CHAPTER I.

HIS horſe grew tired before he had earned half his hire; ſo that it was late at night before Mr. Carewe had reached the inn at Scarborough. The reader muſt have been a lucky traveller, if he does not know that the beaſt, whether through ſympathy, electricity, contac⯑tity, or any other word, quod exit in y, commu⯑nicates its own fatigue to the rider, as if, mar⯑riage [2] or Centaur-like, they were but one fleſh. And, indeed, in many other inſtances in life, the tedious urging of a Perſon to an unwilling act, is often more tireſome than the doing twice as much oneſelf. Mr. Carewe eat a poached egg, drank a pint of negus, and retired to bed.

The next morning he went down early into the kitchen, to order his breakfaſt, where he met with ſeveral perſons, on the ſame errand, and the landlord among them. He enquired of this latter, where or how near the town one Mr. Andrews lived, who he was informed had lately come to reſide in that country. The hoſt replied, that he was ſettled, as well as he can be ſettled, on the northern road, about a mile from the town; that he was but little known in the Country, for that all his neighbours looked upon him to be mad, as he lived intirely at home, and ſpent all his time in reading of books.

[3]A gentleman who ſtood by, and had endea⯑voured to interrupt this declamation, addreſſing himſelf at laſt to Mr. Carewe, ſaid, You are not to take the character of that gentleman, Sir, from the deſcription of our hoſt here, for he may be one of the many who are incapable of diſtinguiſhing between a common and a peculiar character; and fools, ſaid he, are apt to impute every thing to frenzy, which riſes above the ordinary level of dullneſs.

Mr. Beville then propoſed to Mr. Carewe, that they ſhould breakfaſt together, as he ſhould be extremely pleaſed to cultivate an acquaintance with any perſon who might have the leaſt ſocial connection with his amiable friend Mr. Andrews. Mr. Carewe bowed with that eaſe and compla⯑cency that was natural to him, and ſtretching forth his hand toward the door, ſaid, in effect, Sir, I am ready to attend you.

During breakfaſt they converſed familiarly to⯑gether, upon general topics of politics and let⯑ters, and did not, like attorneys, proceed im⯑mediately to the purpoſe of their meeting. There is in ingenuous minds, under the advantages of a liberal education, a certain native freedom, and a well-bred eaſe, which, at firſt ſight, ren⯑der perfect ſtrangers as familiar, as if they had been old and intimate acquaintance.

[4]At length Mr. Beville ſaid, that he had come that morning from Mr. Andrews's houſe, as he uſually did every day, to drink the waters, and bathe in the the ſea, for a diſorder which he had been for ſome time ſubject to, namely, the ſcurvy; which inſulars are generally afflicted with, and is the root whence all the rotten branches of diſtempers, peculiar to nations ſur⯑rounded by the ocean, uſually ſpring. He then aſked Mr. Carewe where, and how long he had been acquainted with Mr. Andrews.

He told his name, and was proceeding to give him a particular account of his acquaint⯑ance and attachment to Mr. Andrews, when he was interrupted by an exclamation, O, Sir, I have you all by heart, already; I have frequently heard our friend mention you with the higheſt fondneſs and eſteem; lament, of late, his not knowing where to direct a line to you, and of⯑ten wiſh, after his warm manner, that ſome fortuitous concourſe might happily throw us three together, in ſome retired ſcene, where we might mutually know, approve, and rejoice in each other. This fortunate criſis, added he, has at length arrived, and I am impatient to make the welcome preſent to my friend.

Mr. Carewe bowed, they embraced, diſcharg⯑ed their bill, and walked away together to the [5] farm, as it was ſtiled, where they found Mr. An⯑drews reading in an Arbour in his garden, hav⯑ing juſt retired from the heat of the day, after pointing out ſome works to his labourers.

CHAP. II.

I Would here deſcribe the meeting of Mr. An⯑drews and Mr. Carewe, but for the follow⯑ing reaſons. You have ſeen two friends meet, therefore to you it would be ſuperfluous. Or, more probably, you might never have ſeen two friends together, any way, in your oldeſt life; ſo that to you it might appear improbable. For it was not like two merchants meeting upon Change; it was not like two juſtices ſaluting at a ſeſſions; nor even like two neighbours ſhaking each other's arms out of the ſockets, at a fair. In ſhort, it was not like any thing you may have ever ſeen, except you have had the extraor⯑dinary chance of being preſent on the meeting of two friends^*.

[6]But then you are to obſerve, that, by this ex⯑preſſion, I do not mean ſuch connections as the moderns, by way of compoſition with morals, are reduced to aſcribe that high title to; but ſuch friends as may be quoted from among the antients, ‘"In this dull age ſcarce underſtood."^*’ between whom, and the preſent race, there is as much difference, as between the man that Diogenes was ſearching for, at Athens, and thoſe who, ignorant of the reproof, laughed at his extravagance^†. David Simple too^‡, who ſought through the two great cities of London and Weſtminſter, in queſt of a friend, proceeded exactly upon the ſame errand with the philoſo⯑pher. For a true man is a real friend. But the qualities which are requiſite to conſtitute this [7] character, have been ſo long loſt in the world, that Cicero cries out, even in his time, Haec genera virtutem non ſolum in moribus noſtris, ſed vix jam in libris reperiuntur: Chartae quoque, quae i⯑lam priſtinam ſeveritatem continebant, obſoleverunt.

Epicurus, in his morals, prefers friendſhip before any other virtue. St. Evremond ſays, that ‘juſtice is only a moral, eſtabliſhed for the convenience of human ſociety; it is the work of man; whereas friendſhip is the work of nature.’ One might imagine that the Saint had Love rather, in contemplation, in this definition. I carry the ſubject higher, and deem friendſhip to be an angelic virtue. Nay, higher ſtill. For friendſhip proceeds farther than the having care over us. It will induce us to ſacrifice even ourſelves for its ſake, and therefore ap⯑proaches nearer to the excellence of a God—A God who died for us!

And here I confeſs, that I feel ſo ſtrong an impulſe upon me, to acquaint my readers with my own ſituation in life, with regard to this par⯑ticular, that I cannot refrain from letting them know, one and all of them, which I hope, in other words, will be every one who can read Engliſh, that I have ſufficient reaſon, from a long experience of my own, joined to the ac⯑counts I have occaſionally received from others, [8] to affirm, that I have been all my life placed under the patronage of all the real and diſin⯑tereſted friends in theſe kingdoms.

And as a juſt ſenſe of my obligations, upon this account, calls on me here, for proper ac⯑knowledgements, the thread of my ſtory preſſing me, at the ſame time, not to diſcontinue its weft, I ſhall beg leave to refer the curious reader to my appendix to this volume, pages firſt and ſecond, for a full and true account of this mat⯑ter; and in the third and fourth pages, ditto appendix, he will find a catalogue of the many and great benefits which I have myſelf received, and which others may alſo derive, from ſuch advantageous clientcies.

CHAP. III.

AFTER the uſual queſtions and unuſual tranſports were over, Mr. Carewe deſired Mr. Andrews to ſhew him his demeſne, his huſ⯑bandry and improvements, which he replied he would do, without ſtirring out of the ſpot; and taking out a pocket-book, he opened a map, of forty perch to the inch, in which he ſhewed him the whole farm, neatly laid down, divided and [9] denominated, as the wheatfield, the meadow, the pigeon-park, &c.

After Mr. Andrews had fully inſtructed him in the topography of the draught, you may be ſurpriſed perhaps, ſaid he, at this conciſe and figurative manner of anſwering your requeſt; but, in general, people propoſe this queſtion, more out of complaiſance than curioſity, while others accord it out of oſtentation, rather than good-will. And, as vanity is ever more active than civility, I have ſometimes known an old gouty fellow fatigue his grandſon, in leading him round an improvement of his own making. And yet, after all his ſweat and toil, think you, added he, that he would know ſo much of the matter, or be able to deſcribe the place ſo well to others, as he might from ſuch a diagram as this, without moving any thing more than a finger or an eye.

But with regard to the plan now before you, continued he, I muſt obſerve one thing to you, which otherwiſe might require your going to the ſeveral cloſes, to inform yourſelf of. You would naturally imagine, from the different de⯑nominations, that the pigeon-park had a dove⯑houſe in it; that the meadow ſupplied my ſta⯑bles with hay; the wheatfield ſupported my family with bread; and ſo of the reſt.

[10]But not one ſyllable of all this, I aſſure you, Sir. Theſe diviſions indeed, I ſuppoſe had been originally named from reſpective merits of the kind; and, like other titles, theſe are ſtill re⯑tained, though the qualifications which formerly gave riſe to them have long ſince ſurceaſed. And in truth, added he, I have generally conſi⯑dered all the parade of heraldry, in the ſame light; for, reſpecting qualities, not quality, I am apt to ſtile ſome peers of the realm, in alluſion to my own demeſne, by the cognomens of pigeon-park, meadow, wheatfield, &c. who, as Sir Ri⯑chard Steele ſays of a Grubſtreet paper, can pro⯑duce no merit beyond the title. Titles which diſtinguiſh not merit, are but nick names; as a deformed man or woman are in deriſion ſtiled my lord or my lady.

CHAP. IV.

THE houſe was ſituated exactly as the learned Dr. Cheyne recommends, in his Eſſay on Health and Long Life. Fronting the eaſt, to receive the full benefit of the firſt ſun: on the ſide of a gravelly hill, that the foundation may be dry: over a running water, to give a [11] motion to the air; and unincumbered with trees, which are apt to confine the damps, and keep them hovering about the manſion.

The houſe was what was ſtiled a Batchelor's Lodge, but ſo well contrived, that, if Mr. An⯑drews ſhould ever double his condition, he might, at the ſame time, double his houſe too, without having occaſion to alter any part of the building; for his was not a ſmall houſe, but rather half a large one. ^*

A neglect of this ſort of oeconomy, is too generally ſeen in moſt of the villa's of young men of fortune; who are apt ſeldom to frame any purpoſe beyond the preſent expediency; which ſubjects them frequently, as future con⯑tingencies may happen, to the aukwardneſs of diſproportioned additions, the inconvenience of returns, or traps for whirling eddies, the expence of altering what has been already built, or of raſing the whole, to begin again anew. In oeconomy, as well as morals, the frolic of the ſeaſon, ſhould never be inconſiſtent with the ſcheme for life.

