not read an intrigue this hour, and ſay her prayers the next. Nay, the warmer perhaps, for that reaſon, as it might afford her a hint to pray more earneſtly againſt the temptation—I hope this laſt reflection, Mr. Methodiſt, ſaid ſhe, with a ſmile, will pleaſe you.

I laughed at her giddy livelineſs, but muſt confeſs that I was once or twice, very near for⯑getting myſelf, on this tête à tête party. Her morning deſhabille had ſomething extremely ele⯑gant and familiar in it; her robe was looſe, and made of a French luteſtring, azure ground, clouded with pale pink: ſhe had no ſtays on, but a fine ticken veſt, which ſuffered all the pliancies of an eaſy, well-turned ſhape, to appear through [211] it. Her bright gloſſy hair, which had a natural curl in it, flowed careleſsly over her ſhoulders, and was interwoven before, with ribbon, like a victim dreſſed for the ſacrifice. The few drops of pity ſhe had juſt ſhed, added another water to the brilliancy of her eyes. Her neck was un⯑covered, excepting a ſlight black gauze handker⯑chief, which was croſſed before, and folded in between her breaſts, to mark the parted ſnow. She appeared to be finely limbed, her ſlippers were of light blue Perſian, with a ſilver fringe, her ſtockings white ſilk, and her petticoats ſo ſhort, that the taſſels of her garters were to be ſeen, as ſhe ſat leaning on the couch with one leg hanging over the cuſhion, and the other reaching to the floor.

Her toute enſemble was ſo very alluring, that a more perfect ſaint than I was, might perhaps have fallen into the temptation; but virtue had for me, the counter-charms of a new miſtreſs. I reflected on the late danger to which ſhe had her⯑ſelf been expoſed, from the rivalſhip of the Di⯑vorcée; I ruminated upon the depth of vice which the other had fallen into, from perfect innocence, through one unguarded ſtep—and could I think of expoſing her to the ſame ſin! The place too, warned my virtue—Scipio, a Pagan, forewent the rights of conqueſt, from a [212] principle of honour, alone—and ſhould I, a Chriſtian, dare profane the ſacred laws of hoſpi⯑tality! But more, in aid, to my exalted ſenſe appeared the lovely academic, like an angel heavenly bright! ſhe firmed my footſteps, like a fixed point of view, which guides the equilibriſt ſafely o'er the precipice, upon a ſingle plank.

I preſerved the ſpirit of theſe reflections, through my whole converſation with her; ſoften⯑ing however, the auſterity of them, with a guarded mixture of gaiety and politeneſs; and endeavoured to recommend virtue, as libertines do vice, by ſetting forth the pleaſures of it, till Mr. Seawell returned to us, with an account of his having happily concluded a treaty with the Jew; who had been prevailed upon to accept the money, and engaged not to appear upon the tryal.

CHAP. CLXIV.

I WAS tranſported at this event, and ſo ap⯑peared the lovely Seawell too, at the firſt— But—female friendſhip! her joy began to flatten; which upon perceiving, I took notice of to her. She replied, that it really did afford her great plea⯑ſure, to find that the poor woman's life was ſafe, but feared, at the ſame time, for her wretched ſoul's ſake, that ſhe would never die ſo well pre⯑pared, as ſhe had a chance of doing upon this lucky warning. To which ſhe added, that ſhe apprehended ſtill farther, upon my account, leſt her beauty—what remained of it—her wickedneſs and arts, might hereafter lead me into ſome more expenſive or dangerous miſhap, than I had hi⯑therto ſuſtained from her.

I returned her thanks for her friendly concern about me, but aſſured her that all ſuch fears for me, were groundleſs; for that vice, or even beauty, muſt aſſail my heart in vain, whoſe af⯑fections were already fixed upon an adamantine rock, of love, and virtue. And that beſides, with regard to the lady in queſtion, I was reſol⯑ved, as ſoon as the tryal ſhould be over, to make uſe of all my influence to perſuade her to quit [214] the kingdom immediately, and leave her ſhame behind her. She ſeemed to rejoice both in my ſecurity, and in my ſcheme, and immediately of⯑fered to accompany me to the gaol, to carry the happy news to her dear friend.

I declined going myſelf, at that time, ſaying that I ſhould not chuſe to ſee the unhappy wo⯑man, till after her firſt emotions were over; and that the acknowledgements her gratitude might prompt her to make, would render me aukward and uneaſy; but ſaid, that I ſhould be much pleaſed, if ſhe would carry the good news her⯑ſelf, and prepare her to receive me, agreeably to my own ſentiments of this matter. That if ſhe would ſtay to dinner there, I would remain with Mr Seawell till evening, and by the time that I might imagine the lady's ſpirits to be a little compoſed, he and I ſhould wait upon them to ſupper. Her huſband conſented to this propoſal, and ſhe went off directly in a chair.

My purpoſe, in thus putting myſelf upon Mr. Seawell, was with a deſign of cultivating an intimacy and friendſhip with him, in order to ſtrengthen my virtue, by an alliance with my honour. I had a farther view alſo, of becoming a watchful guardian over his wife's behaviour; as the galantries I had practiſed toward her, hav⯑ing ſeemed to have had ſome little effect upon [215] her mind, rendered me anſwerable for her future conduct.

CHAP. CLXV.

I Spent the remainder of the day pleaſantly enough, with Mr. Seawell, and a very ſen⯑ſible, good ſort of elderly country gentleman, who was his near relation, and happened to dine with us. Our hoſt was a plain, rational man, without either wit or learning; but one who appeared to know the world ſufficiently, and to underſtand mercantile buſineſs extremely well. I was with him for ſome time in his compting-houſe, before dinner; and after he had finiſhed his letters for the poſt, and that his friend had taken his leave, we took coach, and went to wait upon our ladies together.

We found them both very properly employed; the priſoner was reading one of the volumes of Sherlock, while Mrs. Seawell was attending, and ſprigging a flower in the border of an hand⯑kerchief. The fair Confined, upon ſeeing me enter the room, fell on her knees; I ran to take her up, and vowed I would quit the place [216] inſtantly, if ſhe ſhould attempt to diſtreſs me after this manner, any more.

She roſe immediately, and aſked my pardon, for having forgot the generous injunction, as ſhe termed it, which I had ſent her by Mrs. Seawell; adding, that it was increaſing the obligation to do ſo, as it muſt have been impoſſible for her to have found words ſtrong enough to expreſs the grateful ſentiments ſhe bore toward her kind deliverer.

Her compliment threw me into ſome confu⯑ſion—from what principle in human nature does this coyneſs ariſe? To call it modeſty, does not ſatisfy my philoſophy^*—I replied, that the amending of her life, would over-pay the gift, and that her prayers and thankſgivings were fit⯑ter to be addreſſed to him who can redeem from ſin, than to one who has ſaved from death only.

[217]We all ſupped together; and at parting, pro⯑miſed to paſs moſt of our time with her, by turns, till the day of tryal ſhould be over, which was to come on in about ten days. While ſhe was returning us thanks for our humanity and compaſſion toward her wretched ſituation, Mrs. Seawell was hinting to me with a low voice, and in French, that this would be a favourable op⯑portunity for propoſing the ſcheme I had men⯑tioned in the morning, of her quitting the kingdom; becauſe, ſaid ſhe, it will be an eaſier matter to make terms with her, while ſhe may conſider herſelf as ſtill in your power, than after her ſafety ſhall become paſt diſpute. I made no reply, and felt myſelf much offended at her meanneſs. The ladies exchanged tears, em⯑braces, and adieu's, with each other, and we retired.

CHAP. CLXVI.

I Paſſed great part of every day, during her confinement, with the fair reformed; and in reality, ſhe appeared to be a truly penitent one. I acted as her ordinary, and was highly ſenſible of the tranſcendent joy of miniſtering to a mind diſeaſed. I uſed to carry a variety of books in my pocket, and read ſelect paſſages out of them, to her, fitted to alleviate her diſtreſs.

Sometimes ſhe would throw herſelf on her knees, and pray; at others, in a female expreſ⯑ſion of gratitude, catch me in her arms, and weep. Then, with joined hands, and uplifted eyes, walk acroſs the room, crying out, ‘How happy was it for me to have felt this ſevere, yet healing affliction! Had not Divine Pro⯑vidence, in its great mercy, thus awakened my ſoul to attention, I might have ſtill gone on, from bad to worſe, to worſt. Is there in ſenſuality an age of joy, equal in poignancy, or degree, to one hour of that horror and anxiety I have endured, ſince my committal hither! and yet, theſe terrors are what even the moſt fortunate ſinners muſt ſoon, or late, [219] ſuſtain; for though they ſhould eſcape a ſcaf⯑fold, a death-bed has no reprieve!’

At other moments, ſhe would ſtart up from her ſeat, with wildneſs and deſpair in her looks, crying, ‘Where is my huſband! where my children! where is that generous hand, which raiſed me from indigence to affluence! and where thoſe lovely babes, that doubly bleſſed my fortunes! you have—you have, ſhe would add, ſuborned the evidence againſt my life— but oh! who ſhall bribe off theſe bitter teſti⯑monies againſt my ſoul!’

Such ſad reflections, and ſelf-expoſtulations as theſe, uſed to throw her into ſwoonings almoſt to convulſions, which I endeavoured to relieve, in vain, till after a ſhower of contrite tears, had aſſwaged the tempeſt in her breaſt, and recovered her, but rather to a torpid, than a calm ſtate of mind.

I became quite charmed with my fair peni⯑tent. She ſeemed ſometimes inſpired. She talked above her reaſon, and often exerted an energy, beyond her native force. I contributed every argument in my power, to ſtrengthen and confirm theſe good ſentiments in her. She only wrought herſelf into theſe extaſies, when we were alone together, but ſhe diffuſed the ſpirit of them, through all her converſe with Mrs. Sea⯑well, [220] who always ſpent every evening with her; and thus helped to ſecond the fair intentions, which I had before conceived, toward that very pretty, but very weak young woman.

On the poſt-evenings, Mr. Seawell never paid us a viſit, and I uſed to walk home with my fair pupil, to Leadenhall-ſtreet, and deliver up my charge, at the door. She told me, one night, as I was conducting her, with a no-thanks to me, that the Divorcée had related her whole ſtory to her, at ſome interval ſhe happened to be with her alone, not by way of narrative, but confeſſion; and gave me ſuch warning, and coun⯑ſel, upon ſeveral paſſages of it, ſaid ſhe, that I hope, and believe I ſhall be the better for, all my life.

At another time, ſhe ſaid that ſhe really ima⯑gined our friend to be perfectly ſincere in her reformation; which had rendered her a truly edifying example—And yours alſo, ſaid ſhe, turning to me, greatly confirms the ſtrength of it; for it proves that virtue may ſubſiſt, even in the midſt of paſſion. To tell you the truth, went ſhe on, what had put me almoſt out of conceit with goodneſs, before—I mean, ſaid ſhe, catching herſelf up, the appearances of it, was that one ſeldom ſees it preached, or practiſed, but by certain old folk, who ſeem to grow [221] good, merely when they are become good for nothing; and poorly think to heal example, by precept.

I agreed with my fair moraliſt, that this was too generally the caſe, eſpecially with women; who once entered into vice, rarely quit the ſin, till the ſinner forſakes them. And as their affections, being naturally ſtrong, muſt be occupied, and their fond hearts engaged, they then become de⯑votées, and enter into a courſe of Platonics with Heaven. The object only changed, the paſſion ſtill the ſame.

Upon the whole, then, replied ſhe, we had better remain as we are, for women, it ſeems, are ſcandalous, in ſin, and become ridiculous, when they would put on the appearances of growing good again. Your ſcheme, ſaid I, is certainly the beſt; for 'tis the eaſieſt, the ſafeſt, and upon experience, will be found to be the pleaſanteſt, alſo.

CHAP. CLXVII.

AT length, the irkſome day of tryal arrived; a criſis, which even to the innocent, or the ſecure, muſt occaſion great matter of pertur⯑bation. My penitent did not appear to be the leaſt diſturbed at its approach. She aſſured me that virtue and religion had, even within ſo ſhort an interval, ſo perfectly calmed every paſ⯑ſion in her mind, that ſhe was very certain, had not the proſecution been purchaſed off, I ſhould have ſeen her upon this occaſion, rather more compoſed than ſhe confeſſed ſhe was at the pre⯑ſent; for ſhe owned that there lay one concern heavy on her mind, now, which ſhe would not much have attended to, then. This was her being expoſed a public ſpectacle in a court, upon an indictment for ſo mean a crime.

This thought pleaſed me extremely. It gave me aſſurance of her virtue. Modeſty is the great bulwark of that ſex; and the ſureſt ſign of a re⯑turning grace in them, is its being accompanied with a ſenſe of ſhame. I was reſolved therefore, to extricate her from this difficulty; and imme⯑diately calling in the gaoler, I told him how the caſe ſtood, with regard to his priſoner; that [223] there was to be no manner of proſecution; and therefore, as there was nothing more than mere matter of form to paſs through, I would give him ten guineas to procure any ordinary woman to ſtand in the dock, and hold up her hand at the bar, in this lady's name.

The money tempted him, he ſtept out of the room, and returning back again in about five minutes, told us he had bribed his own maid-ſervant, to put on her riding-hood, and act the culprit part for the priſoner. But at the ſame time, he inſiſted upon locking the lady up ſafe, leſt the proſecution might unexpectedly go on, and he be obliged then, to plead a miſtake, and produce the real perſon, whoſe name was upon his calendar.

We ſubmitted to this caution; and I con⯑ſented, at her requeſt, to be confined along with her; having retained ſome eminent lawyers to attend the tryal, and placed Mr. Seawell as a guard upon the Jew. When we were left alone, tears burſt from her eyes, and turning them to me, You cannot bear acknowledgements, ſaid ſhe, therefore I ſhall only ſtill continue to oblige, by aſking further favours from you. Will you then, in this ſad ſcene, and at this dread hour, join your voice with mine, in fervent prayer? I kneeled down by her, at the word, and we [224] both continued in that poſture, till we heard the door unlocked; when Mr. Seawell came running into the room, to wiſh her joy.

She behaved with her new temper, upon this occaſion; and with a compoſed countenance, and ſteady voice, replied, I heartily thank my friends, both for their kindneſs and generous aſſiſtance, during my diſtreſs, but O! far above all do I acknowledge my eternal obligations to the Moſt Higheſt, for his infinite goodneſs and mercy, in having thus tried and proved me, by this happy affliction.

We immediately took coach, and went off together to Leadenhall-ſtreet, where we found Mrs. Seawell in the fondeſt anxiety and impa⯑tience, as ſhe expreſſed herſelf, to receive her dear friend ſafe into her arms; and both ſhe and I had already ſet forth the reformation of the Divorcée, in ſuch a light, that Mr. Seawell was prevailed upon, at my requeſt, to accept of her as a lodger in his houſe again.

I ſtaid to dine with them; in the evening the two ladies went to prayers, and at their return, I read Amana to them, a new dramatic poem, which had been juſt publiſhed that day. They appeared to be both charmed with the ſpirit, ſtyle, and ſentiments of the writing, and ſaid [225] they were flattered by it alſo, as it was written by a woman.