[12]The furniture was perfectly ſimplex munditiis, and, according to the precept of Marcus Varro, in his Eſſay on Entertainment, rather neat than fine, elegant than rich. The bedſteads, chairs, and tables were all of oak or walnut, becauſe of our own growth; and the curtains, ſeats, and hangings, of ſtamped linnen; becauſe, ſaid Mr. Andrews, it is our own manufacture, looks handſome at firſt, and, that the being obliged to have it waſhed ſometimes, renews its freſhneſs, and gives employment to the poor.

Such was Mr. Andrews's expreſſion, and quite in his manner, who conſtantly took advantage of every opportunity of inculcating the god-like virtue, and ſoul-ſaving moral, of charity and benevolence. Here now, had I been inclined to have ſwelled my volume by notes, I might have introduced the word philanthropy, in this place, inſtead of benevolence, which would have afforded me the opportunity of informing the generality of my polite readers, that philanthropy is a plaguy hard Greek word, which in down⯑right plain Engliſh means nothing more than a love of mankind.

But in the firſt place, the writer of theſe me⯑moirs, is far above ſuch bibliopoliſt arts; and, in the next, the word philanthropy would not have ſufficiently comprehended the full ſcope of [13] Mr. Andrews's benevolence; for his was not confined to human nature alone, but extended itſelf throughout the whole animal creation, from the Leviathan of the deep, to the emmet of the field. And, in order to awaken ſuch ſentiments among his domeſtics, along with other devices for the ſame purpoſe, he had placed this text over his ſtable door, A righteous man regardeth the life of a beaſt.

CHAP. V.

WHEN they came into the parlour, they found dinner ſerved; which was a true monaſtic meal; only one joint of mutton, and a ſallad. But they were all in health, eat heartily, and converſed chearfully together. Mr. An⯑drews obſerved upon the frugality of his board, but aſſured his friends, that this oeconomy pro⯑ceeded more from Epicuriſm, than parſimony; for that he had always perceived an higher reliſh to one diſh, than to many; and that various meats were apt to perplex the choice, and weaken the appetite, by dividing its taſte.

[14]Mr. Beville took occaſion, from this hint, to philoſophize upon this ſubject, by remarking that ſingle objects are better obſerved by the eye, than plural ones; that variety in proſpect, like many angles in architecture, diſtracts the viſion, inſtead of filling the ſight; and that the ſea engages the attention of the mind, as much from its uniformity, as its vaſtneſs. In fine, that variety in general rather diverts, than ſatiſ⯑fies the eye.

Mr. Carewe wrought the ſubject ſtill higher, by running the analogy into a moral, ſaying, that in love, as well as food, a craving for variety was the certain ſign of a ſickly appetite; that temperance and conſtancy were the beſt preſer⯑vatives of health and vigour; and that, as pro⯑vidence purſues its ſeveral purpoſes by uniform means, it might not be unreaſonable to con⯑clude, that a fondneſs for change was more con⯑ſonant to a ſtate of depravation, than of nature.

After this manner did they coverſe together, in the ſpirit of antient ſympoſiac's, during their meal, a bottle of wine, and a pot of coffee. After which Mr. Andrews aſked Mr. Carewe, whether he choſe to play cards; to which he replied, that he had no particular inclination to any amuſements of that kind, but was always ready to comply with the diſpoſition of his com⯑pany; [15] and deſired Mr. Andrews, as maſter of the revels, to appoint the entertainment for his gueſts. No, Sir, interrupted Mr. Andrews, I do not underſtand the punctilio in that ſenſe; for I conſider a man in his own houſe, to be a maſter to his domeſtics only, but to his friends a vaſſal. However, as you ſay, Sir, added Mr. Beville, that you are ready to comply with the humour of the company, I ſhall make ſo free as to acquaint you, that neither Mr. An⯑drews, nor I, chuſe play of any kind.

Agreed, replied Mr. Carewe, for my part, 'tis compliance, and not choice, that ever induces me to ſit down at a card-table. There are three things requiſite to a gameſter; a love of play, a knowledge in its myſteries, and a fortune to ſup⯑port it—or better, no fortune to loſe. In every one of which, I am myſelf deficient. Nay, I muſt always play at a diſadvantage, even upon equal terms, for the winning of fifty guineas could not make me happy, and the loſing of them might render me uneaſy. I have por⯑tioned out my income in a certain even propor⯑tion, and think that it would be extremely indiſ⯑creet in me to ſtake any part of it upon a hazard, which might injure my oeconomy, without im⯑proving my fortune: for fifty guineas are more [16] than I want, and are, at the ſame time, more than I can ſpare.

CHAP. VI.

UPON which they retired to the library, where, after ſome general converſation, which the ſcene both hinted and inſpired, Mr. Carewe repeated to Mr. Andrews the diſ⯑courſe which had paſſed in the morning, at Scarborough, between the hoſt and him. Mr. Andrews ſmiled, and replied, that moſt of his preſent neighbours, as well as ſome former ac⯑quaintances in life, had conceived the ſame notion of him, becauſe he had generally ſequeſ⯑tered himſelf from the world, and mixed not in their ſports or entertainments, their races, cock-fightings, hunting-matches, or play.

In all things of an indifferent nature, ſaid he, one ſhould certainly conform to the manners of the world, in order to avoid the unſociable and affected character of ſingularity; but in reality, added he, theſe things are by no means indifferent to me, and I am ſo far from having any manner of taſte or paſſion for ſuch amuſe⯑ments, that I rather feel a diſreliſh to ſome of [17] them, and an abſolute averſion, even to horror, to others.

I have, continued he, made experiments upon every article in life, which bears the name of pleaſure; and the firſt thing that diſguſted me was a crowd. I ran headlong into all manner of public places, with that giddy eagerneſs of youth, which is natural, before one has given themſelves leiſure to enquire either into the ends or motives of their actions. But, after having ſuſtained much ſqueezing, ſweating, and joſtling, at balls, feaſts, ſhews, and maſquerades, for many years, I began to find out the true defini⯑tion of a crowd, to be, a certain combination of an indifinite number of perſons, to render each other mutually uneaſy. ^*

And beſides, with regard to the boiſterous and unmeaning mirth one is generally ſtunned with, in large companies, which may be ſtiled, not the converſations, but the convulſions of ſociety, I have always looked upon laughing, without ſen⯑timent, to be merely hiſterical, and needed the aid of aſſa foetida. I have ſometimes imagined, that, in the days of antient philoſophy, when men uſed to give rational rebukes, but after an [18] abſurd manner, as in the inſtance of Diogenes and his torch, mentioned juſt now, and many others, one of the Sages would have brought a wet mop into ſuch a merry-making aſſembly, and have twirled it in their faces, as ſuppoſing them to be falling into fits. Riſibility has been made a character of rationality; the concluſion then muſt be fairly this, that none ſhould laugh without a reaſon; otherwiſe, looking aſquint might be as diſtinguiſhing a mark, as ſome phi⯑loſophers have made it.

With regard to horſe-racing, beſides the crowd and noiſe which attend it, there is ſome⯑thing much more abominable in it. For, not to inſiſt merely upon the cruelty of ſtraining a beautiful and uſeful creature beyond the extent of its powers, and running the poor animal with whip and ſpur for many miles, in blood, which is the jockey's expreſſion, is it not an encourage⯑ment to the idleneſs of the lower claſſes of peo⯑ple, who are the riches of a nation? are not the bettors generally either dupes or ſharpers? and is not the immorality of ſuch proceedings freed, by cuſtom, even from the reſtraint of ſhame? For, are not the moſt flagrant impoſitions quali⯑fied by the title of a jocky ſtroke, and juſtified by the laws of the turf? &c.

[19]Cock-fighting too, makes a barbarous ſport of courage, wounds, and death! Does the ge⯑nerous animal win an hard fought battle, at the expence of blood, or limb; what is his reward? To have his head wrung off, after his bravery has rendered him unfit for fighting any more But the tryal, or cutting down of cocks, is too ſhock⯑ing for humanity to deſcribe!

As for hunting, I have always thought that the only rational creature that purſues this ſport, is the hound; for he follows his inſtinct: I excuſe the huntſman, becauſe he is acting in his pro⯑feſſion: I pity the horſe, as he is preſſed into the ſervice; but I deſpiſe the 'Squire, having nei⯑ther compulſion, vocation, or natural impulſe to plead. The only plauſible apology I ever heard given, in defence of this diverſion, is, that it conduces to health, by inducing to exer⯑ciſe. But is not this rather worſe than giving up the argument intirely? Is it not, in effect, to ſay, that a man cannot do a rational thing, with⯑out having an irrational motive for it?

Gaming I need not expatiate upon; many writers, of ſenſe and morals, have already done ſo, and without effect. Even in its moſt ſimple ſtate, it cannot be ſaid to be innocent, but merely idle. It is a miſapplication of accountable time, pereunt, & imputantur; and apt to awaken paſ⯑ſions, [20] which had much better remain aſleep. Herodotus tells us, that play was invented firſt in Lydia, at the time of a great famine, by way of diverting the preſſing calls of hunger: And hath it not, long ſince, returned back again to its primitive inſtitution, by ſupporting an infinite number of perſons, who have no other trade, merit, profeſſion, or viſible fortune to keep themſelves from ſtarving, without the relief of ſuch handicraft, or moyens de vivre?

The converſation here took another turn, and was carried on for the remainder of the evening upon various topics, till they were called in to ſupper, where the ſame frugality appeared as at dinner. A roaſted fowl, and a bottle of white⯑wine, which they diluted with Spa-water, com⯑pleated the repaſt. They parted at eleven, and retired to bed.

CHAP. VII.