We ſupped together; and when I was taking my leave, I paid the reclaimed Divorcée all due compliments, upon her proper ſenſe and merit on the late occaſion; and concluded with this injunction to the reſt, that on account of this conſideration, no part of her paſt conduct, or private hiſtory, ſhould ever be repeated out of our little ſociety, nor even remembered in it. The Seawells made a ſolemn vow of confidence, to the purport of my propoſition, and I retired, leaving the retrieved fair diſſolved in tears of tendereſt gratitude.

CHAP. CLXVIII.

I Returned home with the moſt exulting heart imaginable. I had reſcued one woman, and prevented another, from ruin. So far well—for them. But, for myſelf, I had another woman, more precious than the whole ſex beſides, ſtill to recover. This acquiſition was neceſſary to [226] confirm my virtue, and compleat my happineſs at the ſame time.

But, where to find her—by what clue to trace her out! London was neither a probable place to expect, nor a poſſible one to ſearch for her in; and to what part of England ſhe might have re⯑tired, with her little Hermes, then about three years old, it muſt have been impoſſible for me, even to have gueſſed.

The next morning, I ſent a card to Leaden⯑hall-ſtreet, to inquire how the ladies did, but did not pay them a viſit for ſeveral days, which I paſſed retired in my chambers, in a very low-ſpirited way, ariſing from the deſpondent reflec⯑tion juſt mentioned; praying and hoping that either her friendſhip for me, or natural curioſity at leaſt, to know what ſcheme, or courſe of life, I was purſuing, or ſome lucky accident or other, might reſtore me to the happineſs of ſeeing her once more; and reſolving, upon a truſt in this fond hope, to hold both my heart and hand at liberty to dedicate to her.

The laſt evening of my retirement, Mr. Sea⯑well called to ſee me. He told me that his la⯑dies had gone to morning and evening prayers, at ſix and ſix, every day ſince we parted; and that his wife had objected to the early ſervice, at firſt, but had been perſuaded to it by her friend, [227] as anſwering a double purpoſe at once, both of health and devotion. He added that he owed great obligations to this extraordinary woman, who kept his wife almoſt conſtantly in her com⯑pany, read to her, and endeavoured all in her power, to improve her mind, and regulate her conduct.

He concluded his viſit, with telling me that the ladies were much ſurpriſed at my long ab⯑ſence, and had ſent him to inquire whether any accident, or diſguſt, had happened to deprive them the pleaſure of my company. I returned my compliments to the fair queriſts, and aſſured him that I had purpoſed to wait upon upon them the next morning, before he had called upon me.

CHAP. CLXIX.

THE day following, I went to Leadenhall-ſtreet, about twelve o'clock; and after a few minutes converſation with Mr. and Mrs. Seawell, below ſtairs, I walked up to pay a viſit to my now eſteemed friend; who received me [228] with great chearfulneſs in her manner, and plea⯑ſure in her looks.

She aſked me, in a friendly way, why I had abſented myſelf ſo long, from friends who had ſo well-grounded an eſteem for me? But I re⯑collect your delicacy, ſaid ſhe, you were afraid of acknowledgements, and knowing the world tolerably well, might very juſtly have concluded that a few days interval would have ſupplied a bumper of Lethé to obligation. No, Mr. Ca⯑rewe, added ſhe, though my ſpeech may be condemned to ſilence, my actions ſhall ever bear an higher teſtimony of my gratitude toward you.

I hope, continued ſhe, with a ſmile, that my behaviour for ſome time paſt, may not be under⯑ſtood as any contradiction to my preſent pro⯑feſſions; but the innocent, yet frail Mrs. Sea⯑well, has candidly confeſſed her weakneſs, with regard to you; ſhe has tranſlated to me all your French converſations together, and has owned the dangerous preference, which it was too na⯑tural for a young galant to have obtained over an old huſband.

But my exhortations, my remonſtrances, ſaid ſhe, with the prevalence of my own ſad exam⯑ple, who with—I may without preſumption add —better ſenſe, and leſs temptation to err, had [229] merely through indiſcretion, been led from one ſtep to another, into the very gulph of deſtruc⯑tion, have been ſo ſtrongly urged by me, as a warning to her conduct, that I think I may, as far as female ſincerity can be depended upon, give aſſurance of her conduct for the future.

To this I replied, in the ſame ſtyle with which ſhe had accoſted me, that ſhe had infringed one article of her covenant, for ſo far from reſtraining her ſpeech, ſhe had teſtified her obli⯑gations to me in the higheſt manner, in thus employing it to co-operate by her advice and counſel, with my own honeſt intentions toward the perſon ſhe mentioned. And if the lady has done me juſtice, added I, you muſt be already convinced of this aſſertion, from my converſa⯑tion and manners with regard to her, for ſome time paſt.

I muſt confeſs, ſhe replied, that my friend has not made me a confidant, in this particular, you are not to expect ſuch ingenuouſneſs in our ſex —and to tell you the truth, ſaid ſhe, I think it would not be prudent in either of us, to take any notice of it to her. Women are naturally weak, and vain; and 'tis the beſt philoſophy always to oppoſe theſe foibles againſt each other. Now ſhould her virtue appear to have ariſen from any other principle but her own native force, believe [230] me it would much weaken the incitement to it.

Juſt at this inſtant the door opened, and a lovely boy of about eight years of age, walked into the room—ſhe looked, ſhe doubted—ſhe bluſhed, ſhe ſtarted—then giving a loud ſhriek, ſprang forward, caught him up in her arms, and would have ſtifled him with her embrace, if a moſt beautiful girl, about a year younger, had not appeared immediately after—ſhe let her ſon drop, and had not power to advance toward her daughter—but when her huſband entered the room, ſhe ſwooned away on the floor, before he could run up to ſuſtain her.

The ſcene was beyond my powers—I ran in⯑ſtantly down ſtairs, to rejoice with my friends below, upon this happy event, which I had al⯑ready prepared them for.

CHAP. CLXX.

YOU were kinder to them, than you have been to us, interrupted Mr. Andrews and Beville, with one voice, for this was indeed a criſis, which no part of your recital could in any manner have warned us of. I was ſo impatient to obtain this favourite point, replied Mr. Ca⯑rewe, that I neglected the uſual courſe of narra⯑tive, to arrive at it. The ſtory, in ſhort, is this:

When I perceived the fair Penitent riſing into virtue, by ſuch degrees as gave aſſurance of ſta⯑bility; her repentance; her reſignation; her grateful ſentiments of her obligations to her huſ⯑band; her reflection about her children; her ſenſe of ſhame; and finally, the receiving, and rejoicing in her affliction, as a mercy and a bleſſing from the hands of Providence; I thought her now become a fit object for the moſt in⯑tereſting connections of life, either as a friend, a mother, or a wife.

Upon this not unphiloſophic ſentiment, I wrote a letter to her huſband, the very night of her ac⯑quittal, ſaying that I had ſomething to commu⯑nicate to him, of conſequence to his children [232] and himſelf, and requeſting the favour of him to bring them up to London immediately, for that I ſhould not explain myſelf any farther, by letter. Curioſity hurried him up expreſs, and the morn⯑ing before I carried him to Leadenhall-ſtreet, he came to my apartments in the Temple.

I then told him that the buſineſs I had ſum⯑moned him about, was to acquaint him with an event, which muſt naturally afford the extremeſt ſatisfaction, to an humane mind; namely, the moſt compleat reformation in his wife, both in mind and manners, that ever Grace had yet vouchſafed to a ſinner.

I then gave him an account of her behaviour and expreſſions, ſince her arreſt, as far as I could do ſo without revealing any part of her ſtory, which would have been to her diſadvan⯑tage; but affected to ſpeak of her amendment, as commencing immediately, upon the ſepara⯑tion.

I ſaid that her actions and conduct had now ceaſed to be a ſcandal to her huſband, or a re⯑proach to her children; and that her ſenſe and virtue were ſufficient to recommend her, at pre⯑ſent, both as a companion to the one, and a guide to the other. For my part, ſaid I, were ſhe free, and my own heart diſingaged, from the thorough conviction I have conceived of her [233] firmneſs in morals and religion, I ſhould not have the leaſt manner of ſcruple about accepting her myſelf, into the niceſt and moſt honourable connections of life; regarding her former vice and errors, be they what they may, but as the ſpots of peſtilence, or deliriums of a fever, un⯑imputable now to her reſtored health and rea⯑ſon.

Then, ſaid I, taking hold of him by the hand, whom Heaven hath forgiven, let not man for⯑ſake! receive her, dear Sir, again into your fa⯑vour and protection, at once to reward and to confirm her virtue; and be aſſured that you will find the exerciſe of this kindneſs, this charity, this humanity, moſt extremely pleaſing on the experiment, for perhaps, there may be few things, more grateful to a generous mind, than to have ſomething to forgive.

I perceived the workings of his mind riſing by degrees, and aiding my purpoſe, ſtill as I went on, but when I came to this laſt expreſ⯑ſion, he burſt ſilence with theſe words: "For⯑give!" ſaid he, and leaning his hand upon my ſhoulder, "I have, alas! nothing to for⯑give! my crime has been greater than her's, even ſuppoſing her to have been guilty; and we have nothing now to do, but to commute forgiveneſs. And as I hope that my contri⯑tion [234] has already earned full pardon for my ſin, we meet now upon equal terms of peni⯑tence—why not then, of love? O! lead me to her, thou excellent young man, that I may ſhew the ſtrength of that paſſion, with which I firſt embraced her, by its ſubſiſting ſtill in force, after a ſeparation of three years, and one ſo ſtrongly marked as ours."

I liſtened with pleaſure, and embraced him with tranſport—I then appointed the next morn⯑ing for the completion of their re-union; and told him that I would not ſuffer her to receive the leaſt notice of her approaching happineſs, in order to have their meeting as ſtrongly marked, as was their parting.

CHAP. CLXXI.

I SAT below with Mrs. Seawell, who was praiſing and bleſſing me for my goodneſs, till dinner was ſerved; when I went up ſtairs to ſummon this little happy united family. I embraced them all, not without tears; and taking her by the hand, led her down into the parlour.

[235]The remainder of that day paſſed off in the pleaſanteſt manner imaginable, to us all—but the exultations of my mind, upon this occaſion, are not to be expreſſed. Your own virtue, gentlemen, muſt conceive them. The beha⯑viour of the reconciled pair to each other, ſo po⯑lite, ſo attentive, and ſo fond! each ſtriving to prevent the other, in ſhews of love, and mutual amity—

The next morning early, they left London, and returned to their own ſeat, in the country; where they have lived in perfect harmony toge⯑ther, ever ſince, as frequent letters, and preſ⯑ſing invitations from them both, have happily informed me. I have never yet paid them a viſit—their deſiring one, pleaſed me, becauſe it ſhewed the true humility of virtue; but my nicety prevented me; becauſe perſons, be their refor⯑mation ever ſo ſincere, can never enjoy perfect eaſe or freedom, in company with thoſe, who have once had certain knowledge of their vices.

CHAP. CLXXII.

HAVING now rid my mind of all diffi⯑culties with regard to others, my own uneaſineſs preſſed more heavily upon me. I owed a treble obligation, to honour, to virtue, and to love; but was deprived of the charming means of acquitting myſelf to them all, at once. Reflection upon this ſcheme the more confirmed my purpoſe; and diſappointment augmented ſtill my ardour.

I helped to relieve my ſpirits, by reading, and ſeeing the fair Seawell often, at her own houſe, or by invitation with her huſband, at my cham⯑bers; and our behaviour toward each other, was ever perfectly polite, and platonic. We uſed all the freedom of a brother and ſiſter toge⯑ther, preſerving, at the ſame time, the pureſt innocence of ſuch correlatives.

In this ſituation had I continued for ſome time, when one evening I received this letter by the penny-poſt, gentlemen, ſaid Mr. Carewe, taking out his pocket-book, and preſenting them with a paper to read, the contents of which were in the following words:

CHAP. CLXXIII.

WHAT muſt have been my ſituation, when I had come to the concluſion of this letter! what a fate had befallen me, that thoſe very expreſſions of love and honour, which the overflowings of my fond heart had occaſionally poured out toward herſelf, ſhould have been the ſole cauſe of her being baniſhed from my hopes for ever! I began to grow ſu⯑perſtitious, and dread leſt ſome evil contingency might poſſibly have been interwoven with my deſtiny, and fell into a kind of deſpondency and deſpair, which I continued under for ſome days.

At length I was rouſed out of my reverie, by Mr. Seawell's calling on me one morning, and ſhewing me an invitation to ſpend ſome days in the country, which had been addreſſed to him, his wife, and to me, from the gentleman, men⯑tioned [245] before, with whom I had dined one day, in Leadenhall-ſtreet, and who lived about five miles from London.

It was about the middle of May, and the weather fine. I thought that company and country air might aſſiſt me to relieve my ſpirits, and at leaſt alleviate, in ſome ſort, my preſent diſ⯑appointment. I accordingly accepted of the invitation, and the next morning took a coach, called on my two friends, and drove down to the country, with a deſign of ſpending a week there together.

Our hoſt entertained us with great chearful⯑neſs and hoſpitality; but finding that wine rather depreſſed, than raiſed my ſpirits, I retired to the ladies, ſoon after dinner—I drank a diſh of cof⯑fee with them, and perceiving that my melan⯑choly damped the ſpirit of their converſation, I ſtole out of the room, and went to ſaunter in the gardens alone.

I had walked there about half an hour, when croſſing one of the alleys, I met Mrs. Seawell, who told me ſhe had made ſome pretence to quit her company, and had followed me into the garden out of a friendly curioſity and con⯑cern, to inquire what ſudden or extraordinary misfortune had affected me ſo very remarkably, [246] the whole day, both in looks, appetite, and manners?

When the mind is full, and the heart ſof⯑tened, ſollicitation and ſympathy are apt to in⯑duce a confidence. 'Tis a relief beſides, to the o'er-burdened ſoul, to find a friendly prop to reſt its load upon; and in love peculiarly, it is ſome ſolace, even to make the object of our affections, a ſubject of our converſation. I treated her then, to the little novel ^* of my amour; but with ſuch reſerve, as ſtill preſerved both the lady's character, and ſecret.

I told her that I had formerly paid my ad⯑dreſſes to a very amiable young lady, without any deſign but general galantry; that I had hap⯑pened unluckily, to have won her heart, before I perceived that I had loſt my own. That after I had parted from her, and paſſed through ſome dangerous and extravagant ſcenes of idle and debauched life, I found that my attachments had been already fixed upon this dear object, without my own conſciouſneſs of the matter. That upon this conviction, I had gone to ſearch for her, at her former reſidence; and upon miſ⯑ſing, and not being able to gather any account of her, or her family, there, I had been in queſt of her ever ſince, in vain.

[247]I then concluded my ſtory, with telling her that about a week paſt, I had received a letter from this lady, dated from on ſhip-board, and taking leave of me, for life. I added alſo, the circumſtance which had, through miſtake, been the unlucky occaſion of our ultimate ſeparation. I ſtopt, I ſighed, and ſhed a tear—ſhe took me by the hand, preſſed it, and dropt a tear alſo. Through all her features was ſtrongly marked the charming morbidezza, or tender languiſh. She wiſhed herſelf the happy fair; or that for⯑tune might throw it in her way to diſcover, and preſent her to my arms.