THE next morning Mr. Andrews and Mr. Carewe met at breakfaſt; but Mr. Be⯑ville had gone off, as uſual, to drink the waters at Scarborough. After they had taken a few turns in the Garden, and returned into the ſtudy, [21] Mr. Carewe put Mr. Andrews in mind of a pro⯑miſe he had formerly made him, on their part⯑ing at Iſlington, of relating to him the hiſtory of his life, if ever they might happen to meet again.

Mr. Andrews acknowledged the debt, and ſaid that he would take the lucky opportunity of Mr. Beville's abſence, to diſcharge it, as it would ſupply him with an occaſion of introdu⯑cing his friend's moſt excellent character, and alſo of mentioning ſome circumſtances which would revive his grief, as they will neceſſarily do my own, added he, with a ſigh! his tears flowing faſt at the ſame time. He remained for ſome minutes unable to compoſe himſelf, and then, after having made Mr. Carewe acknow⯑ledge that the obligation was mutual between them, in this particular, he proceeded thus:

CHAP. VIII.

THE intimacy, between this friend and me, continued after we had quitted ſchool. I ſtill retained the ſame fondneſs and attachment toward him, though without any manner of eſteem. He was a character, he had wit and humour, but was diſſolute and capricious. He had chearfulneſs and good-nature, but was paſſionate and ill-tempered. He would ſacrifice his fortune for you to day, and to-morrow re⯑fuſe you a guinea. In fine, he was a good com⯑panion, but a bad friend; and one of thoſe whom one is generally pleaſed at meeting with, but never regret the parting from.

Our different manners of life, not leſs than our ſeparate vocations, would frequently divide us from each other, ſometimes for many months to⯑gether; but whenever his frolic or extravagance, as was often the caſe, happened to involve him in any difficulty, his firſt reſort was to my coun⯑ſel and aſſiſtance. I have bailed him out of [24] goals, releaſed him from the watch, and re⯑deemed him out of bagnio's. I have been his ſecond in ſome encounters, and his marſhal of honour in others.

In fine, his giddineſs and debaucheries drew upon me ſo much trouble, hazard, and ſcandal, that I have frequently reſolved to withdraw my⯑ſelf intirely from any manner of connection with him, and ſhould certainly have done ſo, but that I knew he had no other friend, either wil⯑ling, or ſober enough, to guard him from ſcrapes, or to relieve him out of them; his other aſſociates being at leaſt as idle and thoughtleſs as himſelf, and ſome of them even more ſo: And yet, he generally kept what the world is too apt to ſtile the beſt company.

He was placed by his guardians at a college in Cambridge, where he loitered away his time for about three years, and uſed to make frequent elopements to London, where I reſided at that time, with my father. While he remained at the univerſity, he uſed to write often to me, and, as there was ſome wit, ſpirit, and whim in his letters, I have kept moſt of them by me, which I ſhall entertain you with, ſome other time, added he, looking out at the window, for I now perceive our friend Mr. Beville return⯑ing from Scarborough, and we'll go out and [25] meet him, if you pleaſe, and inquire what news he may have pickt up in that gay, idle ſcene of diſſipated life.

Theſe three friends paſſed the remainder of that day in the ſame kind of liberal converſe as before, and the next morning, after Mr. Beville had walked away to town, in courſe, and, as ſoon as breakfaſt was over, Mr. Andrews re⯑aſſumed as follows:

CHAP. IX.

WE were interrupted yeſterday, ſaid he, juſt as I was going to ſhew you ſome of my condiſciple's letters, which I here preſent you with, in an heap together, without regard to dates, as of no manner of conſequence in wri⯑tings of this kind. So ſaying, he put a parcel of papers into Mr. Carewe's hands, and the firſt he took out to read was the following.

I perceive from this letter, ſaid Mr. Carewe, the briſkneſs of your correſpondent's character. He enters upon the ſubject without preface, and quits it again as abruptly. Is he not in the right of it? The limits of a letter afford no room for exordium, or peroration. One may compare moſt modern epiſtles to a frozen flaſk of wine—cold at both ends, and all the ſpirit in the middle. I love the con ſpirito in wit, as well as muſic. I thank you for theſe letters, I like his writing, and am ſure the remainder will entertain me. Let us ſee the next to hand.

CHAP. X.
LETTER II.

I AM impatient to acquaint my dear Men⯑tor, how well I have extricated myſelf out of a difficulty, for the firſt time, without his aſſiſtance. You may remember the Cambridge laſs I uſed to toaſt to you when I was laſt in Lon⯑don, and prefer to all your belles on the Mall. Since my return, my love, my conſtancy, have been amply rewarded. I called her Amaryllis, ſhe ſtiled me Celadon. I vowed, and ſhe be⯑lieved.

Our amour remained not long a ſecret. Be⯑tween unguarded innocence on one ſide, and giddy youth on the other, we ſuffered ſome indiſcre⯑tions to eſcape us, ‘leading to the door of truth,’ which alarmed her father, an huge hulking fellow, who dwelt on Gogmagog Hills, with a ſour beetle in his brows, a ſtoop in his ſhoulders, a ſtride in his gait, and a damnable ſwing in his arms.

Methought, when he ruſhed into my cham⯑bers, he appeared as tremendous as my own [29] Quinbus ^*, when he uſed to pour down in my defence at ſchool. However, this was too diffi⯑cult a point of honour to ſuffer me to cry out claſs upon; ſo I liſtened with moſt Chriſtian reſignation and patienee, to his charge, but wiſhing ardently, all the while, that you were ſtanding by my ſide. Though, to what purpoſe? You would not lye for me.—No, damn it, and I ſcorn to lye for myſelf, either—But for a ſimple equivo⯑cation, in defence of paſſive innocence, where is it forbidden?

Thus fortified in my moral, I immediately made the father this reply. If the account yon are come to call me to, Sir, be of ſatisfaction, my ſword ſhall anſwer your waked wrath; but if of juſtification, my oath is at your ſervice. Dear Sir, anſwered old Six foot high, taking advantage of my own diſtinction, if you juſtify her honour, you perfectly ſatisfy mine. Right, Sir, cried I out, and taking him by the hand, you ſeem to have the true moral ſenſe of this matter, and I here tender you my oath, that your daughter is a very veſtal for me.

My equivoque lay here—There was a temple at Athens, dedicated to the goddeſs Veſta, where the fire was preſerved by widows alone; [30] virgins being excluded from adminiſtering the fuel, as they did in the one at Rome, erected to the ſame divinity. Is not this ſame learning a fine thing? He accepted my terms—they ſatis⯑fied him—but, I don't know how, the whole of this buſineſs, not indeed any part of it, does not quite ſatisfy myſelf. It vexes me ſometimes, to find that I can neither be perfectly good, nor perfectly bad. From which imperfection, I can be neither compleatly happy in this world, nor the next; but feel, in my preſent Hell-militant warfare, as if I was ſerving the devil upon half-pay. A plague on your muſty morals, which has raiſed this ſtruggle in my nature.

Farewel, however, my worthy philoſopher.

CHAP. XI.

Mr. Carewe was extremely entertained with the ſpirit and humour of theſe letters, and ſpent the reſt of this morning in peruſing the re⯑mainder of the collection, while Mr. Andrews walked about his grounds; but I ſhall not in⯑ſert any more of them here, becauſe I would not interrupt Mr. Andrews's ſtory any longer, and that I deſign ſoon to publiſh the reſt of them, in a diſtinct volume from this work, if I ſhall find that my readers give me ſufficient encou⯑ragement, by their reliſh of the foregoing ſpe⯑cimens.

[33]Juſt as Mr. Carewe had finiſhed the reading of theſe letters, Mr. Beville walked into the room. The remainder of the day was paſſed in family incidents not of ſufficient conſequence to relate, or in converſations which the genera⯑lity of readers, preferring narrative to ſentiment, would excuſe the recital of, that I may be the more at liberty to file the thread of my ſtory, with⯑out any further interruption. Therefore, I ſhall juſt dine them, ſup them, and put them to bed, and to-morrow morning, after I have ſent off Mr. Beville to Scarborough, meſſieurs Andrews and Carewe ſhall retire to the library, of which I have myſelf a maſter key, and will ſuffer the reader to ſlip in after them, incog. and overhear their whole converſation;

CHAP. XII.

ABOUT a year before my friend became of age, continued Mr. Andrews, he quitted college, and came up to London, to conſult the phyſicians about his health, which appeared, at [34] that time, to be in a dangerous ſtate, inclining to a decay. While he remained in town, he lived intirely with me, at my Father's; and re⯑ſtrained himſelf within a very regular and abſte⯑mious courſe, which I complimented him upon, as his then invalid condition had been brought upon him by free living and riot. To which he replied, after his lively manner, that there was a moral in exceſs, as it induced ſobriety, more than a folio upon temperance.

When he began to recruit a little in London, the phyſicians ordered him down to Windſor, for the air. Here his health was eſtabliſhed in about ſix months, moſt of which time I ſpent with him there, adminiſtering his medicines with my own hands, and reſtraining him within the bounds of his regimen; which was no eaſy matter, after his ſtrength began to be reſtored again.

I took the advantage of this interval, to incul⯑cate ſome ſober reflections, with a due ſenſe of religion, into his heart and mind; and my lec⯑tures ſeemed to produce their proper effect, ſo far as they could ſupport themſelves upon philo⯑ſophic principles. But whenever I happened to touch upon faith, or ſyſtem, he would cut me ſhort, by crying out, more of your argument, good Mr. orthodox, and leſs of your doctrine.

[35]In vain I uſed to urge, that faith was neceſſary to religion, as well as works, and that ſyſtem was framed upon articles of belief. Not at all, would he reply, after his quick manner, faith is merely conſtitutional, and a man can no more believe, than lift a weight beyond his natural ſtrength. And what are your ſyſtems after all, added he, but the viſionary fabricks of metaphyſical dreams? Divines take a text, as Dido did a hide, and, by quibbling, ſlicing, and ſtraining, force it to in⯑cloſe an area large enough to build a city upon. But delenda eſt carthago is my motto, as well as Cato's.