CHAP. CLXXIV.

THIS converſation had led us a conſidera⯑ble diſtance from the houſe, when hap⯑pening to paſs by an apiary, juſt as one of the hives began to ſwarm, ſhe ſtarted at the hum, and ſprang over a border, into the oppoſite al⯑ley. But on her alighting at the other ſide, ſhe had miſſed her footing, and fell quite proſtrate on the graſs-walk; doing herſelf, at the ſame [248] time, an accidental piece of juſtice, by reveal⯑ing the moſt beautiful limbs, even above her garters, that I had ever yet beheld.

I walked over the border, to her aſſiſtance; pleaſed, though ſurpriſed, at her remaining mo⯑tionleſs on the ground, in ſuch a poſture, and deſhabille, as if waiting till I ſhould come to raiſe her up; but it ſeemed that ſhe had ſprained her left ancle, and wrenched both her wriſts, which had rendered her quite unable to ſtir, without aſſiſtance.

I took her in my arms, and carried her out of the ſun, into a little green arbour that I ſpied at ſome paces off, where I ſet her down on the graſs, as there was neither chair, or bench, in the place. She moaned greatly, through pain, and both her hands being diſabled, ſhe could not rub, or foment her leg herſelf; but perceiving the ancle beginning to ſwell, I kneeled down before her, and performed that piece of ſurgery for her, as we were too far from the houſe, to provide her with more decent aſſiſtance.

I kept down the ſwelling, and by degrees ſhe found herſelf able to move her ancle ſufficiently to limp home. She then returned me thanks for my obliging care, expreſſed great concern at the trouble ſhe had given me, and ſeemed ex⯑tremely [249] impatient to be gone from that ſuſpicious place.

I gave her my hand to raiſe her; but when ſhe attempted to ſtir, ſhe was obliged to ſcream out, from an exceſs of ſudden pain, and remained ſtill on the ground. This ſecond diſtreſs pro⯑ceeded intirely from her over-ſcrupulous mo⯑deſty; for, that ſhe might expoſe no more of her leg than was juſt neceſſary to be chafed, ſhe had contracted the ſinews of it ſo much, that it occaſioned a violent cramp in the calf of that limb.

I had now an higher operation to perform, upon my too lovely patient. I began inſtantly to rub the gaſterocnemium ^*, till the convulſion, riſing by degrees into the biceps femoris ^†, and the gemini ^‡, I was tempted to purſue the retreat⯑ing enemy too far, till at length, I had fallen my ſelf into the ambuſh. —

CHAP. CLXXV.

POOR Carewe! you ſee, ladies, that he cannot peep his noſe abroad, but tempta⯑tion and opportunity ſtare him full in the face. But in truth, he had for ſome time, moſt unphy⯑ſically miſtaken an ague for virtue, and the hot fit had now, very naturally ſucceeded the cold one. Conſider his ſituation. What conſtitu⯑tion can ſtand unmoved, point blank under the line? He had preſumed too much upon his new-fledged pinions—pennis non homini datis, and like another Icarus, by ſoaring into the region of temptation, the wax was melted before the flame of deſire.

The unfortunate Seawell too! her accident ſeems to have been intirely owing to her total ignorance in natural philoſophy. Familiarity with men, though upon the chaſteſt principles ima⯑ginable, is always dangerous. The jockeys have a phraſe, that a foal, well handled, is half broke; and the Spaniards have alſo a proverb — That is — (If you aſk me, I'll tell you.)

In ſhort, take my word for it, ladies, thoſe few of you who have had no experience in this [251] matter, that Platonics are a mere farce. 'Tis as dull and unintereſting, as hunting a drag, with⯑out any quarry at the end of it. They are the devil's features, under an angel's maſk. In ge⯑neral, they are but pretended, in order to in⯑dulge a vice, under the cloak of virtue; but even where they are ſincere, as in innocent and unexperienced minds they ſometimes may be, yet let ſuch ſtill beware, that refined paſſions, like dried gunpowder, are thereby but rendered the more ſuſceptible of a ſpark; and whether the flame be caught from an earthly fire, or a coe⯑leſtial ray, it equally raiſes the combuſtible to an exploſion.

There happened to be another ſcience too, which the fair, but illiterate Seawell ſeems to have been totally ignorant of, upon this criſis; namely, anatomy. Mr. Carewe appears to be perfectly ſkilled in the muſcles gaſterocnemium, the biceps femoris, and the O gemini! but the poor lady had unfortunately, never learned the uſe of the tendon, ſtiled Sartorius ^*. Though philoſophers generally agree, that this ſame ſinew was originally ſo weakened by the fall, that it has not recovered its ſpring ever ſince.

[252]There is another piece of natural knowledge alſo, which Mr. Carewe hints this lady to have been moſt ſhamefully unacquainted with, till then. But let old Seawell take it for his pains— When a perſon happens to have been bound apprentice to an inſufficient maſter, it cannot certainly be deemed any breach of indentures, to pick up the trade from a more able inſtruc⯑tor.

CHAP. CLXXVI.

WHEN we had recovered from our trance, ſaid Mr. Carewe, for ſuch it might be truly called, where we were both of us rather patients than agents, ſhe wept and trem⯑bled—I bluſhed and ſtarted—ſhe immediately forgot her lameneſs, and ruſhed out of the ar⯑bour. I remained behind, calling myſelf villain, betrayer, perfidious lover, treacherous friend, inhoſpitable gueſt, hypocrite, apoſtate, &c. not one of which vile appellations had I in reality merited for an involuntary deed of phrenzy, without or purpoſe, or reflection. But ſuch was my concern, ſuch my contrition, that in my [253] extravagance I charged myſelf with the ſeemings, as with realities.

I purſued her into the garden, and ſoon over⯑took her labouring toward the houſe, in pain and diſtraction. I took hold of her hand, threw myſelf at her feet, implored her forgiveneſs, pleaded ſurpriſe, paſſion, madneſs, nature, &c. She ſtill continued to weep, and remained ſome time ſilent while I was ſupporting her under the arm, till I led her near the houſe, when ſhe made uſe of this expreſſion: ‘I neither blame you, Sir, nor myſelf, ſaid ſhe, but wiſh ſin⯑cerely, that my death, this morning, had been as ſudden, and unexpected, as your crime.’

The accident of her fall, the marks of which became now very viſible in her leg and wriſts, accounted for her confuſion and tears, and my walking off abruptly, as I did, to London, as ſoon as I had ſeated Mrs. Seawell in the drawing-room, was apologized for, by her telling the company the ſtory I had made her a confidant of, in the garden; and which alſo made an excuſe for my gloomy reſerve, and avoidance of ſociety, all the day.

I did indeed fly precipitately from the houſe, the moment I had diſingaged myſelf, being aſhamed to look ſome of the company in the face, [254] and afraid alſo of embarraſſing the unfortu⯑nate fair one, with my preſence. I pitied her, and condemned myſelf—but there are contin⯑gencies which baffle foreſight, and diſgrace phi⯑loſophy. All that is left for poor virtue to do, is to repair thoſe evils which it can't prevent. And this I was reſolved to do, by every poſſible means in my power.

CHAP. CLXXVII.

I Remained at home, for about a week, ſpend⯑ing my time between muſings and books; often kiſſing and reading over my dear Domino's letter, till I am very certain that I could repeat every ſyllable of it by heart. I found that I owed her eight thouſand pounds; which though an heavy debt, gave me this ſatisfaction, that by this means I might poſſibly have the happineſs of ſoon finding her out; for as it was the whole of her fortune, ſhe muſt be obliged to draw bills upon me for the intereſt; and I was in hopes that I ſhould then be able to diſcover the place of her reſidence, from the date of her firſt ad⯑vice.

[255]I thought it prudent, during this avocation and leiſure, to look a little into my own affairs, and make ſome calculation about my other debts and expences; and upon this inquiry had the ſurpriſe to find, that beſides this eight thouſand pounds, I owed in ſundry ſums, each of which was too ſmall in itſelf to alarm me, to the amount of two thouſand pounds, more.

Thus had I the ſhame and mortification of reflecting that almoſt half my fortune had been the prey of vanity and extravagance, without having purchaſed me any one reſponſible plea⯑ſure, even a tranſitory one, except the five hun⯑dred pounds which I had beſtowed upon the Divorcée, and which will ever remain a ſolid and permanent one, to me. For all the joys I had ever yet experienced, had been contingen⯑cies merely, without having been either my purchaſe, or purſuit.

The cheapeſt thing a man can poſſibly do, is to pay his debts; and 'tis cheaper ſtill to ſell, than borrow. I applied immediately to a land-jobber, for this purpoſe, and marked out a diſ⯑tinct portion of my eſtate to him, which I was reſolved to diſpoſe of. We ſoon agreed upon the terms, but when he came to look into the title, I was diſcovered to have been made but [256] bare tenant for life, with remainder over, to ſome diſtant relation of the teſtator.

This was the firſt knowledge I ever had re⯑ceived, of the reſtriction which my fortune was tied down to. My honour was extremely ſhocked, upon this information, on account of the danger to which my unfortunate creditors, but principally my dear wife and child, were ex⯑poſed, upon the precariouſneſs of my life.

I held a frequent correſpondence with my dear mother, during her life, and had ſeveral inter⯑views with her, by her appointments, at a rela⯑tion's houſe of her's, about a day's journey from my father's—From her I learned that he was, at this time, but juſt entering into his fiftieth year, and was of a robuſt, hale, fox-hunter's conſtitu⯑tion.

In theſe circumſtances, I thought it would be extremely idle in me, to live on upon contin⯑gency, and very diſhoneſt too, to refer my cre⯑ditors to ſo inſufficient a ſecurity. I therefore, for the ſafety of all parties, immediately reſolved upon a ſcheme of oeconomy, which I accord⯑ingly put in practice the very next day.

I found that though I had been made tenant for life, by the will, yet I was left diſpuniſhable for waſte, ſo I diſpoſed of my woods, to a per⯑ſon who had been in treaty with me for them, [257] upon my advertiſement, for the ſum of five thou⯑ſand pounds. I might perhaps have raiſed more money, upon this ſale, had I given notice of it in the public papers; but I tranſacted the mat⯑ter clandeſtinely, as it were, leſt it might poſſibly have come to the knowledge of my dear wife, and have given her an alarm, with regard to her own fortune, or rendered her generous mind uneaſy, about mine.

I laid out this money in the funds, with a reſolution to confine my expences to the income of it. I alſo veſted the rents of my eſtate, in the hands of a truſtee, a bencher of the Inner Temple, and a friend of mine; giving him a ſchedule of my debts, directing principally, that the intereſt of the eight thouſand pounds ſhould be kept ſacred, againſt all half-yearly demands, and three thouſand pounds of the principal pro⯑vided for likewiſe, out of the firſt receipts, the wood-money being depoſited as a ſecurity for the remainder; and that the reſt of my creditors ſhould be paid off in courſe, with a preference ſtill, in favour of the moſt needy.

CHAP. CLXXVIII.

ONE morning, about a fortnight after my adventure in the arbour, as I was reading in my chambers, Mr. Seawell came into the room, after a very abrupt manner, ſhut the door haſtily, and turning the bolt of the lock, ‘You'll excuſe my manners, Sir, ſaid he, but my buſineſs with you, at preſent, requires privacy.’

He appeared to be much diſturbed, and you muſt imagine, gentlemen, ſaid Mr. Carewe, that I could not have been perfectly at eaſe my⯑ſelf, upon this extraordinary interview. O what a powerful thing is guilt! That ſpirit of youth and nature, which but a minute before dared have braved a lion, now trembled at a man.

This affair, my dear Andrews, ſaid he, had like to have ended very fatally, both to you and me, for it was that very five hundred pounds, which the unfortunate man's difficulties then called upon me to join him in a bond for, that ſome time after involved your generoſity, in ſo much diſtreſs and danger. But this relief happened not to be at all effectual to the poor man, for his diſappointments and loſſes in trade, fell ſo [259] quick upon him, that he was obliged to quit the kingdom ſoon after, and abſconded with his wife, into Holland.

When the honeſt man found that he could not ſtand his ground, he ſent me private notice to lay on an execution, in order to ſecure my⯑ſelf in a debt which he had contracted ſolely with a view of preſerving his credit, on the 'Change. I did as he directed, and received the five hundred pounds, upon the ſale of his ef⯑fects.

The next day I paid a viſit to the Jew mer⯑chant, already ſpoken of, and depoſited this ſum in his hands, with directions to remit it over to his friend in Holland, as a ſupport to theſe poor unhappy fugitives. He executed this commiſ⯑ſion with punctuality, and I had the ſatisfaction, ſome time after, to hear that by this help, joined to the aſſiſtance of ſome Dutch merchants, who had been his correſpondents at London, he had been enabled to eſtabliſh himſelf very comforta⯑bly in trade again, at Amſterdam.

This debt, now becoming my own, I imme⯑diately added to the ſchedule which I had al⯑ready given in to my truſtee.

CHAP. CLXXIX.

HAVING now prudently contracted my expences to the bare intereſt of five thou⯑ſand pounds, I thought it proper to quit the Temple, and retire from among a ſett of cotem⯑poraries, with whom I had been uſed to ſpend a much larger income.

I took lodgings at a milliner's, a widow, in London, and kept myſelf pretty much retired there, ſeldom ſtirring abroad, except to ſup, now and then, with my friend and truſtee; or ſome⯑times ſpending a night or two with him, at a little villa he had near town.

Some evenings when I happened to be tired of reading, or not in a fit diſpoſition of mind to ſit down to it, I would invite my landlady and her daughter up ſtairs, to drink tea, or ſup with me. The mother uſed to entertain me with miſtaking one word for another that had a ſimilar ſound, and would really have been a treaſure to Fielding, when he was drawing the character of his Slip-Slop.

Her daughter was young, handſome, and for⯑ward. The mother would frequently leave us together, when ſhe was called down ſtairs, about [261] the buſineſs of her ſhop. Theſe are hazardous experiments. I had before experienced male chaſtity to be a jeſt, and am apt to believe too, that opportunity is generally an over-match for female virtue, alſo. The Parthian exerciſe is their beſt diſcipline ^*. This adventure ſoon added ano⯑ther five hundred pounds, to my ſchedule.

A batchelor's life, who has any principles of honour, is a very aukward and diſtreſſing one. I have often wiſhed that philoſophy could point out ſome way or other, to reconcile morals with nature, and ſtrike every thing out of the cata⯑logue of vices, which is not entered in the liſt of reaſon. I would marry, but could not. The perſon upon whom my virtue and affections had been fixed, was ſnatched from my arms; and while even the moſt diſtant hope of recovering her, remained, it would have been diſhonourable in me to have entered into engagements, with any other woman. Quoi faire, donc?

It was here I lodged, my dear Andrews, ſaid Mr. Carewe, when your bravery and generoſity reſcued me on Ludgate-hill; and from the day of our parting at Iſlington, I retired into the country of England, without remaining long in [262] any one place, in order to avoid fixing my af⯑fections on any woman, who might, during the uncertain and fluctuating ſtate of my mind, have poſſibly attached them too much, either for my honour, or repoſe.

The interval of my life, between that day and this, continued Mr. Carewe, has been chiefly employed in reading, or amuſed with a very few deſultory adventures, without connection, or conſequence, and therefore not worth relating; excepting one, which being equally whimſical and ridiculous, I ſhall entertain you with, at preſent.

CHAP. CLXXX.

HOLD, Mr. Carewe—You ſee, reader, that he is at one of his ſhort catches, here again^*. Juſt touch, and go—Give you hints, and then leave you to gueſs. Perhaps he ſcorned to deſcend into a detail of Mrs. Benſon's bons mots, before the refined Meſſieurs Andrews and [263] Beville; and to ſay the truth, I ſhould be as nice myſelf, were I to perform before ſuch au⯑diences only; but pit, box, and gallery muſt be regarded, now-a-days, by every writer who honeſtly means to pay his bookſeller^*. Beſides, you may ſee by the liſt of my ſubſcribers, what a farrago of readers I am bound down to; and I am now going to fulfil my engagements, to the laſt claſs of them.

I knew this Mrs. Benſon extremely well, and have ſpent many an hour with the mother, be⯑low ſtairs, for the mere pleaſure of hearing her knock words out of joint, while Charles Carewe perhaps, was ſpelling, and putting together with the daughter, above ſtairs. I did not know Mr. Ca⯑rewe, at that time, and only viſited Mrs. Benſon in order to compleat a Slip-Slop dictionary I was then framing, which I have ſince compleated, and ſhall be ſoon publiſhed, for the benefit of the many perſons who are apt to catch words by ear, and repeat them by rote, without knowing either the meaning, or derivation of them.

In this very uſeful dictionary, it may be ne⯑ceſſary, in order to prevent miſtakes, to acquaint the belles and beau's that the wrong word is placed firſt, and the right word oppoſite to it; as for example:

• Diſgeſt—digeſt.
• Ingenious (for ſincere) ingenuous.
• Male (joined with ocean) main.
• Twilight (for a dreſſing-table) toilet.
• Concubine (for a quilt) counter-pane.
• Metrolopus—metropolis.
• Separation (for the ripening of a wound) ſup⯑puration.
• Regiment (for health) regimen.
• Crazy (for lunatic) crazed.
• Cruds—curds.
• Cleopatra (for the doxology) Gloria Patri.
• Harpſicol—harpſichord.
• Diſſolute (for lonely) deſolate.
• Contagious (for proximity) contiguous.
• Immediantly—immediately.
• Sermont—ſermon.
• Laudable (for loud) audible.
• Cock-getting—coquetting.

And ſo forth. But to return to mother Benſon.

She complained to me one day, that a woman in the neighbourhood, upon ſome quarrel that happened between them, had given her very unproarious language.

Another time, ſhe expreſſed great pity for a poor gentleman who lived over the way, becauſe his fortune, ſhe ſaid, was much produced of late.

[265]I was going to Norwich once, and ſhe adviſed me to ſet up at a particular inn, which ſhe had been well entertained at, becauſe ſhe ſaid I might depend on good commendation there.

She aſked my advice, one day, about a law-ſuit ſhe was going to commence, on her bro⯑ther's dying atteſted.

She miſſed ſome tea and ſugar, one morning, and calling her maid to account for it, ſaid ſhe would forgive her, if ſhe would own the truth, for that open confuſion was good for the ſoul.

Speaking once of two young women of her acquaintance, who were ſiſters, Pray obſerve, ſaid ſhe, the difference of natures, in the ſame family, and under the very ſame education too. There's Sally now, imports herſelf with perfect modeſty, and that vile Nancy has turned out an arrant proſelyte.

But to return again to my dictionary—I dare ſay that this work cannot fail of encouragement, in ſuch a dictionary age as the preſent. To what ſublimated pitch of learning have ſome of our great chemiſts in literature arrived, in the current century, who deal out ſcience in eſſence, without the difficulty of ſtudy, as empirics do health in phials, without the reſtraint of regimen. Both of which quinteſſences of refinement, may be well compared to our late invented ſpring poſt-chaiſes, [266] which ſo expeditiouſly convey the mo⯑dern youth of Britain, from ſtage to ſtage, with⯑out the fatigue of exerciſe. But the dictionary library muſt ſtill remain imperfect, till the pub⯑lication of my Slip-Slop Expoſitor, for the reſt only teach you what you are to ſay, but this will inform you alſo, what you are not to ſay, which is abſolutely neceſſary to render the circle of arts and ſciences, full and compleat.

CHAP. CLXXXI.

IN one of the villages where I lodged, ſaid Mr. Carewe, I happened to become ac⯑quainted with a gentleman in the neighbourhood, by his dining ſometimes with my landlord, with whom I boarded. He had great fund of enter⯑tainment in him, not indeed derived from any extraordinary ſenſe, wit, or learning; but he was an humouriſt, had a peculiar caſt of charac⯑ter, and was what the French ſtile un diſeur des bons mots, but ſeaſoned high with ſarcaſm, which rendered him, at once, the delight, and terror, of all his acquaintance; for he was very free of ſpeech, and his deſcriptions of the principal per⯑ſonages, [267] male and female, of that country, which he uſually made the topics of his conver⯑ſation, were doubly pointed, both critical and ſevere.

One evening he invited me, along with a good deal of company, to ſupper at his houſe. His wife was a pretty kind of woman, handſome, lively, good-humoured, and about thirty years of age. He was himſelf an hale man, ſomewhat above forty. They had been juſt ſeven years married, that day, without ever having had a child; or the leaſt alarm about one.

We ſpent the night very chearfully and agree⯑ably together, ſome in dancing, and others in playing cards, till ſupper was ſerved; which was a very elegant one, in honour, as he told us, of his wedding-day. About twelve o'clock, the company divided, the ladies retired up-ſtairs, with his wife, and the men ſtaid below with our landlord, to finiſh what wine was upon the ta⯑ble, and to eſcort the ladies home.

In about a quarter of an hour, a bell was rung, and our hoſt immediately riſing up from his chair, Gentlemen, ſaid he, ye were moſt of you preſent, this very night ſeven years, at the ceremony of throwing the ſtocking, and I have in⯑vited you all, this evening, in order to be ſpecta⯑tors of a rite, which I deſign to introduce, of [268] caſting the night-cap. We ſmiled at the expreſſion, though without thoroughly comprehending the meaning of it, and followed him up ſtairs into his wife's apartment.

We found her in bed, with the reſt of the ladies ſtanding round it. As ſoon as her huſ⯑band entered the room, he took up his night-cap, which had been placed upon his own pil⯑low, and with an audible voice, repeated the following lines:

When he had finiſhed his rhimes, he raiſed up the cloaths with one hand, and with the other ſlung his brown beaver into the middle of the bed. The whole company laughed heartily, and ſeemed highly pleaſed with the humour. For my part, I confeſs that I could not much reliſh the indecency of the action, in itſelf, though his being a ſort of privileged perſon, and this frolick [269] a ſtroke in character, did in ſome meaſure, take off a good deal from the impropriety of it.

When I was taking my leave, I ſtooped down, and ſaluted the fair proſtrate; then turning about to the huſband, ‘Iſſue, Sir, ſaid I, is more the gift of Providence, than of nature; and thoſe from whom this bleſſing is with-held, would do well to think that in the diſpenſations of Heaven, ſome parents may be left without children, becauſe ſome children are left deſ⯑titute of parents.’

He ſeemed to be ſtruck with my expreſſion. Your hint ſhall not be thrown away upon me, replied he. We ſhook hands, and parted. In a few days after, I had the pleaſure to hear that he had adopted two orphans in the pariſh, a boy and a girl, whom he cloathed, and put to ſchool, with a declared, and provided purpoſe, of apprenticing and portioning them, here⯑after.

CHAP. CLXXXII.

THIS Mr. Carewe ſeems really to be a moſt excellent young man. You'll pardon him, ladies, the few ſnacks of wenching he takes, now and then, as you ſee that this is not his purpoſe, and that he would do better, if he could. His ſentiment in this place, is extremely beautiful. The reflection is fine, and the thought intirely new. But in truth, it were a ſhame if a Chriſtian had not been able to have expreſſed himſelf in ſuch a manner, when a Pa⯑gan, Epictetus, was capable of ſaying, that there were no orphans, for Jupiter, the parent of mankind, liveth for ever.

I wiſh I could perſuade your old maids to pick up a little moral, out of this ſentiment of Mr. Carewe: It would be much better for their poor ſouls, than peeviſhneſs, envy, and ſcandal. It might poſſibly, alſo recommend them ſometimes to widowers; and after they were paſt the hopes of being ever made mothers, themſelves, give them a chance of becoming ſtep-mothers to others, at leaſt.

Where women of this claſs in life, happen to be well diſpoſed, they may frequently be very uſeful members of ſociety; for having no con⯑nections, [271] or vocations of their own, they might be ready, upon occaſion, to ſupply the places of thoſe who had. Inſomuch, that I really think no large family in the country, can well be without one or two familiars, or led-couſins, of this ſort, who ſhould be maintained at the ſub⯑ſcriptional expence of all their married male re⯑lations, to the third degree, incluſive.

And in towns, I would have one, two, or or three women, paſt their teemings, eſtabliſhed in every pariſh, according to the ſize of it, who ſhould be ready to be ſummoned, in aid, to pre⯑vent huſbands from gandering away their health, and ſquandering their ſubſtance, when wives lie in; and when they die, to take upon them the go⯑vernment of the houſe and family, in order to keep widowers from injuring their children, by ſecond marriages.

Theſe ſuccedaneums to matrimony, ſhould be always lodged at the apothecary's, ready to be adminiſtered, as occaſion may require; and ought to be ſupported by a pariſh ceſs, to be levied along with the poor-houſe rates, and watch-money. And with regard to the moral of the matter, in polity, as well as war, may it not be ſometimes neceſſary to appoint des enfans perduës, or a forlorn-hope, to be ſacrificed, for the good of the community?

[272]I think proper, in this place, to explain and vindicate myſelf, upon a paſſage, in my ſub⯑ſcription-liſt, where I make a diſtinction between old maids and old virgins, which it ſeems, has given great offence to a very reſpectable ſociety, as I have been informed by a letter I received lately, from a lady who ſtiles herſelf preſident to an academy of old maidens, in the city; and who concludes her epiſtle in theſe words: ‘'Tis very hard truly, Sir, that you will not allow us even the virtue of neceſſity; nor leave us the merit of chaſtity, to make us ſome ſmall amends, for the mortification of it.’

But theſe ladies have miſapprehended me greatly, if they imagine that I meant to caſt any manner of reflection upon their purity, by this diſtinction—far from it: but my philoſophy about the matter, is really this: Let maidens guard their virginity, ever ſo vigilantly, from man, that ſly, ſlow raviſher, which beſieges them, both night and day, time will, at length, ſteal it imperceptibly away, in deſpite of chaſtity, even while they are at their laſt prayers, or wrangling at quadrille.

For virginity, like other flowers, though you ſhould not pluck it, falls off itſelf, when ripe, leaving a dry and ſterile ſtalk behind it. Milton ſays, ‘[273]It withers on the ſtalk, with languiſh'd head;’ And Shakeſpear,

So that old maids, be they never ſo chaſte, can⯑not, with any manner of propriety, be ſtiled virgins—but the haums of virginity, only.

Old maids and batchelors may be compared to ram-pikes, which remain ſolitary in the wood⯑land, after their fellows have been made into utenſils for the uſe and ſervices of ſociety.

CHAP. CLXXXIII.

I Paſſed the tedious interval ſince our parting, in this ſort of vagrant life, in the country of England, except ſeveral half-yearly excurſions, which I took to France, Italy, Germany, and Holland, in purſuit of my dear Domino, upon receiving her bills from any of thoſe places. [274] But all my ſearch was vain, for it ſeems ſhe had provided herſelf with a letter of credit, upon go⯑ing abroad, by depoſiting my bonds in the hands of her banker, which enabled her to re⯑ceive value for her bill, at the time of ſigning it. However, ſhe never did this, till ſhe was juſt ſetting out upon her purpoſed tour; and I found it impoſſible to trace her courſe by any inquiries I could make at her banker's, or even at her lodgings, which I had ſometimes hit upon.

About a month ago, I was ſummoned up to London, upon the death of my worthy friend and truſtee, in order to ſettle accounts with his executor, and to transfer the truſt. Juſt as I had finiſhed this buſineſs, I received a foreign letter, directed to my former apartments at the Temple.

I knew the hand, kiſſed it, and trembled. But when I turned it about to tear open the ſeal, finding the wax black, and the edges of the pa⯑per mourning, my heart gave one loud throb, and ceaſed all motion. My ſtomach grew in⯑ſtantly ſick, and my voice was juſt able to falter out, My Hermes is no more.

In this opinion I was but too much confirmed, after I had had reſolution enough to open the letter, by ſeeing, at the top of it, an order to her banker, to cancel my firſt bond of four thou⯑ſand [275] pounds, which was the very proviſion I had allotted as a portion for my dear child.

The letter dropt from my hands, and I walked about the room, for ſome time, before I had power to take it up again. For to the loſs of my ſon, upon whoſe honours was built my whole ambition, was added the deſpair of ever recovering his dear mother again; all tender, all natural, all virtuous connection, thus at once cut off!

Mr. Carewe then preſented the letter to Mr. Andrews, who read as follows:

The laſt part of this letter, ſaid Mr. Carewe, revived my ſpirits. It cancelled my fears indeed, but the former part of it, had before bereft me of my hopes. I lamented my forlorn condition, I conſidered myſelf as her huſband, or rather her mournful widower, and put on black for her relations, as if they had been my own. At the ſame time I directed one thouſand pounds, out [277] of my adventitious fortune, to be given to the truſtees for the Magdalen-Hoúſe, in aid of that great and two-fold charity, toward both ſoul and body.

The very day I got to London I had inquired for you, my dear friend, at your houſe, ſaid he to Mr. Andrews, and being there referred to your attorney, had the ſatisfaction of hearing that you were ſettled in this country; and the moment I had finiſhed my buſineſs in town, I flew down hither, to throw myſelf into the arms of friendſhip and philoſophy, with a determined purpoſe of taking ſome lodge near you, and ſpending the remainder of my days in ſtudy, contemplation, reſignation, and retirement.

CHAP. CLXXXIV.

MR. Andrews and Mr. Beville were ex⯑tremely charmed and entertained with Mr. Carewe's account of himſelf. The adven⯑tures he had related, both of his own, and thoſe of others, were uncommon, intereſting, and extraordinary; and the generous and virtuous tenor of conduct he had preſerved throughout, [278] though interrupted now and then, by the natu⯑ral lapſes of human frailty, had ſtamped a cha⯑racter for him, as perfect, I am afraid, as fleſh, male fleſh at leaſt, is capable of.

They highly approved and commended the honour and virtue of his deſign, in marrying the moſt amiable and excellent Eloiſa; and joined cordially in condoling with him, on ac⯑count of the unlucky diſappointments he had met with, in ſo honeſt and proper a purſuit. They rejoiced extremely at his purpoſe of taking a houſe in their neighbourhood, and that decla⯑ration had now rendered this friendly Triumvi⯑rate as happy, as it was poſſible for them to be, in their preſent reſpective circumſtances.