The occult qualities in phyſics, are laughed at, he would run on; in metaphyſics the entities and quiddities are exploded alſo; the heart is placed right in anatomy, and all ſcience has been purged by the reaſonings of the latter philoſophy. 'Tis in religion alone, that prejudice ſtill keeps its ground, which makes it in danger of loſing its own; and, that error is ſanctified, even to blaſphemy. Addiſon ſays, very juſtly, ‘that an ignorant devotee affronts the Divinity more than an atheiſt; for 'tis better to diſbelieve a deity intirely, than to form any notions of him unworthy of the infinite perfection of his nature.’

[36]In fine, concluded he, there can be no merit in ignorance, nor any virtue in error; and whatever contradicts the common principles of ſenſe or ſcience, can never be any part of a divine revelation. For philoſophy, like Jacob's ladder, mounts us up, ſtep by ſtep, into the very pre⯑ſence of the Deity; but metaphyſics reſemble the Laputan method of building a houſe, from the top to the bottom.

Here Mr. Andrews and Mr. Carewe entered into a diſquiſition upon theſe ſubjects, Carewe taking part with the condiſciple, and Andrews arguing in ſupport of ſyſtem; but, as their con⯑verſation on ſuch topics would not much edify or entertain the reader, I ſhall here leave Mr. Andrews at leiſure to continue his memoirs, without any further interruption.

CHAP. XIII.

SOON after we had gone to reſide at Wind⯑ſor, purſued he, we happened to become acquainted with a young lady who lived in the town; of a good family and character, but of no fortune. Her father had an employment at [37] the palace, of about three hundred pounds a year; had a wife, this daughter, and a ſon, who is our worthy friend here, Mr. Beville. I paſſed moſt of the evenings at their houſe, that I could ſpare from my invalid, and, when he was able to go abroad, he uſed to come along with me, and frequently accompanied us upon little parties about the country.

Miſs Beville's ſtature was rather below the middle ſize, but ſhe was finely made, and well faſhioned; ſhe had a clear brown complexion, fine hair and teeth, a lively eye, with a great air of ſenſibility through her whole countenance. She had read moſt of the polite Engliſh and French writers, and was perfectly accompliſhed in muſic and dancing: Her ſenſe was of the right feminine kind, for it conſiſted rather in a quickneſs of apprehenſion, and a delicate taſte, than a ſtrong judgment.

She had a great eaſe and freedom in her man⯑ners; but at the ſame time ſuch a nicety and decorum in all her behaviour, that our invalid, upon receiving a rebuke from her one day, for ſome liberties he had attempted, upon his return⯑ing health, ſtiled her a rake-trap, and, with his uſual briſkneſs, aſked her, ‘How the devil ſhall a man know how to conduct himſelf to⯑ward ſuch a woman as you are, who, like a [38] cunning gameſter, leads one in by ſuffering a trick or two of no conſequence, to paſs, and, when he thinks the ſtake his own, pops the ten-ace upon him?’ Good breeding, Sir, replied Miſs Beville, ſhould conduct you— whoever has arrived at that polite character, will need no formal rules; and, without it, the whole academy of compliments will not be ſufficient to in⯑ſtruct you.

They had frequent ſquabbles of the ſame kind together, while I continued always to behave toward her, both in ſpeech and action, with that propriety and reſpect, which modeſt women of all ranks have a right to challenge, from the prince to the peaſant. Which conduct appa⯑rently gained me the preference in her regards and eſteem, before my friend, though he was younger, handſomer, more lively, and had a very conſiderable fortune.

As ſoon as he perceived himſelf reſtored to health, he retired down to his eſtate in Corn⯑wall; and from that time ſeveral years elapſed, before I heard any thing more of him; he re⯑ſiding all the while at his ſeat in the country, without making the leaſt overture toward a re⯑newal of our former correſpondence; having, it ſeems, leſs leiſure to ſpare from his ſports, than he had from his ſtudies. But, though he had a [39] lively warmth and earneſtneſs in his manners, he had a certain coldneſs and indifference in his nature, which rendered him inſenſible to fond or friendly attachments; chance, caprice, or convenience, forming and diſſolving all his con⯑nections.

CHAP. XIV.

WHEN we were parting, continued Mr. Andrews, he to go take poſſeſſion of his eſtate, and I to return to London, our fair friend gave me ſome ſlight commiſſions to exe⯑cute for her, among which I received a letter to deliver to her brother, who was then in town, and in whom I had before met with all that I had ever wiſhed in man: A ſobriety of manners, a refinement of moral, a liberal mind, a ſpirited heart, and an univerſal benevolence of affections. Beſides which, a perfect agreement in all our general notions, of philoſophy, poli⯑tics, or religion, united and ſtampt us friends for life. The approbation and eſteem which I had marked toward his ſiſter, rendered our union ſtill more tender. I loved him yet more, becauſe he was her brother, and he became [40] fonder of me for the polite regards I had always paid to her.

When I had executed Miſs Beville's commiſ⯑ſions, I took the liberty of giving her an ac⯑count of them, by letter. I wrote to her with gaiety and galantry, but kept quite clear of the leaſt hint or expreſſion tending toward paſſion. In the firſt place, my affections had not arrived to ſuch an height as might have excuſed a free⯑dom of that kind; and next, my fortunes de⯑pended too much upon the caprice of another perſon, to ſuffer me haſtily to form attachments on my own ſentiments.

In this letter, however, I endeavoured to court her into a correſpondence, merely to ex⯑change the news of town and country, with each other. But this ſhe declined. She an⯑ſwered my civilities in a letter to her brother, and paid ſome compliments to my character, and manner of writing; adding, that ſhe would be both pleaſed and flattered with a continuance of my epiſtles; but that, as there ought never to be any kind of myſtery between us to which Mr. Beville need be a ſtranger, ſhe hoped that I would always accept of her acknowledgments, in paragraphs of her letters to him.

I was pleaſed at her delicacy upon this point, and continued the correſpondence, on her own [41] terms, while Mr. Beville remained in London; and, when he returned to Windſor, ſhe was prevailed upon ſo far, at his inſtance, as ſome⯑times to write paragraphs to me herſelf, in his letters.

CHAP. XV.

WE both of us found this amuſement ex⯑tremely pleaſant, for a time, and ex⯑erted, upon thoſe occaſions, the higheſt ſpirit and addreſs we were capable of, on each ſide, but without any other view than what we might have had on playing in concert together, to pre⯑ſerve time and harmony, and mutually exchange compliments upon each other's performance.

But I would never adviſe any perſon to enter into ſuch an intercourſe with the other ſex, be⯑fore ſome farther conſequences ſhall have been fully weighed and conſidered of. The having one object conſtantly in contemplation, is even more dangerous, than the having it always in view. We are not apt to keep ſuch a ſtrict guard over our reflections, as we do upon our actions; and, when the mind once ſurrenders itſelf up to the fond perſuaſion of a ſeparate [42] pleaſure, the heart ſoon begins to grow jealous; and if it ſhould happen to be a fit object for its occupation, ſteals ſlily in for its ſhare.

I made frequent excurſions to Windſor, and perceived that each time I returned from it with more and more regret. My paſſion commenced unknown to me, and increaſed by ſuch inſenſible degrees, that its empire was eſtabliſhed in my breaſt, before I even ſuſpected its invaſion. Nay, ſuch is our blindneſs, or our vanity, that I actually be⯑gan to perceive her regards ariſe, before I diſ⯑covered my own. And when her marked pre⯑ferences, her petits ſoins, her manners free to others conſtrained towards me, had firſt alarmed my honour, I forthwith determined to withdraw myſelf from an intercourſe which might perhaps end fatally to one or other of us, poſſibly to both.

I formed this reſolution on the inſtant, one morning at Windſor, and returned to London with that precipitation with which one is apt to execute an irkſome purpoſe; hurrying away, to have it over; and it was on this retreat, and not before, that I firſt perceived my affections to have been a long time prae-engaged. However, frequent reflections upon the expediency of the meaſure I had reſolved upon, helped to ſupport me through the difficulty of it.

[43]I conſidered that I had no fortune independent, nor any profeſſion to render myſelf ſo; and that all my proſpects in life were founded on the will of a ſevere father, who having made his own eſtabliſhment by a lucky marriage, might be the more apt to reſent an indiſcretion, with regard to this particular, than in any thing elſe. Eſpecially, as he was wont frequently, in ſome of his elevated moods, to vaunt himſelf highly, upon his own ſucceſs; and hint often before me, that a man of ſpirit and addreſs might meet with many opportunities of puſhing his fortune more eaſily and expeditiouſly by marriage, than by the ſlow means, and dull labour of any trade, art or profeſſion whatſoever. I therefore oppoſed pru⯑dence to paſſion, and ballanced duty againſt ro⯑mance.

CHAP. XVI.

WHEN I arrived in London, I told my father that I was weary of ſpending an idle diſſipated kind of life, and begged he would purchaſe ſome commiſſion for me in the army. He replied, that ſince he found I was inclined to [44] that profeſſion, he was in hopes, as freſh troops were then levying every day, of being able to obtain me one by the intereſt of his friends, without the expence of buying.

I appeared ſatisfied with this anſwer, at the time, not ſo much from any ſanguine expecta⯑tions I had conceived, either from the good-will, or exertion of any of his friends, but it afforded me an occaſion, which I thought it became me to lay hold of, for taking leave in form, of the too dear miſs Beville, whom I thought it ex⯑tremely ungalant to withdraw myſelf from ſo abruptly and intirely, without any apparent rea⯑ſon, or neceſſity. Accordingly, I wrote her a letter, conceived in cool, but civil terms, ac⯑quainting her with my preſent deſtination; re⯑preſenting it in a more forward ſituation than it was likely ſoon to be, by ſaying, that I expected, every day, to be commanded over to Germany; and ſo concluded my letter with taking leave, perhaps for life, which was my expreſſion.

About this time, a friend of mine, who had been my ſchoolfellow, came into the poſſeſſion of a large fortune, by the death of his father, and had alſo a conſiderable intereſt in a certain county, which gave him a weight with ſome perſons in the miniſtry. I ſoon after paid my compliments to him, upon his acceſſions, and [45] was received with great politeneſs and friend⯑ſhip by him. He aſked me ſome queſtions with regard to myſelf, and I let him into my preſent ſcheme of life, without or hope or deſign.