They lived together in perfect harmony, at the farm, during the remainder of the ſummer; but there was one particular, with regard to Mr. Carewe, that puzzled and ſurpriſed his two friends extremely. He had related his memoirs to them, with all the appearance of frankneſs and confidence imaginable, ſo as that no perſon who had heard him, could poſſibly have ſuſ⯑pected that any one ſecret, or anecdote, even of the moſt trifling conſequence, had ſtill remained behind. And yet, they had ſeen him frequently receive letters, the ſuperſcription a ſair and female hand, which he never communicated the leaſt [279] of, to either of them; and whatever anſwers he wrote, he always uſed the reſerve of carrying to the poſt-office himſelf.

There was another circumſtance, with regard to this correſpondence, that joined to raiſe their ſurpriſe ſtill higher; which was, that theſe letters were written on mourning paper, and ſealed with black wax. This particular inclined them to ſuſpect that they had come from the fair fugitive, or miſtaken exile; and what further article, re⯑lative to her, need now remain a myſtery be⯑tween them, was both their curioſity and won⯑der. However, it was too delicate a point to touch upon—We have no right over other peo⯑ple's ſecrets; ſo let this continue one, till he may himſelf think proper to reveal it.

The three friends remained together on theſe terms, till about the middle of September, when Mr. Carewe, on the receipt of one of theſe un⯑communicated epiſtles, told Mr. Andrews that he ſhould be obliged to take leave of him for a ſhort time, upon buſineſs of ſome conſequence, which was not then ripe enough to communi⯑cate with his good friends at the farm.

Mr. Beville who was preſent, joined with Mr. Andrews in wiſhing him a good journey, a ſucceſsful event to his new adventure, and a quick return into his preſent ſociety. Mr. Ca⯑rewe [280] thanked them, and appeared for the reſt of that day, more chearful and diſengaged in his converſation and manners, than he had been at any time during his reſidence among them. The next morning he roſe before day, and rode off from the farm, without diſturbing his friends.

CHAP. CLXXXV.

ABOUT a fortnight after their ſeparation, Mr. Andrews received the following moſt extraordinary letter from Mr. Carewe, dated from Condiſciple-Hall:

CHAP. CLXXXVI.

MR. Andrews was both aſtoniſhed and per⯑plexed, upon reading this letter. He did not know how to reconcile the purport of it, to honour; nor yet could he ſay upon what punc⯑tilio of moral, to reprehend it. Mr. Carewe's having entered into an engagement with one woman, while he was riding poſt after another; his ſupplanting a man, with whom he had ap⯑peared voluntarily to have linked himſelf in a league of friendſhip; and his rivalling a real lover, without even pleading paſſion for an ex⯑cuſe; ſeemed all perfectly inconſiſtent with the ingenuouſneſs and generoſity of his character.

And yet, on the other hand, might he not have engaged himſelf in this amour, at ſome interval before his honour and virtue had been awakened toward the amiable Eloiſa? Might not the interpoſition of parents have ſnatched this fair one from his arms, when he had juſt won her affections? Might not the deſpair of ever being able to recover his firſt object, have ſuf⯑fered the ſecond to take place? like mercantile bills, Pay this my ſecond of exchange, the firſt not paid. Whenever a queſtion can admit of a fa⯑vourable [284] conſtruction, charity ſhould ever adopt it; as in the Engliſh laws, every perſon is ſup⯑poſed to be innocent, till the contrary is proved.

After theſe reflections, Mr. Andrews ventured to communicate the letter to his friend. He re⯑ceived it like a man—with reſentment and reſo⯑lution. He lamented his having never heard of the Condiſciple's death, till it was too late to profit of it. And yet what a mortification and diſappointment had he eſcaped, by his ignorance of it! he regretted his death, which had afforded him at leaſt the hope of poſſibility, merely to ſhut it out for ever.

He then ſeemed generouſly to rejoice in an event, which had yielded his adored Ethelinda ſo fair a proſpect of happineſs for life. He had himſelf ſuſtained no wrong, had ſuffered no in⯑juſtice. The injury he had received was from fate alone, and he was reſolved to diſappoint its malice, by ſhewing himſelf, through reſignation, unworthy of the infliction.

Mr. Andrews ſeconded his philoſophy, by adding the latter part of his own reflections, mentioned above, in order to reconcile him to Mr. Carewe, and prevail on him to accept of his invitation to the wedding. This however, he obſtinately refuſed, for ſome time. But [285] Mr. Andrews urging Ethelinda's requeſt, whoſe knowledge of his paſſion he had never been in⯑formed of, and which intirely ſcreened the im⯑propriety of her invitation, at length prevailed upon him to exert a bravery which Mr. Andrews was charmed with; for after that effort ſhould be over, he was in hopes of retrieving his dear friend back again into the world, once more.

Theſe two philoſophic friends then imme⯑diately began to prepare themſelves for the un⯑grateful journey; but were prevented by Mr. Beville's falling ill of a ſlow fever, which had been creeping on him for ſeveral days, and at laſt confined him to his room, the very day that had been fixed on for their departure. His feel⯑ings were too ſtrong for his philoſophy, and though the mind had triumphed, its victory was over the body.

Mr. Andrews ſent directly for a phyſician, and wrote an apology to Mr. Carewe, wiſhing him and the fair Ethelinda compleat happineſs, both in his own name, and Mr. Beville's alſo, who had generouſly deſired his compliments to be added, upon this occaſion. Mr. Andrews was extremely alarmed at his friend's danger, and a good deal puzzled alſo, with regard to the widow's character. From Mr. Carewe's letter did it not appear that there had been an engage⯑ment [286] between them, before her marriage; and yet, at the time ſhe was made acquainted with Mr. Beville's unfortunate paſſion, did ſhe not ſpeak, though with a becoming prudence and modeſty, yet in ſuch a manner, as might have inſpired the fondeſt hopes, ſhould her hand have ever been again at her own diſpoſal? and yet— but woman is woman—varium et mutabile! and love has its own laws; arbitrary, and ca⯑pricious!

CHAP. CLXXXVII.

MR: Beville declined every day, notwith⯑ſtanding all the aid of phyſic, and his life was almoſt deſpaired of, when to poor Mr. Andrews's great ſatisfaction, he ſaw his worthy friend, the clergyman, alight at the door. This viſit had an happy effect upon our patient, his converſation ſoothed his ſpirits, the ſociety of a friend ranks high among the Materiae Me⯑dicae, and his preſcription ſoon reſtored his health. He adminiſtered James's powders to him, and his fever quitted him the next day.

[287]The re-union of theſe three friends, was ſuch a pleaſure, as the reader, who has either virtue or ſentiment, muſt ſuppoſe to himſelf, better than I can expreſs it; and if he wants ſenſe or feeling, no words can convey an idea of it to him. Mr. Beville continued for ſome days con⯑fined to his bed, which left Mr. Andrews an opportunity of communicating to his friend the clergyman, when they were alone, Mr. Carewe's letter, with juſt ſo much of his ſtory, and of Beville's, as was neceſſary to explain, and render it unaccountable, at the ſame time.

The morning that Mr. Beville found himſelf able to quit his chamber, and while they were walking about the parlour, and converſing toge⯑ther in a more free and diſingaged manner than uſual, they perceived a coach and ſix, with a large retinue, driving toward the houſe. They all looked out at the window, without being able to gueſs what new adventure was going to occur, when the equipage ſtopt at the door, and they ſaw Mr. Carewe alight, leading forth the fair mourning bride, by the hand.

Mr. Andrews and the clergyman were much embarraſſed, upon this occaſion, on account of poor Mr. Beville, who changed colour at the ſight, and walked inſtantly away from the window; but quickly recollecting himſelf, he turned about [288] briſkly again, ſaying, My friends, fear me not— I have already paid the fine of diſappointment, and am henceforth free of misfortune, for life.

CHAP. CLXXXVIII.

MR. Andrews was in ſuch confuſion, that he ſuffered his new gueſts to come into the room before he could ſtep forward to meet them. Welcomes, embracings, and wiſhing of joy, were given, and received, with equal ſtiff⯑neſs;

It muſt have been a greater painter of the paſſions than Le Brun, who could have drawn this groupe of perſons up to the life. For though our new gueſts might have been ever ſo capable of juſti⯑fying their own conduct, upon logical princi⯑ples, yet beyond the fixed and ſettled rules, there is an undefinable moral; and in the ſlighteſt ap⯑pearance of diſingenuouſneſs, ſomething highly offenſive to liberal minds.

[289]The beauty of the lovely widow tranſcended her wedding charms, which had then wanted a year of their perfection. Her perſon was now compleatly formed, her carriage eaſier, and more free her air. A lively ſpirit had informed her eyes—not by ſupplanting modeſty, but cor⯑recting baſhfulneſs. The roſes in her cheeks were fuller blown, the cherries became more ripened in her lips, and the pearly whiteneſs of her ſkin, ſhone with ſuperior luſtre ſet in weeds.

This garb declared her ſtill to be a widow, which added to the diſtreſs of the three friends, who were in hopes the marriage-ceremony had been over, without their being obliged to be the mournful witneſſes of it. After about two hours conſtrained converſation, among four of the company, Mr. Beville doing nothing all the while, but gaze and ſigh, dinner was ſerved; which did not hold them long at table, for Mr. Andrews had not been ſufficiently prepared for a wedding feaſt.

After tea and coffee was over, and that Ethe⯑linda had retired to the library, Mr. Carewe, turning to the clergyman, ſaid that he looked upon it as a fortunate circumſtance, to meet him at the farm, upon this occaſion, as the character he had been taught to conceive of him, from Mr. Andrews's repreſentation, might pro⯑miſe [290] an happy event to any buſineſs he ſhould become a party in; he therefore requeſted the favour of him to tye the indiſſoluble, or death-reſolving knot, the next morning; for which, ſaid he, taking a licenſe out of his pocket, and preſenting it to him, this ſhall be your ſufficient warrant.

It is now full time for me, continued Mr. Ca⯑rewe, to reveal to you the only memoir of my life, that has hitherto been kept a ſecret from you, and which I ſhall do in as few words as poſſible, by informing you that my acquaintance with your fair gueſt within here, commenced even ſo early as her birth; for about three years before I had been exiled from my father's houſe, my dear mother groaned her into the world.

The ſurpriſe and aſtoniſhment of the reſt of the company, is not to be deſcribed; they ſtood mute, near a minute, ſtaring at each other, be⯑fore they could recollect themſelves, or be able to form any manner of concluſion from ſuch unexpected premiſſes, till the clergyman, upon looking into the licenſe, pronounced aloud the name of William Beville; who, at the ſound, cried out, Too much, too much, too—and ſunk back again into his chair, after he had raiſed himſelf out of it, to fly into Carewe's arms.

[291]Mr. Carewe ran up to embrace, and wiſh him joy, and the mutual happineſs of theſe four friends was inexpreſſible, but by tears. Mr. Ca⯑rewe then took his brother under the arm, and led him alone into the library, where the fair wi⯑dow ſat reading, reclined upon a ſopha. She bluſhed at ſeeing them come together into the room, and roſe to receive them. Carewe joined their hands, and retired.

Beville ſtill holding his graſp, threw himſelf inſtantly at her feet, unable to ſpeak to her, but with his eyes. She caſt a regard toward him, of tenderneſs and modeſty, and raiſing him up, the contract was ſealed by a mutual and fond embrace.

CHAP. CLXXXIX.

THE next day the lovely Ethelinda's nup⯑tials were celebrated, with all the decency and decorum imaginable. No common-place jeſts, no arch innuendo's, no privileged manners. One might have imagined themſelves preſent at the initiating of a veſtal, rather than a modern [292] marriage. The morning after Mr. Beville taking Mr. Andrews aſide, addreſſed him thus:

My dear brother and benefactor, my unhappy ſiſter brought you no fortune, and her worth needed no addition; but as her loſs wants much repair, you'll give me leave to preſent you with this bill, which Providence ſeems to have kept detached from the reſt of its unmerited bounties to me, in order to inable me to pay my debts, both of obligation and of honour.

So ſaying, he laid a paper on the table, and quitted the room. It was a bill of exchange, on a banker in London, for five thouſand pounds; which his friend the Condiſciple had received as a marriage-portion with Ethelinda, and which happened to have remained unexchanged, at the time of his death.

This amiable ſociety enjoyed the ſeraphic harmony of love, friendſhip, and halcyon ſkies, together, for about a fortnight, till Mr. and Mrs. Beville took their leave, and were juſt ſet⯑ting out one morning, for Condiſciple-Hall, when their journey was interrupted by the threatening of a ſtorm; which riſing by degrees, to the extremeſt height, ſeemed as if Tempeſt was collecting its forces together, from all the elements, to ſhake the earth's foundation to the center:

CHAP. CXC.

THE ſtorm commenced at ten o'clock in the morning, was at the height at five in the evening, and continued without abatement, till twelve at night. It then began to ſubſide, and about four the next morning, the wind ſeemed to ceaſe, as being out of breath; when Mr. Andrews was awakened by his ſervants coming into his chamber, to tell him that one of the neighbouring villagers had juſt then run up to the houſe, to acquaint him that a ſhip had been ſtranded and beat to pieces, near the farm; that the few paſſengers who had eſcaped the waves, were in the higheſt diſtreſs, and that the country was haſtening down upon the ſhore, to make a wreck of the veſſel.

Mr. Andrews, whoſe whole ſoul had received the inſpiration of public virtue, had taken out a commiſſion of the peace for the ſhire of York, as ſoon as his houſe was built; which with the character he had eſtabliſhed, even in the ſhort [295] time of his reſidence in that country, intitled and encouraged the inhabitants within his diſtrict, to call upon him, preferably, on any occaſion where an extraordinary exertion of ſpirit, huma⯑nity, or juſtice, was deemed neceſſary.

He aroſe inſtantly, and ſent to Mr. Carewe and the clergyman, to do the ſame. They all dreſſed with the utmoſt diſpatch, armed themſelves, their ſervants, and the labourers, without diſ⯑turbing Mr. Beville, for fear of alarming the bride; mounted their horſes, and galloped down to the ſhore. At about a mile's diſtance, they ſaw the ſhip, in a ſhattered condition, lying on its ſide, in ſhallow water, on the tide's ebb.

They perceived many bodies floating, ſeveral perſons wading through the ſea, ſome ſtanding ſtill, with imploring arms extended toward the ſtrand, others fainting through weakneſs, and thrown often on their faces by the ſlighteſt wind or wave. The populace that had lined the ſhore, awed by authority, and arms, diſperſed immediately upon the appearance of Mr. An⯑drews, who with Mr. Carewe rode through the tide, attended by their party, to the ſuccour of this poor ſhip-wrecked crew, and ſoon brought them all, the dead, the dying, and the ſurviving, to a little village near the ſhore.

[296]Here they were diſtributed among the ſeveral cabbins, where every manner of hoſpitable aſ⯑ſiſtance was adminiſtered, to recover the ſeeming dead, revive the drooping, and refreſh the ſtrong. The three friends divided the charge equally; and ſeparating themſelves, took dif⯑ferent portions of the village under their reſpec⯑tive care.

Mr. Andrews diſpatched horſemen up to his houſe, for garments of all kinds, both male and female; for there were ſome women among the diſtreſſed, who by their appearances and apparel, even under the ſtrong diſguiſe of their misfor⯑tune, ſeemed to be perſons of ſome diſtinction. The meſſengers ſoon returned, and in a ſhort time after, followed Mr. and Mrs. Beville, who having been awakened by the hurry in the houſe, and informed of this diſtreſsful adventure, aroſe and ran down to the village, in order to join their ready aſſiſtance, in ſo humane an office.

CHAP. CXCI.

MR. Carewe, in viſiting one of the hoſpitals in his department, was told by the wo⯑man of the houſe, that a beautiful young lady had been given into her charge, who appeared to be dead, but that on holding her up by the heels, for ſome time, till a great quantity of water had run off from her ſtomach, then put⯑ting on a warm ſhift, and placing her in an aired bed, ſhe had ſeemed to afford ſome tokens of returning life, and might probably be ſaved, if any one could be got to bleed her inſtantly.

Mr. Carewe quick ran through the ſtreets, crying out for a ſurgeon, a barber, or even a lance; when the clergyman hearing him, came out of a cottage, with a bloody lancet in his hand, and offered his aſſiſtance; ſaying that he had juſt then performed an operation with ſuc⯑ceſs, on a young gentleman who was mourned as dead, by his weeping ſervants. Mr. Carewe ran back with him to his fair patient. The cler⯑gyman pierced her arm, and ſome blood flowed ſlowly for about half a minute, toward the end of which ſhe ſeemed to breathe, and at length her eyes opened.

[298]During this interval, Mr. Carewe leaned over the bed, examining the features of the patient, with a look of earneſtneſs, of doubt, and in⯑quiry; but on her opening her eyes, he threw himſelf on his knees, and catching her in his arms, cried out, My loſt, my recovered love, my conſtancy's reward, my virtue's praemium! O turn, and behold your friend, your lover, your huſband, a penitent at your feet! O let— He was going on, when at the ſound of theſe laſt expreſſions, ſhe interrupted him with a ſud⯑den ſtart, and turning her languid eyes upon him, endeavoured to utter ſomething, when her arm ſtopped bleeding, and ſhe, without a figh or ſtruggle, inſtantly expired in his arms.

The wretched Carewe ſtared wildly on the corpſe for a time, without drawing his breath, or ſpeaking a word; then claſped its cold boſom cloſe to his breaſt, endeavouring, but in vain, to weep; when after holding it there for a mi⯑nute, with his eyes fixed, as in death, he caſt it ſuddenly from him, and ſpringing upon his feet, cried out, I am damned—ſhe is gone, Heaven's meſſenger, to ſend the furies for me! Infinite juſtice muſt have atonement for innocence de⯑filed! No ſalvo's here! I have but one life to pay, but give it freely—O may it be accepted [299] like the widow's mite, and wipe from out my ſcore, the multitude of my offences!

At theſe words he ſnatched up the lance, which the clergyman, through his aſtoniſhment and terror at this extraordinary and affecting ſcene, had left neglected on the table, and would have deſtroyed himſelf with it, if he had not, on the inſtant, recovered preſence of mind enough to ſpring forward with a briſk action, and catch hold of his arm. The poor diſtracted Carewe ſtruggled for a while, till waſting his ſtrength in exclamation, and dropping the lance on the floor, he ſunk into a chair.

Juſt at this moment the door opened, and the young man who had been recovered by bleeding, walked ſlowly into the room, leaning on Mr. Beville, with his arm tied up, his air languid, and his face ſicklied o'er with weakneſs, fatigue, and grief. But under all theſe diſadvantages, it was eaſy to perceive a moſt beautiful compoſi⯑tion of features, a fine proportioned ſhape, with a moſt graceful figure. He was led toward the bed, but upon viewing the corpſe, expreſſed an heavy moan, and fainted on the body.

CHAP. CXCII.

MR. Carewe, whoſe chair had been turned from this ſcene, being rouſed by the noiſe, ſtarted haſtily up, and beholding the dy⯑ing embrace, cried out, What, a rival in death, alſo! O hapleſs youth—O happy rather—no more the object of my jealouſy, but envy— whoſe grief equalling thy love, hath forbid thy life one moment to ſurvive thy loſs!

In the mean time, Mr. Beville and the cler⯑gyman did every thing in their power to recover the young man from his ſwoon; and after they had raiſed him up, ſprinkled water in his face, and applied ſalts to his noſe, they had the plea⯑ſure to find him coming a little to his ſenſes; upon which they placed him in a chair, and ſpread a covering over the corpſe, to hide it from the view of the diſtracted corrivals.

Mr. Carewe ſtood all this while in the middle of the room, with his arms folded acroſs, his eyes fixed on the ground, and his ſoul labour⯑ing with the moſt diſmal reflections; when upon hearing the young man's voice, who had now begun to make acknowledgments to his kind aſ⯑ſiſtants, he ſtared, he liſtened, he ſtarted, and [301] extending wide his arms, Gracious Heaven! cried he out, what will the fates do with me? What! dead, and alive, at once! does Provi⯑dence then make ſport of torments! 'tis impoſ⯑ſible—and yet 'tis certain—'Tis ſhe, my Har⯑riot lives! O let me catch her in theſe arms, once more, though the extreme of bliſs ſhould prove too ſtrong for life itſelf to bear!

He ſprung forward at theſe words, fell kneel⯑ing at her feet, graſped her hand with rapture, and gazed upon her face with fondneſs, ſurpriſe, and joy. Her aſtoniſhment was likewiſe great, and her difficulties no leſs; though Mr. Beville, upon the firſt alarm of this diſcovery, was ſo polite as to remove ſome of them, by quitting the room, and taking the clergyman along with him.

Eloiſa trembled all over, and could not reſiſt the firſt tranſports, her own paſſion ſympathiſing with his; but recollecting herſelf ſoon, and forcing herſelf from his hold, Mr. Carewe, ſaid ſhe, with a bluſh, the ſurpriſe of this adventure, has thrown us both too much off our guard— there is one, I preſume, to whom theſe profeſſions, theſe regards, more properly belong; and I in⯑treat that you may no longer injure your own honour, nor attempt to diſturb my peace, again.

[302]Oh! my lamented, far-ſought love, my ever-eſteemed, and long-purpoſed wife, cried he out with impatience, your miſtake in this particular, has been the fatal cauſe of our tedious and un⯑happy ſeparation. The expreſſion I made uſe of to your ſteward, was fondly meant toward you; and I had before then been for ſome time in queſt of you, and have ever ſince, with con⯑ſtant ardour, purſued your flight in vain, through moſt of the countries in Europe.

I do confeſs my truant youth had been too inſenſible of the love I bore you, at our parting; but upon comparing my ſentiments of you, with the tranſient and unſatisfactory paſſions, with which all other objects had been capable of in⯑ſpiring me ſince, I ſoon perceived my happineſs wound up in yours; your love alone the means, and your alliance the ſole end of all my future bliſs.

As he pronounced theſe laſt words, a ſudden burſt of triumphant tears flowed down her lovely cheeks, and ſhe ſunk into his arms, ſupporting herſelf from falling, by a cloſe embrace; while the o'erpowered Carewe could anſwer only with his arms, his looks, and ſighs. Shakeſpear is dead, nor is there now alive one capable of lan⯑guage or feelings, able to deſcribe a ſcene of ſuch contraſted paſſions; of love, of gratitude; [303] of honour, of contrition; of ſurpriſe, of joy; of ſilence, and expreſſion!

CHAP. CXCIII.

MR. Carewe, as ſoon as he could recollect any thing which did not immediately relate to his paſſion, led his Eloiſa out of the room where the corpſe lay, into one adjoining it, on pretence that ſhe might remain more pri⯑vate here to change her dreſs, and commence a woman now for life. In order to which tranſ⯑formation, he ſent into the next cottage, where the farm-wardrobe had been depoſited, and ob⯑tained for her a compleat ſuit of female cloaths and linen.

He was extremely unhappy about his ſon, whom he apprehended to have been ſwallowed up in the waves, but was too tender to make any inquiry concerning him, which might awaken his Eloiſa to diſtraction. However, upon find⯑ing her, without either lamentation or inquiry after him, returning again to tears and exclama⯑tions, on the death of the lady in the next room, he ſtopt her ſhort, by crying out, But firſt my [304] Hermes, O what of him? Thanks to all-pro⯑tecting Heaven, replied ſhe, in a tranſport, I left him behind at Thoulouſe, when my dear ſiſter, who has juſt expired, called on me there with her huſband, in their route from Mont⯑pelier to Portugal.

I loved her, ſaid ſhe, renewing her tears, with the fondneſs of a ſiſter enlivened by the warmth of a friend. It was ſome years ſince we had parted laſt, I found myſelf unhappy at the thought of her quitting me ſo ſoon, and reſolved to accompany her on her tour; ſo leaving our dear child in the care of my faithful ſteward, I proceeded on the journey along with my ſiſter and brother, and arrived ſafe at Liſbon.

This moſt amiable pair, continued ſhe, about a year before, had loſt two lovely children, their whole ſtock, in the ſmall-pox. The grief of the parents was immoderate, and in a ſhort time affected both their healths. My poor ſiſter had got the addition of a ſevere cold, by ſitting up day and night with her children. Her diſorder fell upon her lungs, and ſoon ſhewed certain ſymptoms of a decay.

My dear brother, who loved her paſſionately, had a conſultation of phyſicians upon her caſe; who after having practiſed on her, without effect, adviſed her going to Spa; from thence ſhe was [305] ſent to Aix, thence to Montpelier, and then to Liſbon. This courſe, which we may better ſtyle a tour, had it been capable of anſwering any other end than mere amuſement, was as neceſ⯑ſary to her huſband, as to herſelf.

Men's minds, they ſay, are ſtronger than ours, and I believe it; but then, I am of opinion alſo, that their ſtrength ſerves them bet⯑ter to reſiſt, than to endure misfortune. Throw them but a moment off their guard, till calamity ſhall have ſlipt into their breaſts, their reſent⯑ments and ſtruggles being greater, the ſooner weaken their force. The convulſions of a giant are an earthquake to thoſe of a dwarf.

Whether ſuch was the caſe, or no, with re⯑gard to this worthy man, or whether his unhap⯑pineſs infinitely exceeded her's, by foreſeeing her early death, I cannot determine, but about a month ago, after we had been at Liſbon near a quarter of a year, he was attacked by a fever on his ſpirits, which put an end to his life in ten days.

What a wretch did he leave behind him! ſhe was deprived of reaſon for three days, and the moment ſhe recovered it, ſhe reſolved upon quitting the kingdom inſtantly. She was redu⯑ced now to a weaker ſtate than ever, and I [306] would have deferred her voyage till the ſpring, but ſhe was inflexible.

I aſked the phyſicians there, what climate they would now recommend to my dear ſiſter, to breathe in; but they replied, that Liſbon was the ne plus ultra of health, and that ſince it had not done her any ſervice, they feared no other region on the globe would avail, except the re⯑turning again to her native air, might produce ſome ſalutary effect; and which was a thing fre⯑quently recommended, by the college.

We then began to prepare for our voyage, for I was reſolved to accompany her into England, and retire with her to ſome private country ſcene, where ſhe had never ſeen either her chil⯑dren, or her huſband, or any thing which might remind her particularly of either.

There would I have remained with her, till ſhe ſhould be either releaſed from a ſickly and unhappy life, or ſo far reſtored to health, as to be able to accompany me in my ſcheme of travel⯑ling, and purpoſe of living abroad. We waited ſome time for a ſhip, at laſt we embarked, the wind changed and ſhifted us out of our courſe, and after ſome days ſailing to and fro, drove us at length, amidſt this perilous ſtorm. The reſt you know.

[307]Mr. Carewe embraced her at this period, wi⯑ping away her tender tears with kiſſes; then leaving her to change her dreſs, went out to in⯑quire after ſome of the paſſengers, whom ſhe ſaid were perſons ſhe had lately become acquainted with, and conceived a friendſhip for; and whoſe ſafety therefore, ſhe was ſincerely intereſted in.

When he got into the ſtreet, he met Mr. Be⯑ville coming from viſiting one of the cottages, and taking him by the arm, You ſee, my dear brother, ſaid he, that Providence has at length, thought fit to bleſs my wiſhes with the poſſeſſion of the amiable Eloiſa again; but I muſt inſiſt upon it that you never reveal the ſecret hiſtory of our love, to any perſon whatſoever, not ex⯑cepting my ſiſter—Had I retained the leaſt glimpſe of hope, of ever recovering her again, I ſhould not have been ſo unguarded, even to my deareſt friends. But though there is nothing in her moſt private memoirs, ſo circumſtanced, and ſo uninformed as ſhe really was, at a cer⯑tain aera, which ought to affect her character, in the opinion of philoſophy or candour, yet wo⯑men or the world are apt to cenſure failings, which their own feelings ſhould incline them to excuſe.

Enough, replied Mr. Beville, and more than was neceſſary to me, my moſt excellent friend—may [308] ſhe make you as happy, as you have rendered me; and if confirmed virtue, on one ſide, and approved honour, on the other, can render you ſo, your union muſt be bleſt. They then walked down together to Mr. Andrews's quar⯑ters, and met Mrs. Beville at one of the doors, having juſt ſtept out to refreſh herſelf, after the fatigue of adminiſtring cordials to two ladies, who had been among the wretched paſſengers, and helping them to put on dry cloaths, which ſhe had provided for them.

CHAP. CXCIV.

DURING all theſe tranſactions, Mr. An⯑drews was extremely active in his depart⯑ment, ſupplying wine which he had ordered down from his own houſe, and raiment which he purchaſed from the inhabitants, to the ſailors, and poor paſſengers who had eſcaped the wreck, and came half naked to the ſhore.

The captain of the veſſel too, was one of the objects which fell under his attention; but he refuſed any kind of help, except brandy; nor did he afford the leaſt manner of aſſiſtance to any [309] one of the crew, though well enough able to have done it, as he had eſcaped free from all damage, but wetting. He ſat by a cabbin fire, drying the cloaths, on his back, ſmoaking a pipe, quaffing off half pints of brandy at a draught, and ſwearing at the ſtorm ſo loud and impiouſly, as were enough to have provoked a ſecond tem⯑peſt.

Mr. Andrews, having now finiſhed his circuit, and provided for every thing in his rounds, came at length to the houſe where we are at preſent, to reſt himſelf, and pay his particular compli⯑ments to the ladies whom he had before left un⯑der the care of Mrs. Beville. He arrived juſt at the time that Beville and Carewe came to the door, and they all walked into the parlour toge⯑ther; where they were hardly ſeated, when the clergyman, who had been active in his office of viſiting, praying by, and exhorting of the ſick, came in, and took his ſeat among them.

Mr. Carewe, impatient to communicate his joy, taking Mr. Andrews by the hand, cried out, in a tranſport, O my dear friend, my Eloiſa is found among the wreck, is recovered to life, and has this moment accepted my hand. Mr. Andrews, overcome both with pleaſure and ſur⯑priſe, had power to expreſs himſelf no other [310] way, than by catching him in his arms, and ſhedding ſilent, ſpeaking tears.