In a few days after, I received a letter from this gentleman, acquainting me that he had ob⯑tained a cornetry for me, from his friend the miniſter, wiſhing me ſucceſs, and aſſuring me of every future ſervice in his power. I was much elated, at firſt, and ſtill continued to be ſo, but from a more generous motive. I conſidered that I had two younger brothers, who, having never received any manner of education, were but in an hazardous ſituation in life. Their helpleſs and unprovided ſtate lay heavy on my mind, as well as my own, and apprehending that I might have better advantages than they, to puſh my fortune, I determined to cede the commiſſion to the eldeſt of them, I waited on my patron accordingly, the next day, expreſſed my gratitude, and urged my ſentiments upon this ſubject. He appeared much ſurpriſed, at firſt, but afterwards he applauded my motives, and had my brother immediately nominated in my ſtead.

About half a year after this event, my good friend called upon me one morning, and told me that he had been juſt appointed to a conſi⯑derable [46] patent-employ, in which he had the power of naming a deputy, with a ſalary of one hundred pounds a year, and had been ſo ſtruck with the generoſity, as he was pleaſed to term it, of my former motion, that he was reſolved to eaſe my mind of the ſecond incumbrance alſo; which was accordingly done.

CHAP. XVII.

MY friend, Mr. Beville, continued Mr. An⯑drews, had taken a farm in Hertfordſhire, ſoon after I had quitted Windſor; and was ſo wholly occupied about it, that all intercourſe of letters, as well as viſits, had dropt between him and me, for about eight months. During which time I had not the leaſt opportunity of hearing any manner of account about his dear, ſtill dearer ſiſter, which afforded me full exerciſe for my uſual reſorts in every difficulty, or uneaſineſs of the mind—books and philoſophy.

After this interval, I happened, one morning, accidentally to meet a neighbour of Mr. Be⯑ville's, in London, whom I had often ſeen at his houſe in Windſor, and aſking him, in a ſeeming careleſs way, about that Family, I was [47] told that miſs Beville's manners and behaviour had been remarkably alter'd of late, that from gay and chearful, ſhe had grown grave and re⯑tired; that ſhe never ſtirred abroad, except to church, where ſhe attended indeed, rather more ſtictly than uſual, and ſpent her time moſtly in reading, ſhut up in her chamber; which ac⯑count he concluded, in a laughing way, by tel⯑ling me a reflection about her, that was made by the curate, that either love, or learning, he was afraid, had turned poor miſs's head.

Theſe particulars rendered me extremely un⯑eaſy, I began to apprehend that what I had ima⯑gined in her to have been only the ſlight tokens of a commencing paſſion, might have been ra⯑ther the certain proofs of a confirmed one. May not my charming Fanny, ſaid I to myſelf, have been unwarily led into the ſame error in this particular, that I had fallen into myſelf? might ſhe not have perceived my paſſion, before ſhe had ſuſpected her own; and thus have enno⯑bled her affections, by the generous principles of gratitude and compaſſion?

I then began to blame the indiſcretion of my own dalliance, lamenting the effects of it in her breaſt, as well as in mine. My philoſophy had bravely withſtood my own paſſion, but was overborne by hers. All conſiderations of fa⯑ther, fortune, or expediency, dwindled into [48] mere words, upon this juſt ſentiment, that though prudence ſhould reſtrain our affections, it ought never to controul our honour. After theſe re⯑flections, I repaired immediately to Windſor, in order to ſatisfy my ſcruples, upon this truly intereſting occaſion.

It was at this interval, continued he, while I was ſtruggling both with my heart and fortune, that I had the happineſs of becoming acquainted with you, my dear Carewe. I tried, approved, and admired you. There was ſomething beſides, in your whole air and manner, which reſembled the perſon of my favourite condiſciple, but with a nobler moral, and a more liberal ſoul. Mr. Ca⯑rewe bowed, and bluſhed at this encomium, and was juſt going to return the compliment, when Mr. Beville happened to come into the room, and gave a new turn to the converſation.

CHAP. XVIII.

AS Mr. Andrews moſt certainly will not divert his narrative, in this place, by re⯑peating to Mr. Carewe, particulars which he had been acquainted with before, and that the reader may poſſibly, by this time, begin to feel himſelf ſomewhat intereſted in any material cir⯑cumſtance [49] relating to theſe gentlemen, and that this little anecdote will alſo furniſh out a very pretty epiſode in the context of their lives; I ſhall undertake to relate this extraordinary ſtory myſelf; but this in ſo ſuccinct a manner, that I will engage to have it quite finiſhed, by the time that Mr. Andrews, who is juſt taking horſe in London, ſhall have alighted at Windſor; which I hope will be a ſufficient apology to you, La⯑dies, who always keep ſuch a fidgetting, upon being interrupted in any part of a love adven⯑ture.

CHAP. XIX.

MR. Andrews was a good deal pleaſed with this adventure, at firſt, both on account of the ſervice he had rendered, even to a ſtranger in diſtreſs; and that there was ſomething in this gentleman's perſon, manners, and appearance, which had attracted his ſimpathy, at firſt fight, and prepoſſeſſed him with a deſire of being fur⯑ther acquainted with him.

He was a young man, of about twenty-three years of age, tall, genteel, and well propor⯑tioned; his features were remarkably handſome, and he had a ſenſible countenance, quickened with ſpirit and vivacity. He was richly dreſſed, and had, altogether, the air, addreſs, and mien of a perſon of quality, and faſhion.

In his converſation he ſhewed a lively wit, a readineſs of conception, and a quickneſs of re⯑ply; [52] in his expreſſion, there appeared the eaſe, ſtile, and correctneſs of a liberal education; and on the few topics which the ſhort interval of their tête á tête had afforded them the occaſion of introducing, his judgment and ſentiments denoted a competent knowledge of men, man⯑ners, and things.

But, after he had leiſure for his own reflections, his nice moral began ſoon to render him uneaſy, at having wreſted a perſon out of the hands of the law, and defrauding, perhaps, a fair credi⯑tor, of a juſt demand. He deliberated upon this ſcruple for ſome time, and then determined it within himſelf, that this debt had, in juſtice, now become his own, as truly as if he had ori⯑ginally contracted it; and upon this punctilio reſolved, without the leaſt regard to conſequences, to tender himſelf as collateral ſecurity, to the creditor, as ſoon as he ſhould be able to inform himſelf of the perſon.

Accordingly next morning he repaired to one of the ſheriffs of the city, with whom he hap⯑pened to be intimately acquainted, and inquired from him who the plaintiff was, in the writ lately iſſued againſt Mr. Carewe. The ſheriff carried him to the office, and, upon examining the books, found him to be an eminent banker in the city.

[53]Upon this information Mr. Andrews imme⯑diately waited upon the banker, at his houſe, told him who he was, acquainted him with the adventure of the evening before, declared his ſcruples upon it, and, at the ſame time, offered to paſs a counter-ſecurity to him, to make that debt his own, if Mr. Carewe ſhould not diſcharge it within a year. Old Cent. per cent. ſtared at him, for ſome time, with aſtoniſhment; the thing perhaps might have been a new caſe, and might poſſibly not have fallen within the ordinary courſe of his dealings. But throwing off the ſur⯑priſe, as quick as he could, he replied, Why, really, Sir, you act but the fair and honeſt part, it is juſt what I ſhould have done myſelf, or indeed what any body elſe would do, in like circum⯑ſtances. No, no, Sir, there is no trifling with money matters; a very ſerious thing are your money matters, Mr. Andrews. Therefore, Sir, pray, good Sir, walk into my office till I write a note to my attorney, who muſt certainly be well acquainted with precedents of this ſort, and he will forthwith attend and draw up the proper ar⯑ticle between us, Sir.

CHAP. XX.

THE attorney appeared ſoon after, and, taking his place at a table oppoſite to Mr. Andrews, addreſſed him thus: ‘Your Chriſtian-name, pray good Sir?’ Henry— but pray don't you require my Sir-name alſo? ‘O! that I ſuppoſe is Carewe—Are you not a bro⯑ther of Mr. Carewe's, Sir?’ No, Sir, I am not, nor any manner of relation to him at all, that I know of. ‘The money though, I preſume, muſt have been for your uſe?’ Not one penny of it, I aſſure you, Sir, nor did I ever ſee Mr. Ca⯑rewe before, or know any thing, in the leaſt, about this matter, till after the incident which happened yeſterday evening on Ludgate-hill.

Here the attorney laid down his pen, and was beginning to elevate his eyebrows, when the banker, growing alarmed at this converſation, winked at him, and begged he would proceed with the inſtrument, without any further loſs of time, which, after aſking Mr. Andrews his Sir⯑name, he drew up immediately, and it was per⯑fected accordingly.

After the tremendous ſound of ſign, ſeal, and deliver, was pronounced, Mr. Andrews roſe up, [55] made his bow, and retired, the banker and at⯑torney attending him to the door; where, on a hem from the latter, he was laid hold of by four ruffians in arms, arreſting him for the riot, as they termed it, on the night before, in which they ſaid that one of the bailiffs, as worthy a citizen as ever broke the world's bread, had been wounded by his compliſh, one Carewe, a mere ſtape-grace of a fellow, and that his life was de⯑ſpaired of.

Mr. Andrews, according to that philoſophic complexion which added a luſtre and a dignity to all his actions, ſubmitted himſelf without the leaſt reſiſtance, or even a murmur, to the ar⯑reſt, only juſt turning his eyes, for a moment, on the attorney, to ſee whether he ſtill retained an human form, and directing a chair to be cal⯑led, in order to be conducted unſeen to priſon. In the interim, the man of money expoſtulated thus, with the man of law, that ſuch a proceeding might poſſibly be very injurious to him; for, if the gentleman ſhould happen to be hanged, ſaid he, which very probably may be the caſe, muſt I not certainly loſe part of my ſecurity, for the five hundred pounds? and this, if you'll but weigh it well, Sir, you muſt allow to be a very unlucky circumſtance for me.

[56]I cannot help that matter, replied the attorney, for theſe honeſt gentlemen the bailiffs, are my clients, as well as you are, Sir; nay, the king himſelf, who is higher than ye all put together, is my client alſo, in this ſuit, as plaintiff againſt the priſoner, and currat lex is the rule of my life, Sir, as you may ſee it is the motto of my coach too, ſaid he, pointing to an equipage which ſtood at the door; and ſtepping into it at the ſame time, drove away, after having concluded his moral with this expreſſion, That, according to his way of thinking, a man who was fool enough to go bound for another's debt, deſerved to be hanged for another's crime. The chair arrived, Mr. Andrews went into it, attended by the bailiffs, and the banker returned into his houſe again.

CHAP. XXI.

AS ſoon as Mr. Andrews had been lodged in confinement, he ſent a meſſage to his friend the Sheriff, to come unto him, which he immediately obeyed. He acquainted him with the unhappy conſequences of his romantic ho⯑nour, and inquired in what condition of dan⯑ger [57] the wounded bailiff was, at that time. He replied, that the Surgeon had juſt then made a report at his office, on that morning's dreſſing, that the wound, though dangerous, was not mortal; and therefore, added he, you may yet be admitted to bail, which I would adviſe you to procure immediately, before this hazardous affair may take a more unlucky turn, or afford the ſurgeon cauſe to pronounce leſs favourably, about his patient.

Mr. Andrews then diſpatched a meſſenger to the banker, to inquire who Mr. Carewe was, where he had lodged in London, and what town or county of England, an expreſs might have the beſt chance of finding him in? To which he was anſwered, that all he knew of that gentleman, was his having become bound for the five hundred pounds then in ſuit, along with a certain merchant, who had ſince become bankrupt; and abſconded; and that he was a lodger at the widow Benſon's, a milliner, in Dukeſtreet, Groſvenor's Square, at the time of his arreſt.

Mr. Andrews, upon this information, ſent off an intelligent perſon to this lodging, to make a particular inquiry about him, but received as little ſatisfaction from that quarter, alſo. The landlady ſaid, that Squire Carewe had lodged [58] under her roof, for about the laſt ſix months, paſt, and had diſcharged her the very night before, on the ſudden, without the leaſt manner of previous warning, before hand, except only the ſending a perſon to her with the rent, who whiſpered Mr. Carewe's ſervant where to follow his maſter, with his trunks; which makes me timorous, ſaid ſhe, that all is not right with the poor gentleman. Adding, that ſhe knew not where his fortune lay, of what family he was, or what connections he had, either in city or country, having never ſeen any perſon come anear him, from whom ſhe could have picked up any ſort of intelligence, of this kind.

She concluded her account of him, with ſaying, that to be ſure and certain he was a dear gay ſoul of a lad, but a little rake-helliſh, or ſo, ſhe believed, like the beſt of them; for that he ſometimes kept late hours, and would at other times ſtay abroad whole nights together, ſucceſſively, one after ano⯑ther. But that, without all manner of gainſay, or peradventure, ſhe never beheld with her eyes, a more good-humourder affability gentleman; for that he would frequently joke and romp with her daughter Cicely, juſt for all the world like one of ourſelves; and ſometimes in good truth, that a body would ſcarce hear their own ears, for their noiſe.

[59]But indeed, added ſhe, the good natureſome cretur left off his gamiorum a little, for the laſt three or four weeks before he went away, being timberſome of hurting the poor girl, who has been for ſome time apprehended to be falling into a dropſy, and the poticary tells me lately, conti⯑nued ſhe, in a whining tone, that he is much afraid my dear child has got an impoſtor, in her belly. But to be ſure it was the Lord's will that it ſhould come there, and who can help ſickneſs, I ſay?

After this ſcrap of religion and philoſophy, ſhe recovered her voice again, and putting a bundle of papers into the perſon's hands, ſaid, Here Sir, I give you ſome maleſcripts that I found ſcattered about Mr. Carewe's cloſet this morning, which I ſuppoſe are no ſignifies, by their being left be⯑hind. But perhaps you, Sir, continued ſhe, may be able to find out ſome hints or antidotes among them, which may ſerve to direct your ſearch after Mr. Carewe; and, dear Sir, added ſhe, if ever you ſhould happen to get the leaſt tidings of my worthy gueſt, I prithee acquaint me with it; for poor Cicely there within, is breaking her heart after him, juſt like a child that had loſt its play-thing, becauſe of his good-humouredneſs and comicality. And in truth, Sir, concluded ſhe, even myſelf thinks the houſe it⯑ſelf [60] begins to appear but pure and loneſome after him, all this morning.

CHAP. XXII.

WHEN Mr. Andrews had got theſe pa⯑pers into his hands, he looked eagerly through them, to ſee if he could receive any manner of information about his dear bought friend, but was diſappointed. They were only a collection of reflexions and obſervations, upon life, pleaſure, and virtue, as they were intitled on the back, thrown together after the manner of Paſchal's thoughts, without order or digeſtion.

However, the admirable turn of moral which appeared throughout theſe notes, afforded poor Mr. Andrews ſome hope in Mr. Carewe's ho⯑nour, that he would redeem him, as far as the laws might admit, from the twofold difficulties he had been involved in upon his account. But then, how to come at him, or acquaint him of them?

But it at laſt occurred, that though he did not know where to convey a private notice to him, a public hint might reach him, in any part of [61] the kingdom. Upon which thought he imme⯑diately directed a paragraph to be inſerted in all the news-papers, ſetting forth, ‘that a perſon, who had accidentally reſcued a gentleman from an aſſault on Ludgate-hill, on ſuch an evening, had been, the next day, involved in a ſevere misfortune, upon that account; and that if his unknown friend ſhould be inclined to afford any aſſiſtance, toward re⯑lieving him out of his preſent difficulties, he might ſend a line to Mr. H. A. at the Wood⯑ſtreet Compter.’

He then ſat himſelf down to recollect all thoſe perſons in London, who had ever received obli⯑gations from himſelf, or his family, or who had ever declared particular friendſhips for him, through life; and, after he had formed a liſt of about three or four and twenty names within ſuch connections, he diſpatched a letter to the firſt upon his paper, ſetting forth his ſituation; not in the leaſt doubting his ready aſſiſtance, as he was a young gentleman of conſiderable for⯑tune, to whom Mr. Andrews's father had been guardian, and acquitted himſelf of the truſt, to the perfect ſatisfaction of all his friends, with regard both to his health, education, and eſtate; and with whom he had himſelf lived in a fond [62] and free manner, even from their earlieſt years to that time.

The anſwer he received to this letter, was, that as a perſon of his fortune in life, muſt ne⯑ceſſarily have a large number of friends, he thought it would be an imprudent ſtep in him to afford a precedent for ſo many others to call upon his good-nature, in like circumſtances; he therefore begged to be excuſed. He acknowledged indeed ſome few obligations to his father, but con⯑cluded, at the ſame time, with ſaying, Prithee what, after all, has he done for me, more than the law would have exacted from him?

If the ſins of the father's be viſited upon the children, why not their merits alſo? But it ſeems that, do all we can, we ſhall be deemed ſtill but unprofitable ſervants, here, as well as here⯑after. This, too truly, is no uncommon reaſon⯑ing, among men; and nothing for nothing, is this world's motto.

CHAP. XXIII.

THIS diſappointment ſhocked poor Mr. An⯑drews, but did not diſcourage him. He ſat down again, and wrote a letter directly, to the ſecond upon his liſt; who was a gentleman every way qualified to ſerve him, at this criſis, both from affluence, credit, and intereſt in the city. He had theſe reaſons to expect it too, that they had been ſchoolfellows together, that an intimate friendſhip had ever ſince ſubſiſted be⯑tween them, and that he had lately, at the ha⯑zard of his life, rendered him a moſt ſignal piece of ſervice. The ſtory was this:

They had ſupped together, at a tavern, one night, with ſeveral other perſons, when an ab⯑ſurd, ill-tempered fellow in company, took it into his head to faſten (I think that is the phraſe) upon this gentleman, without any manner of provocation, but ſolely to indulge his own ſpleen; and, finding him to be too ſlow of re⯑ſentment, proceeded to bear him down, in the moſt bullying manner.

Mr. Andrews felt compaſſion for his friend, and taking advantage of his looking toward him, though with a moſt timorous countenance, roſe [64] up, ſaying, ‘Yes, Sir, I underſtand you, but I can by no means ſuffer this matter to become perſonal. That gentleman's behaviour is an equal inſult to the whole company, and, as all tavern reckonings are paid by club, I expect that every man here will join me in obliging this diſturber of the peace to aſk pardon of the whole room, or in treating him as a per⯑ſon whoſe manners have placed him below the character of a gentleman.’

Reader, don't you think that this would be the proper method of dealing with your bucks, or bears; to make a general riſing againſt them, at once? For, ſurely, it is an hard caſe that one man muſt venture his life, merely becauſe ano⯑ther does not value his.

The whole company, one and all, ſome through ſpirit, and others through ſhame, roſe up in arms, at the word, poor ſneaker now as forward as the beſt; and inſiſted on his making a general ſubmiſſion, or leaping out of the win⯑dow. The eaſier conditions were accepted of, and all was peace and harmony for the reſt of the night.

It is now full time to acquaint you with the anſwer which Mr. Andrews received to his ſe⯑cond embaſſy, which in few words was this: ‘That he would be extremely glad to oblige [65] his dear friend, in any other way he could re⯑quire, but that he had made it an invariable rule to himſelf, upon his firſt entrance into life, never to become a bondſman for any perſon whatſoever.’—Concluding his letter with this paſſage out of Proverbs, He that hateth ſurety, ſhall be ſure.

Cowardice betrays a narrowneſs of ſoul; and a man can no more be generous, than brave, under ſuch mean circumſtances of heart and mind.

CHAP. XXIV.