As ſoon as Mr. Carewe could diſengage him⯑ſelf, he turned toward Mrs. Beville and the clergyman, who though one of them knowing nothing at all, and the other nothing material of his ſtory, were both moſt heartily wiſhing him joy, and immediately related to them a ſhort extempore novel of his love, which ſatiſ⯑fied their curioſity, as well as the real adventure would have done.

The greateſt difficulty his invention had to ſtruggle with here, was how to account for his Harriot's appearance in men's cloaths; but the turn he gave to it at laſt, was, that being re⯑ſolved to inform herſelf of every thing worth ſeeing or knowing, while ſhe was in Portugal, ſhe had diſguiſed her ſex under a male habit, that attended by her brother-in-law, ſhe might enjoy a freedom which by the manners of that country, women are reſtrained from.

Mr. Andrews quick perceived the delicacy of Mr. Carewe's intention, and was highly pleaſed with his addreſs and readineſs of invention— Splendide mendax—He then ſent up his compli⯑ments to the two ladies above ſtairs, to inquire how they were; and being anſwered that they were not yet prepared to admit a viſit, he with [311] the reſt of his company, went out together to pay their compliments to their new and fair ally —They found her compleatly dreſſed, in Ethe⯑linda's firſt wedding ſuit, and rivalling the beau⯑ties of her bridal day.

A roral bluſh, which had diffuſed itſelf over all her features, on ſeeing this unexpected com⯑pany come into the room, enriched her charms, and baniſhed from her face all traces of fatigue or grief. They became enamoured of her, at firſt ſight; and Mr. Carewe alſo confeſſed im⯑proved beauties, and acquired graces, both in her ripened features, and now finiſhed form.

He performed the office of gentleman-uſher, and introduced the company to the bride, men⯑tioning the relation, connection, or character, of each perſon, reſpectively. She received them all with the polite addreſs of new acquaintances, joined to the generous warmth of old friendſhips; and after the uſual congratulations, and occa⯑ſional civilities had been paſſed and repaſſed among them, Mr. Andrews took Eloiſa by the hand, and led the way back to the houſe he had juſt come from, as it was the largeſt in the vil⯑lage, and that he had ſome further hoſpitalities to offer to the two diſtreſſed ladies who were lodged there.

CHAP. CXCV.

SOON after they had come into the houſe, a meſſage was delivered to Mr. Andrews, from the ladies above ſtairs, that they would be glad of his company, along with his friends, to return them all thanks for the humane and cha⯑ritable aſſiſtance afforded them, in this great ar⯑ticle of diſtreſs and danger. They obeyed the ſummons, and went up together. They found a lady alone in the room, of a genteel perſon, and about fifty years of age, ſitting on the ſide of a bed, who upon their entrance, roſe up to receive them, and addreſſed them thus:

My generous friends, I have the extremeſt gratitude to acknowledge to you all, for your timely and neceſſary aid, in this our great cala⯑mity; but my thanks are more particularly due to you, Sir, ſaid ſhe, turning herſelf toward Mr. Andrews, who I have the pleaſure to learn has been the firſt mover, and chief inſtrument, under Providence, upon this occaſion. As ſoon as I was capable, continued ſhe, of inquiring upon what coaſt of England I had been thrown, and had heard your name ſounded from below, it afforded me a ſingular joy, to find that we [313] had owed our lives to a perſon, for whom, though but little known, I had been taught by others, to conceive ſo true a friendſhip and eſteem.

Mr. Andrews was equally ſurpriſed and con⯑founded at ſo partial a compliment, but moving up ſlowly toward her, and beginning by degrees, to recollect her perſon, cried out at length, Thou generous parent of my loſt Fanny! welcome from death, and to theſe arms again! O! ſince thy kindneſs could not ſave her precious life, yet let it be ſome alleviation of my grief, that I have had the fortune to reſcue yours.

After they had tenderly embraced each other, the lady begging leave to ſit down, and intreat⯑ing all the company to do the ſame, applied herſelf again to Mr. Andrews, ſaying, with great emotion, O my dear nephew, urge not a ſubject o'er again, which is now paſt lamenting for you, and but revives a fruitleſs grief in me; who if I feel it leſs, at preſent, am weaker ſtill, to bear it! ſpeak to me rather of yourſelf, your children, and your fortunes. Theſe be our only cares now, ſay what of theſe?

Mr. Andrews then gave her as ſhort an ac⯑count of himſelf and his family, as poſſible, by ſaying that he was rich, and they were well; being impatient to inquire about her daughter's [314] health, which he pleaded his emotion and ſur⯑priſe, for not having done ſooner. She anſwered, with the fondneſs of a mother, My dear and only child, thank Heaven and you, is in the room within there, and out of danger; but both her mind and body, being more eaſily affected than mine, have prevented her from being able yet to appear, and join in my acknowledgments.

CHAP. CXCVI.

JUST then, Mr. Andrews's ſteward, who had been appointed to land the paſſengers effects from the ſhip, came into the room to inform him, that he had brought all the luggage ſafe aſhore, and lodged them in the parlour be⯑low. The aunt, upon hearing this, immediately ordered a large deal box to be brought up ſtairs.

She then told Mr. Andrews that ſhe had two preſents to make him, on condition that he would ſummon his philoſophy, in aid, and arm the whole man within him, to abide the teſt. O! madam, exclaimed he, and claſping his hands together, Loſſes which can be e'er for⯑got, may have their ſenſe renewed; but in me [315] what monument can awaken griefs, which never yet have ſlept!

When the box was opened, ſhe took out a picture, and placed it on a chair before him. It was the horrid ſpectacle of his wife, ghoſt-like, and ſlow expiring, on a death-bed. He ſtarted at firſt, though prepared; then ſtanding mute, and motionleſs, before it, with uplifted hands, and head reclined, gazed at the portrait, till it almoſt became his own. Fond Beville wept, the reſt joined too, in ſilent grief; and even the aunt, to whom notwithſtanding this object had now grown familiar, here dropt her ſympathetic tear.

After ſhe had ſuffered them for a while, to in⯑dulge in this ‘ſad luxury, to vulgar minds un⯑known,’ ſhe took out another picture, and placed it on the ſame chair, before the firſt. This object ſurpriſed the whole company, more than the laſt; becauſe it puzzled them, with regard to the order of its ſucceſſion.

It was the portrait of Mrs. Andrews, drawn in perfect health, and beauty's bloom. The aſtoniſhed huſband viewed it o'er with rapture, crying aloud, Juſt ſuch ſhe was, juſt ſuch ſhe is again, an angel heavenly bright! but where the crown of glory, where the ſeraph's plumes, which ſhould have marked her ſpirit for the ſkies! [316] He was continuing thus to rave, when his extaſy was ſuddenly interrupted, by the original ruſhing into the room, and flying into his arms.

CHAP. CXCVII.

IN imitation of the great Timanthes, in his fa⯑mous picture upon the ſacrifice of Iphigenia, I muſt here let fall the curtain, to hide thoſe fea⯑tures, which no painting can expreſs. O reader, there is no deſcribing of this ſcene! the wonder, the joy, the emotion!

I was preſent at this interview, and ſo I hap⯑pened to be on the late execution at Lisbon. But this affected me much more. In the crimi⯑nal caſe, one goes prepared with reſolution, a reflection on the crime, abates compaſſion, and juſtice acquieſces in the rack. Philoſophy be⯑ſides, informs us, that pain is tolerable, only to a certain degree, beyond which, it ceaſes, with life together. But here, the ſpectator is firſt taken by ſurpriſe, and then a willing captive, ſurrenders himſelf up, bound hand and foot, to a tranſport of pleaſure, exceeding into pain.

[317]After the firſt effects of amazement and joy, had a little ſubſided, the clergyman ſtepping for⯑ward, begged, that before any one ſhould call for an explanation of this miracle, the whole company ſhould join him in worſhip, to that Almighty Being, who is the worker of all mira⯑cles, ‘who ſtilleth the raging of the ſea, and the noiſe of his waves, and the madneſs of the people.^*’

The propoſal was readily embraced, and the reſt of the houſe being called together, they all kneeled down to prayer. In the midſt of it he introduced part of the 107th Pſalm, from the 19th to the 32d verſes, both incluſive; which was ſo extremely applicable to the preſent occa⯑ſion, that the whole congregation repeated it af⯑ter him, with as much fervency of devotion, as if it had been an extempore hymn.

When this pious duty to Providence, was ended, and that proper inſtructions had been given, about the unfortunate widow's funeral, they all prepared to ſet out for the farm. The gentlemen ſubſcribed a purſe among them, for the relief of the crew, and to reward the vil⯑lagers. Eloiſa, Mrs. Andrews, and her aunt, having ſuſpended their votive garments, were taken [318] by Mrs. Beville, into her equipage; and the gentlemen attended them on horſeback.

As ſoon as the coach arrived at the farm, little Harry and Fanny ran out to the door, to meet their father—Mrs. Andrews, and her chil⯑dren! Here let me draw the veil, again.

CHAP. CXCVIII.

AFTER dinner, tea, and the happy Eloiſa's wedding, were over, and that all inter⯑ruption of ſervants was removed, Mrs. Beville ſeemed very impatient to have the myſtery ex⯑plained, of Mrs. Andrews's recovery, her long abſence from her huſband and children, with her total ſilence toward them, during that ſo intereſting an interval.

She looked firſt at Mr. Andrews, then at Mr. Beville, thinking it moſt natural for one or other of them, to begin the inquiry—But their whole ſouls were ſo much wrapt up, in the reality of her exiſtence, that the leaſt thought about reconciling of appearances, never once entered into their heads.

[319]She then turned herſelf toward the clergyman, wtth an eye of curioſity, hinting the queſtion ſhe would have propoſed; but he happened to be ſo intirely occupied, in contemplations of an higher nature, that he did not remark the ex⯑preſſions of her countenance, any more than Beville or Andrews had done.

After theſe diſappointments, applying herſelf to her brother, ſhe begged of him, in a low voice, to make the propoſition; but neither he, nor Eloiſa, to whom ſhe alſo addreſſed herſelf, gave the leaſt attention to her requeſt; for their hearts and minds were ſo happily engaged in their own mutual diſcoveries, he of her perſon, and ſhe of his love, that they ſeemed to have no manner of curioſity, at that time, about any matter, foreign to their own concerns.

The impatience of the fair Ethelinda, increaſed at every difficulty—Women love little novels ex⯑tremely, as Mrs. Seawell ſays^*, and finding that the opening of the ſcene, reſted ſolely upon her⯑ſelf, ſhe at length addreſſed herſelf directly to the old lady, in theſe words: Madam, ſaid ſhe, I have borne my ſhare, with great ſincerity, in the ge⯑neral joy, which this happy and unexpected event in your family, has diffuſed among us all; but as I happen to be one of thoſe perſons, who [320] are not ſufficiently ſatisfied with merely being happy, wihout knowing how they have become ſo, I muſt intreat the favour of you, to afford us a detail of all the extraordinary incidents, which muſt have happened to this lady and to you, ſince your leaving this kingdom together.

This propoſition immediately engaged the at⯑tention of the reſt of the company, and they all joined their voices in the ſame requeſt. The good old lady bowed, and prepared herſelf to ſa⯑tisfy their curioſity—but, upon opening her mouth, ſhe was ſuddenly ſeized with ſuch a fit of yawning, that ſhe was not able to utter one ſyllable, for a conſiderable time; and when ſhe had compoſed her muſcles ſufficiently to ſpeak, it was only to deſire a reſpite, till the next morn⯑ing; ſaying, that the fatigue ſhe had undergone, both of body and mind, the foregoing day and night, was then calling upon her ſo preſſingly, for reſt, that ſhe muſt beg leave for the preſent, to retire to bed. The whole company bowed, and ſome of them nodded too; upon which hint, the aunt's motion ſoon became general; and each party following her example, took up a can⯑dle, and walked away ſupperleſs to their chambers.

CHAP. CXCIX.

PErhaps, reader, if you are a female, you may feel yourſelf as much diſappointed here, madam, as the inquiſitive Ethelinda appears to have been, laſt night—but if you are a man, you have reaſon, I aſſure you, Sir, to be greatly re⯑joiced at this interruption, for it is much better that ſhe ſhould yawn herſelf to ſleep, before ſhe began the ſtory, than that you ſhould be obliged to ſtretch your jaws, at her narration.

Women have ſuch a tedious manner of telling a ſtory! with a ſaid he, and ſaid ſhe; then again, he ſaid, and ſhe ſaid; then ſhe came into the room, and coming into the room—with other needleſs repe⯑titions, converſations without ſubjects, characters without manners, language without ſtile, fami⯑lies without likeneſs, paſſion expiring in decla⯑mation, and action ſtanding ſtock ſtill, ſtaring at narrative running by itſelf till it is out of breath.

But prithee, are we to receive no manner of ſa⯑tisfaction upon this point, at all? and becauſe an old woman is apt to talk too much, muſt every one elſe be dumb? No, Sir, by no means. I ſhall do you reaſon, myſelf; but will give you a [322] ſtory, in a few pages, which would have taken her up a volume; for ſhe commenced it the next morning, immediately after breakfaſt, and kept the company up to yawning-time, after ſup⯑per, before ſhe had got herſelf on ſhip-board.

CHAP. CC.

AFTER Mrs. Andrews had been given over by the phyſicians, at Spa, the aunt was writing a letter, one night, to Mr. Andrews, when her daughter came crying into the room, ſaying that her dear couſin had juſt then expired, in her arms. The aunt ran immediately to her bed-ſide, and judging from all appearances, that ſhe was really dead, after ſome effuſions of grief, returned to her letter, and added theſe words, Alas! our Fanny is no more! then ſealing it with black wax, ſent it off to the poſt.

Our Fanny, it ſeems, had only fainted, through weakneſs, at this time; and the nurſe-tender perceiving ſtill ſome ſigns of life in her patient, called for aſſiſtance, and by the applica⯑tion [323] of proper remedies, ſhe was recovered to ſenſe again, before the next morning.

The aunt would then have recalled the laſt paragraph of her letter, but it was too late for that, and yet too ſoon to venture to contradict it. Her death ſeemed only delayed, and ſhe thought it would have been cruel, after he had received the ſhock, to have amuſed Mr. Andrews with a fruitleſs hope, which none of her phyſi⯑cians had in the leaſt encouraged.

Her fair couſin, who was herſelf in a deep de⯑cay, and loved her with a double ſympathy, of affection and diſorder, prevailed upon her, a day or two after her ſwoon, to ſuffer her picture to be drawn, in the very ſituation ſhe then lay; for which ſhe gave this virtuous and philoſophic reaſon, that the looking on it ſometimes, might ſerve to mortify every vain, proud, or preſump⯑tuous thought, which ſhould ever hereafter hap⯑pen to ariſe in her own breaſt, by ſhewing to what a condition, even health, youth, and beauty, might be ſo ſuddenly reduced.