I Have now, ſaid Mr. Andrews to himſelf, had repeated ill luck, by proceeding in a regular courſe, and taking my friends one after another, as I had noted them down in the roll. Perhaps I may meet with ſome ſucceſs, by ſelect⯑ing them here and there, according to the rank they hold in my opinion of their virtue, or the degree which I think myſelf intitled to, in their regards.

Upon this reflection he moved his eye ſlowly and conſiderately, over the liſt, and at laſt fixed upon a perſon whoſe character, life and fortune, [66] had at once been attacked, by popular ſlander, ſuits at law, and criminal proſecution. Mr. An⯑drews, unknowing him, and without any other connection, except the ties of humanity and benevolence, but perſuaded of the malice and injuſtice, at that time raging againſt him, had generouſly became a volunteer in his cauſe; re⯑trieved his character by public writings, and de⯑fended his life and fortunes, from the virulence and oppreſſion of his enemies.

He diſpatched a billet to this obligée, and waited, in perfect acquieſcence of his juſtice, honour, and gratitude, till the meſſenger—ſay rather the friend himſelf, returns. It would be impoſſible to convey an adequate idea of this correſpondent's reſponſe, to the reader, without giving him a literal tranſcript of the letter, which was verbatim, as follows:

Gracious heaven! that a perſon ſhould at⯑tempt to forge arguments for his ingratitude, out of thoſe very incidents of his life, from whence aroſe a claim to the higheſt demonſtrations of friendſhip! Should it not rather have excited a tranſport, almoſt bordering upon vice, of rejoicing at ſo lucky an occaſion of acquitting oneſelf of ſuch preſſing obligations! Ingratitude is a de⯑teſtable thing; for, beſides the vice, there is a meanneſs in it alſo, which diſguſts.

There is certainly a moſt helliſh turn of wit, in the above letter, and I could wiſh, with all [68] my heart, that the ſtory was not quite ſo abo⯑minable, leſt the indignant reader may ſuſpect its veracity. But, upon the faith of hiſtory, I affirm it to be fact, in every the minuteſt cir⯑cumſtance; and, whenever I ſhall be at liberty to publiſh a key to this work, and declare the real perſonages throughout the whole, I do hereby promiſe that the original letter ſhall be lodged in Mr. Folio's hands, with the names ſubſcribed at length, in order to be peruſed by the curious, along with ſeveral other choice manuſcripts, which I hope ſoon to have the per⯑miſſion of communicating to the public.

CHAP. XXV.

WELL! what's to be done now? Mr. Andrews was a good deal caſt down, upon this third, and leaſt expected diſappoint⯑ment; and now, deſpairing of ſucceſs, reſolved to make no farther eſſays, of this hopeleſs kind. I have already, ſaid he, made experiments upon three of the ſtrongeſt anchors I had, and they have failed me. To purſue the trial longer, would be to betray leſs reaſon than a dog, [69] which, foiled in one or two attempts to get at food, will ne'er again aſſail the latticed grate^*.

However, as he had always a way, in any matter of conſequence, of trying every method, probable or improbable, poſſible or impoſſible, to compaſs an end, (not, indeed, acting from his own judgment, but in order to ſatisfy the officious queries of unaſſiſting friends, ‘Why did you not do ſo and ſo? or this, or that, or t'other?)’ he ſent a perſon round to the re⯑mainder of his liſt, inviting them all together, to come and ſpend the evening with him; but without giving the leaſt hint of the requeſt he had a deſign of making to them; imagining that, though one or two might think the obliga⯑tion too great, a ſcore of friends might poſſibly join to divide the load among them.

His meſſenger had the good fortune of meet⯑ing every one of the gueſts, at home, and having acquainted them that their friend Mr. Andrews had deſired their company reſpectively, to con⯑ſult together upon a certain difficult matter, which he would communicate to them at meet⯑ing, they each of them moſt readily accepted of [70] the invitation. What, honeſt Andrews, cried one, no buſineſs on earth ſhall detain me from him. I would run an hundred miles, on foot, to ſerve him, ſays another. He deſerves every act of friendſhip in the world, from me, cried a third. And ſo went on the reſt.

But when the ſuſpicious ſcene of appointment came to be named, their briſk countenances were overcaſt, on the ſudden. They made ſome kind of inquiries, how it was, and how it happened; and then diſmiſſed the meſſenger with their condolements and beſt wiſhes to their worthy friend Mr. Andrews, who might reſt aſ⯑ſured that nothing, except ſome buſineſs or other, of conſequence, might chance to intervene, ſhould prevent them the pleaſure of waiting upon him, in the evening.

This anſwer began to revive his drooping ſpi⯑rits, and he ſaid, in ſoliloquy, that one ſhould always make uſe of every kind of means, in dif⯑ficult caſes; as it ſometimes happens, that the moſt unlikely ones ſucceed, where the beſt con⯑certed may ſail. He walked about his chamber for an hour or two, in longing expectation of ſeeing a groupe of friends ruſhing together into the room; and his honeſt heart ſprang with joy, at hearing the ſound of a number of haſty ſteps come ecchoing up the ſtairs. He threw open [71] wide the door, and his arms, at the ſame time, but received into them only a parcel of ſweaty porters, with each a billet in his hand.

You have read the ſtory of the invited gueſts, in ſcripture—if not, I beg you will immediately turn over to it. My wife ſays 'tis in Luke, the fourteenth chapter, and eighteenth verſe, firſt paragraph. For this will ſave me the trouble of repeating a ſcore of apologies to the unfortunate Mr. Andrews, from ſo many modern friends.

CHAP. XXVI.

A Perſon thus forlorn of all foreign aids, generally betakes himſelf to philoſophic reſources; that is, with deference to the porch, to melancholic reflections. For, what are all the arguments of Seneca or Epictetus, (though in truth this laſt adviſes ſometimes, to hang one⯑ſelf, The door is open, ſays he) that fate is inevi⯑table; that what will be, will be; that we muſt ſubmit, where we cannot defend; that the beſt have ſuffered; and that life itſelf, is but an ap⯑pointed ſtate of trial—and ſo forth—What is all this, I ſay, but holding our misfortunes the [72] more ſtedfaſtly under contemplation, and ſuper⯑adding a further weight from deſpair? Would a phyſician mean to raiſe your drooping ſpirits, by pronouncing you paſt hopes?

I heard once of a French ſurgeon, who moſt happily expreſſed the whole ſpirit of ſtoiciſm, in one word; for, upon probing a wound, and being aſked by the patient, his opinion of his caſe, replied, Courage, courage, Monſieur—for begar you die in one half hour. This I take truly, to be but an epitome of ‘inevitable fate, what will be, will be; where we cannot defend, we muſt ſubmit, &c.’ Courage, cries old For⯑ceps, for begar you die in one half hour.

But Mr. Andrews had a much better manner of conducting himſelf, upon all ſuch occaſions: for whenever he felt, or even apprehended any kind of difficulty, he immediately ſat himſelf down to ruminate on every means, which pru⯑dence or activity could ſupply, to obviate or remedy the evil: But from the moment that he had digeſted and applied his expedients, he directly applied himſelf alſo to reading, with ſuch an attention of mind and ſtudy, that he could, for the time, exclude all thought or reflection, either upon the misfortune or the means, till the criſis or the cure, had awakened his recollection again.

[73]And this method of avocation, I take to be a much better way, than to ſit brooding over miſ⯑fortunes, or the hardineſs of attacking them, to take arms againſt a ſiege of troubles, with the wea⯑pons of philoſophy. For what is generally ima⯑gined to be a ſtrength of mind, is often little more than a command of features, which enables us to put a good face upon bad matters, and only ſuffers misfortune, like the moſt dangerous wound, inwardly to bleed. Zeno, founder of the ſtoic ſect, hanged himſelf at ninety, for a whit⯑loe. It certainly was not ſo trifling an ailment that overcame his temper; but his mind might be compared to a ballance, with philoſophy in one ſcale, plumb, and misfortunes dropping into the other, one by one, till they came both to poiſe in equilibrio; and then a feather turned the beam.

I have always thought ſtoiciſm both an abſurd and a miſtaken pride. Expreſſions and demon⯑ſtrations of grief, are as natural, as thoſe of joy; and ariſe often from nobler ſentiments, and more generous motives. And yet, we manifeſt the one, without reſerve, and conceal the other till our proud hearts break^*. To weep is wo⯑maniſh weakneſs, they cry, but there are tears [74] which become the braveſt man. Sighs are the effect of ſorrow, as well as laughter is of mirth; and both equally deſigned by nature to diſcharge certain humours in the mind, ſpringing from their reſpective ſources, which, if not ſuffered to evacuate themſelves, might ultimately affect the body. If you backen a tumour, you corrupt the blood.

There is another vulgar error too, which has often ſurpriſed me; that gravity ſhould ſtill im⯑poſe upon the world, as a ſign of wiſdom. Is it becauſe an owl was the arms of Athens, and the bird of Minerva? We ſeem to have accepted the emblem literally, which the mythologiſts tell us was deſigned rather as a caution againſt being impoſed upon by outward appearances. Gravity generally proceeds from a defect of natural ſpirit in youth, or a decay of it in age. When real, it is the effect merely of conſtitution, or ſtupidity, and, if aſſumed, it is either to conceal weakneſs, or to cover pride.

[75]That gravity is an imperfection may fairly be deduced from the natural cauſes of it, grief, misfortunes, ſickneſs, or old age. But ſenſe is the parent of chearfulneſs—Addiſon joins vir⯑tue; for to the wicked may juſtly be applied that ſarcaſm of Solomon's, They are mad when they are merry; In fine, good-humour is to mo⯑rals, what the ſun is to nature, whoſe light not only gilds the objects, but whoſe warmth im⯑prove their virtue alſo. And in imitation of Carneades, who ſtiled beauty Royalty without force, I ſhall define chearfulneſs to be philoſophy without reflection.

CHAP. XXVII.

MR. Andrews remained in this irkſome ſitu⯑ation, during almoſt four days, when, on the laſt of them, about ſeven o'clock in the evening, a perſon came limping into the room, and delivered him the following letter, dated London, two o'clock; the hand unknown.