Mrs. Andrews continued in this languiſhing way, all the winter; one week giving hopes, and another deſpair, of her recovery, till at length, toward ſpring, the phyſicians, upon find⯑ing her ſtill holding out in a fluctuating ſtate, pronounced that poſſibly, the warm air of Liſ⯑bon [324] might eſtabliſh her health; which hint was readily taken hold of by the aunt, both out of affection to her niece, and that ſhe imagined her own daughter might alſo receive ſome benefit from the ſame climate.

As ſoon as it was poſſible for them to begin their journey, this female Triumvirate ſet out from Spa, travelling to Breſt, by ſlow marches, to prevent fatigue to the two invalids. The daughter happened to catch cold on the road, her ſea-ſickneſs was extreme, and two days after ſhe had landed at Liſbon, ſhe was ſeized with a diarrhoea, which carried her off in about a week.

CHAP. CCI.

HERE, reader, have I ſaved you a world of embarraſſment, in this part of the ſtory, by ſnatching it out of the mother's mouth. Why ſhould you be reduced to grieve for a perſon, whom you knew not ſufficiently, to be con⯑cerned about? and why ſhould you be delayed the pleaſure of hearing, that upon this loſs, the aunt, to whom by her husband's will, the [325] daughter's eſtate of twelve hundred pounds a year, had devolved, immediately adopted her niece, our old acquaintance and favourite, for her heir. It was this circumſtance which af⯑forded the good old lady the equivocation, of ſaying, at the village, that her dear and only child was in the room within.

Whether the motion of the ſea, like ſtirring up of land, might have given ſome latent ſeeds of health a power to germinate—whether the ſpring of the air, in this dry climate, might have cauſed a briſker circulation in her blood—or finally, which is by no means the leaſt phyſical hypotheſis of the three, whether the ſatisfaction created in her mind, by finding herſelf, her husband, and her children, thus redeemed from difficulty and want, to affluence and eaſe, might have given a ſalutary elaſticity to her nerves, I am not philo⯑ſopher enough to pronounce; nor indeed is it worth our inquiry here, while this truth is cer⯑tain, that Mrs. Andrews began viſibly to recover at Lisbon, in a ſhort time after her landing.

As ſoon as ſhe was reſtored to health and fea⯑tures again, her aunt got her portrait taken^*, for a reaſon of pretty much the ſame religious caſt, with her daughter's; to ſhew, by placing it near the former, that the hand which, to prove the [326] vanity of mortal boaſts, can reduce health and beauty, to deformity and diſtemper, can, in manifeſtation of its goodneſs and mercy, reſtore them both again, to their former vigour and luſtre.

CHAP. CCII.

WHILE Mrs. Andrews continued in a deſperate ſtate of health, and even after her recovery appeared to be poſſible, the phyſi⯑cians at Spa, had laid all perſons about her, un⯑der an injunction to keep her mind, as much, or even more than her body, free from all manner of emotion, either of joy or grief, ſuffering every paſſion and affection of the ſoul to ſubſide to wholeſome apathy.

Our aunt took advantage of this reſtriction. She had never ventured to tell her niece of the miſtaken paragraph, in her letter to Mr. Andrews; and yet without doing ſo, how could ſhe be able to account for ſo fond an husband's never writing a line to his wife, or troubling himſelf, even with inquiring about her health, from the aunt?

[327]This precept of the phyſician, then, moſt luckily removed that difficulty; and having been delivered before the patient herſelf, the aunt immediately declared that ſhe would acquaint Mr. Andrews of this reſtriction, by the next poſt; forbidding him to write any letter to his wife, thenceforward, till he ſhould receive a licenſe from her, to renew his correſpondence.

At the ſame time, ſhe aſſured her that ſhe would direct her ſteward to ſend her conſtant ac⯑counts, of her husband, father, and children, which ſhe would communicate freely to her, while they all continued in an uniform and un⯑intereſting tenor of health; but that ſhe muſt not expect to hear even of a tooth-ach, or a kibed heel, till her mind ſhould be able to ſtand upon its own legs again.

The expiring Mrs. Andrews acquieſced in this diſpoſition of things, not ſo much for the expe⯑diency of the advice, as becauſe her mind had for ſome time, begun to wean itſelf from all hu⯑man connections; not in the leaſt by weakening their force in her breaſt, but by infinitely out⯑weighing them, with the regards of another life.

The good old woman did accordingly direct her ſteward, in the manner ſhe had promiſed, and received continued advice from him, of every change in Mr. Andrews's ſituation and cir⯑cumſtances; [328] his debriſe in Hertfordſhire; his fa⯑ther's death, and will, with his preſent reſidence near Scarborough; it was by knowing of this laſt particular, that ſhe had diſcovered him ſo quickly, at the village, upon juſt hearing the name of Andrews pronounced.

CHAP. CCIII.

HOwever, all theſe articles of his fortunes, both good and bad, with old Beville's death alſo, ſhe kept ſtill a ſecret from her niece, till after her being pronounced out of danger, at Lisbon; and then, upon her beginning to re⯑commence a correſpondence with her husband, ſhe was made acquainted with the truth of the ſtory. This information rendered her extremely unhappy, ſhe reflected with vaſt uneaſineſs, upon her dear husband's ſtill continuing in the ſame error; and was for immediately letting fly an expreſs to England, with a letter from her own hand, to acquaint him of her recovery.

But her aunt reſtrained all this extaſy, by ſay⯑ing that the too ſudden ſurpriſe and joy, of ſuch an unlocked and unhoped-for diſcovery, might [329] poſſibly produce ſome dangerous effect upon his health, or mind; that ſhe might have the happi⯑neſs of ſeeing him, and her children together, much ſooner by ſetting out immediately for Eng⯑land, herſelf, than by waiting for his coming to Lisbon; that ſhe would hire a ſhip, and ſail di⯑rectly to Harwich, which was near her own ſeat; and that an expreſs from thence, would reach him ſooner than the pacquet from Lisbon, going round by London.

The deſign of this very good old gentlewoman, was to have wrote to Mr. Andrews, as ſoon as ſhe ſhould arrive at her own houſe, to come to her, and bring his children along with him; without undeceiving him about his wife. This miracle ſhe meant to have opened to him, by degrees; and one of the methods which ſhe had purpoſed to have employed toward that end, was to ſhew him the two portraits, in the ſame order that ſhe did at the village.

She imagined that upon his ſeeing the living picture, ſo reverſely ſucceed the dying one, it might naturally raiſe ſome hope, ſome ſuſpicion, ſome inquiry, in him, at leaſt, how it was poſſible to have obtained the ſecond portrait, after death. But we have already ſeen how little ſucceſs ſhe had upon that experiment; for the hurry of Mr. Andrews's paſſions, when his dear Fanny [330] was the object, left him no leiſure for the exer⯑ciſe of his reaſon or reflection. Which, joined to the impatience of the fond Mrs. Andrews, precipitated the denoüement, before the plot had ripened to maturity.

Mrs. Andrews approved extremely, of this whole plan of operation, and they began to pre⯑pare themſelves for the voyage, with the utmoſt expedition; and hired a ſhip to ſet ſail the next morning, for England; when an extraordinary accident happened, which detained them at Liſ⯑bon, for above four months after their prepara⯑tions for ſetting out.

CHAP. CCIV.

THERE was a prieſt, who lodged in the ſame houſe with them, and with whom they had become very intimate, by their frequent intercourſe with the people of the family. He was a lively agreeable perſon, with an elegant taſte in polite literature; and having been born and bred a Frenchman, had ſomething extremely eaſy and polite, in his addreſs and manners.

[331]The only point of good breeding, in which he ſeemed to be deficient, was his too frequently urging the argument of religion, in converſation. But all his ſcholaſtic divinity, and jeſuitical ſo⯑phiſtry, were with eaſe expoſed, by Mrs. An⯑drews, from the extreme perſpicuity of her own natural ſenſe, aſſiſted by the inſtructions ſhe had ſo frequently received, from her learned and in⯑genious friend, the clergyman.

Mrs. Andrews's underſtanding, with her re⯑turning beauty, began ſoon to attract the regards of the abbé; and his particular addreſs toward her, became at length, ſo remarkable, as to give her offence. When ſhe perceived it, ſhe com⯑menced a reſerve, by degrees, till ſhe had with⯑drawn herſelf intirely from any manner of ſo⯑ciety with the family where ſhe lodged; and af⯑terwards refuſed the viſits of the abbé, on pre⯑tence of indiſpoſition.

Affairs were in this ſituation, when a ſhip was hired, and the ladies were to have ſet ſail the next morning, at ten o'clock. But at the hour of twelve, the night before, after they had both been in bed for ſome time, they were awakened by a loud knocking at the portal of the houſe. The door was opened, and the noiſe ceaſed there for a few minutes, but was again repeated at the bed-chamber [332] door, where Mrs. Andrews and her aunt lay.

They immediately called out to inquire the cauſe of this diſturbance, and were anſwered by their landlady, who in a moſt doleful tone of voice, informed them that the moſt high and holy court of Inquiſition, had ſent their ſecretary with a guard, to take Mrs. Andrews into ſafe cuſtody, till a tryal ſhould be appointed her, for certain blaſphemies, and profane expreſſions, uttered by her againſt holy mother the church, in derogation of antient reliques, modern mira⯑cles, and divine ſaint-worſhip.

The unhappy Mrs. Andrews quick perceived the prieſt's hand, and the cloven-foot together, in this moſt horrid proſecution; which appeared ſtill plainer, after ſhe and her aunt had dreſſed them⯑ſelves, and opened the door, when ſhe ſaw the abbé enter the room, alone, with his arms folded, and his countenance maſked under an aſſumed vizard of ſorrow and compaſſion. But ſoon ſhifting his ſaint's look to a ſatyr's leer, he whiſpered to her in French, that it was in her power to diſmiſs the ſuit, on the inſtant; and that upon ſuch very eaſy terms as theſe—merely to prefer love, liberty, and life, to priſon, death, and torture.

[333]I hope that none of my readers will harbour the leaſt manner of doubt, with regard to Mrs. Andrews's option, upon this occaſion. My fe⯑male readers, I dare ſwear, have already deter⯑mined the choice for her, between theſe alter⯑natives, as the ſtory of the nuns of Collingham ^*, is one of their ſtrongeſt articles of faith.

‘I doubtleſs do prefer, ſaid ſhe, ſpeaking aloud, love, liberty, and life, to priſon, death, and torture—but then, by infinitely greater odds, do I prefer priſon, death, and torture, before proſtitution, infamy, and wrath. I therefore ſubmit myſelf, not to the juriſdiction of this court, but to the diſpenſa⯑tions of Providence, which has already reſ⯑cued me from a more imminent danger, even than the preſent; but if a ſecond miracle in my favour, may be too much for me to ex⯑pect, I ſhall ſtill hope, that implored Heaven will proportion my ſtrength to the ſtruggle, and raiſe my virtue above my torments.’

CHAP. CCV.

THE condition of the unhappy aunt, who remained in uncertainty about her dear niece's life or death, during ſeveral months, may well be imagined, without the aid of deſcription. For the walls of the Inquiſition cut off from the wretched priſoner, all manner of communica⯑tion with the world, during her diſmal confine⯑ment in that purgatory.

She frequently applied to the judges of that moſt iniquitous court, for leave only to ſee her niece, even in the preſence of any of their own officers; but was inhumanly denied that ſatiſ⯑faction. She then drew up a petition, and watched an opportunity of preſenting it, in per⯑ſon, to his Portugueſe majeſty; which happened to have this good effect, that though it did not obtain her releaſe, it preſerved her, by the king's interceſſion, from ſuſtaining any manner of vio⯑lence, or undergoing a tryal, during her confine⯑ment there. For the miniſter, upon hearing that a Britiſh ſubject of ſome note, was in queſ⯑tion, thought it politic to temporiſe with ſo po⯑tent an ally as England, while a Spaniſh war was depending.

[335]The aunt, at one time, drew up a memorial, ſetting forth the real ſtate of the caſe, with the iniquity and malice of the abbé's proſecution; which ſhe had deſigned to have delivered into the court of Inquiſition. But upon communicating it to her landlord, he adviſed her moſt ſtre⯑nuouſly, againſt it; ſaying that inſtead of re⯑deeming her niece by this method, ſhe would infallibly involve herſelf, in the ſame misfortune, even without the leaſt hope of redemption; for that the defamation of a prieſt, or the leaſt cen⯑ſure againſt the church, was held, among them, to be an infinitely more deadly ſin, than the higheſt profanation of God, or religion itſelf.

In this dreadful ſituation had both theſe un⯑happy women remained, for about four months, without any manner of conſolation; except this only, which they each ſeparately enjoyed, that poor Mr. Andrews had not been yet unde⯑ceived, with regard to his dear Fanny's ſup⯑poſed death. At the end of this period, Eloiſa, with her brother and ſiſter, arrived at Lisbon, and happening to take lodgings in the ſame hòtel with our aunt, became ſoon acquainted with this unhappy ſtory.

They all moſt cordially commiſerated her misfortune; and the brother-in-law happening fortunately to be nephew to the new ambaſ⯑ſador, [336] who had lately arrived from England to renew a treaty of alliance between the two crowns, went inſtantly to wait upon him, and obtained his promiſe that he would ſolicit the miniſter of Portugal, for Mrs. Andrews's releaſe, and if refuſed, would even proceed ſo far, as to intereſt his own court, on her behalf.

He kept his word punctually, with his ne⯑phew, and ſucceeded in his ſuit; but not time enough to afford him the ſatisfaction of knowing it; for that good and unhappy man died before Mrs. Andrews had been ſet at liberty, which ſhe obtained but juſt time enough to acknowledge her obligations to the ladies, and to accompany them, along with her aunt, in their voyage to England.

CHAP. CCVI.

BUT to return to the farm. Theſe eight perſons formed one of the moſt extraordi⯑nary and moſt amiable ſocieties, that can well be imagined. The ſenſe, virtue, fondneſs, friendſhip, and chearfulneſs of the whole com⯑pany, rendered them not only agreeable to each other, but the objects of envy or admiration, to all the world beſides.

The only interruption to their enjoyments, was what Mrs. Carewe's grief for her brother and ſiſter, uſed often to occaſion, at firſt, till it had ſubſided by degrees, to a tender, but com⯑poſed concern for their loſs, which was confined to her own breaſt, and rarely broke out any more, to the diſturbance of the company.

This charming groupe of friends continued together at the farm, till the middle of Decem⯑ber, when Mr. Beville invited them all to ſpend the Chriſtmas with him, at Condiſciple-Hall— From thence they proceeded to the deceaſed colonel's ſeat, to paſs their Eaſter with Mr. Ca⯑rewe; and then returned to the farm, on the Whitſuntide following.

In this ſtated rotation of friendly viſits, the Triumvirate ingaged to each other, to enjoy the [338] three great feſtivals of religion together, during their lives; appointing the worthy clergyman to be chaplain and almoner to this ſociety, which ſubſcribed among them, a purſe of three hun⯑dred pounds a year, to be diſtributed in charity, at his ſole diſcretion.

The union and harmony of this happy family of friends, ſubſiſt unbroken ſtill, and ever muſt ſubſiſt; for their connections are founded on virtue, and reciprocal obligation. Nothing worth relating has ſince occurred among them, except the birth of children, and the death of Mr. Carewe's father, by which his fortune has received an addition of three thouſand pounds a year,