This letter, ſaid Mr. Andrews to the perſon who had delivered it to him, refers me to you, Sir, for thoſe particulars which relate to the buſineſs of it; and, as time preſſes hard upon us at preſent, I beg that you will execute your commiſſion without any manner of preface, or delay. I ſhall obey you, Sir, replied the attor⯑ney, and will deliver myſelf in as few words, as the nature of the ſubject may admit. Pray pro⯑ceed.

You muſt know then, Sir, that my firſt ac⯑quaintance with Mr. Carewe, was—Dear Sir, cried Mr. Andrews, ſince I muſt know that very intereſting particular, I promiſe you to attend to it any time you pleaſe, when we ſhall be more at leiſure. It cannot poſſibly be neceſſary [77] to relate, at preſent; therefore, pray good Sir, proceed. And ſo I would, Sir, if you had not ſtopt my mouth. Then, as I was ſaying, my firſt ac⯑quaintance with Mr. Carewe—Indeed, Sir, I require not the leaſt account of your firſt ac⯑quaintance with that gentleman, all I want to know, at this time, is, what your laſt confe⯑rence with him was? Why, really Sir, replied the attorney, I was coming to that point directly, if you had not twice interrupted me; and if a man of law is once ſhuffled out of the regular courſe of buſineſs, d'ye take me, Sir, he will not readily again be able to bring on matters properly to an hearing; d'ye mind? I aſk your pardon, Sir, replied Mr. Andrews, I pray you go on, Sir, in your own way—For, I was born to ſuffer! [aſide.

Well then, as I ſaid before, Sir, continued old Tautology, my firſt acquaintance with Mr. Carewe, (who, by the by, is a very worthy client of mine, and indeed in other things, too, the man bears a good ſort of character) was his lodging five thouſand hard pounds in my hands, with directions to purchaſe for him into the four per cent. funds. To make ſhort work of the matter, for I perceive that you don't love long ſpeeches, Sir, I actually did lay out this ſame five thouſand pounds ſterling for him, in the ſaid four [78] per cent. funds, as I told you before, he had given me commiſſion to do.

Well, Sir—Upon my preſenting him with the debentures, what conſideration he gave me for my honeſty, diligence, trouble, and diſ⯑patch—for I did not keep him long in ſuſpence, Sir—is not, by any manner of means, d'ye mark me, material at preſent, but I believe, Sir, that I may venture to let you ſo far into the ſecret, as to inform you that it was no trifle. No trifle, I aſſure you, Sir. For indeed Mr. Ca⯑rewe, as I think I told you already, is a very worthy gentleman—A gentleman every inch of him, believe me, Sir—And he was certainly, much in the right of it too; for there is no ſurer thing in the world, than that if you would have your buſineſs well done, you muſt pay for it well. Live and let live, is the true maxim in trade, Sir. But that is neither here nor there, d'ye mind, to the preſent matter in hand; there⯑fore, you'll give me leave to have done with that part of the ſtory, I preſume, Sir—Moſt wil⯑lingly, indeed, good Sir.

But to make a long ſtory ſhort, in order to have done with it, quite and clear, and not to detain you any longer from the buſineſs in agi⯑tation, Sir, there was one thing, and only that one thing, I ever knew him guilty of, which [79] gave me but a ſlight opinion of him. I ſpeak above board, Sir, for they call me old Tell-truth, among my friends, and thoſe that are free with me—And that ſame thing, Sir, in a few words, was this:

Oh! [aſide.

CHAP. XXVIII.

MR. Carewe employed me once, continued he, to proſecute his ſervant man, or man ſervant, as it is termed in the law books, for robbing him of a good new ſpic and ſpan ſuit of cloaths, ſome ſhirts, and other moveables, to a conſiderable value. For Mr. Carewe, Sir, was always a moſt tearing beau. I had the vil⯑lain ſet and taken, as nimble as he was, and lodged him in this very houſe, as ſafe as you are yourſelf, Sir, at preſent.

But what would you have of it, Sir, when the rogue was brought upon his tryal, no Mr. Ca⯑rewe appeared to ſwear to the goods found upon him. Not in the very leaſt, Sir. No Mr. Ca⯑rewe appeared, though called upon his recognizance, three ſeveral times, by the cryer, with a laudible voice, Sir. And when my younker did not come [80] and appear, to ſave his fine, the judge immediately ordered his forfeited recognizance to be forth⯑with eſtreated into his majeſty's exchequer, and the rogue was diſcharged, for want of proſecu⯑tion.

I went off, Sir, hot foot, from the court, to Mr. Carewe's lodgings, to ſee whether he was alive or dead, and who ſhould I find there, but my young dilly dally gentleman, in his night-cap and ſlippers, ſitting by the fire, and reading ſome conjuring book or other, that I could make neither head or tail of. Upon which I up, and told him a piece of my mind, very roundly, aſking him why the devil he had not come to court, and done juſtice againſt his hang-dog Tim? But all the ſatisfaction the dainty gentleman gave me, was, that a woman, with a parcel of children at her heels, had kept bawling and roaring in the hall, all the morning, and that as he had ever a mortal diſlike to the crying of brats, he could not poſſibly think of ſtirring out of his room while they remained be⯑low. Pray did you ever hear now, ſo fooliſh a reaſon, in all your life, Mr. Andrews, for not going to do what the law directs? I believe you might not have underſtood him, Sir—Not I truly, Sir, nor could any body elſe, I think, who had either ſenſe or reaſon. But ſo this fooliſh affair [81] ended, after having coſt us a good round fine of fifty pounds, ſterling, in ſhining caſh, Sir, beſides my own bill of coſts, which I warrant me totted to ten or twelve pieces more. A pretty buſineſs this truly, you'l ſay, Sir!

I ſay nothing, Sir, and could wiſh, for charity ſake, that you had done ſaying, alſo! I muſt have done now, Sir, for I have nothing further to add upon this ſubject, that I can now recollect, ſaid he, pauſing.—Oh, Sir! for mercy ſake, proceed immediately to the buſineſs you have been ſent about, or I ſhall be obliged to diſpatch a meſſenger directly, to Mr. Carewe, to get that part of his let⯑ter, which relates to your errand, explained by him⯑ſelf, Sir. There need be no manner of occaſion for all that hurry, Sir, replied the attorney, for I will deliver it every word to you myſelf, from firſt to laſt, without the leaſt delay, or adding to, or diminiſhing from, Sir—But firſt, I muſt beg you will be ſo kind as to order me up a bottle of wine, Sir; for I don't know how it is, but I am a little dry and hoarſe, at preſent. But I was hurry ſcurry, there, Sir, and hurry ſcurry, here, Sir, and then talking away ſo faſt, to get plump to the matter in hand, that this may be the oc⯑caſion of it, perhaps, Sir—Very likely, Sir.

CHAP. XXIX.

THE wine and glaſſes were laid upon the table, and after the attorney had ſwal⯑lowed down half a dozen bumpers running, Well Sir, continued, or rather commenced he, the upſhot of the matter is this. Mr. Carewe came to my houſe about two o'clock, or rather be⯑fore, this day, muffled up in a chair; and with⯑out ſtaying even to aſk me how I did, inquired of me whether I had heard any thing, ſo and ſo, as how he had been arreſted on Ludgate-hill, had been reſcued by a gentleman, what was the conſequence? and ſo forth.

I told him that the whole ſtory was then cur⯑rent in the courts, for that the plaintiff's attor⯑ney, a very acute creditable man, had told every body he met with, as how one Mr. An⯑drews, who I preſume was you, Sir, after hav⯑ing delivered him from the bailiffs, was fool enough, I aſk pardon, Sir, to go to the creditor, and join himſelf in ſecurity for the money in ſuit; and how he nabbed him there, in the very fact, on account of one of the honeſt fellows that had been deſperately wounded in the fray, and that he was then held to two thouſand [83] pounds bail; which was the reſtriction the court had laid him under, in reſentment for their af⯑fronted laws.

Poor Mr. Carewe, ſaid he, dropt tears, at the firſt part of this ſtory, though I really ſaw no ſuch crying matter in it; but he turned pale, and fell into a chair, by the time I had come to the latter part of it; overcome, I ſuppoſe, by the fatiguing journey he had told me he had rode all the laſt night and this morning. Mr. Andrews was much affected at this recital— Mr. Carewe's diſtreſs augmented his own; for his compaſſion extended itſelf even to the perſon through whom his own misfortune had fallen, upon him. However, he quick recollected him⯑ſelf, and intreated the attorney to proceed, who thus went on:

As ſoon as Mr. Carewe had a little recovered himſelf, he pulled the very identical five thou⯑ſand pounds worth of four per cent. debentures out of his pocket, and putting half of them, to the amount of juſt two thouſand five hundred pounds, into my hands, Run, fly, ſaid he, in a perfect agony, to my generous and unhappy friend Mr. Andrews, ſummon the ſheriff on the inſtant, depoſit with him, inſtead of bail, two thouſand pounds of theſe ſecurities, to ſet that worthy gallant man at liberty— and oh! ſend him [84] quick as lightning to my grateful arms—I have have intruſted you before, cried he, all in a breath, with my whole fortune—And there in⯑deed, perhaps he was right—How much higher a confidence do I repoſe in you now!—But this laſt expreſſion I could not, for the very blood of me, comprehend the meaning of, when I had actually but half of the debentures in my hands, at the ſame time.

But he really ſeemed to be a little non com himſelf, the man did, while he was ſpeaking to me; for you verily never did ſee any creature in ſuch a hurry combuſtion, in all your life. Juſt for all the world in ſuch a twitter, as a girl going to be married, exactly. Run—fly—was the word at every hand's turn—Nay, he would not even ſuffer me to ſtay to eat a poor morſel of dinner, nei⯑ther, which was juſt then coming upon the ta⯑ble; an, excellent fowl, bacon and greens, with a piping hot ſhoulder of mutton, Sir, all of the very beſt meat that the markets could af⯑ford; for my creſt has always been, Sir, Win gold and wear it, i'faith. Nothing leſs, Sir, as I was ſaying, would ſerve my gentleman, but out I muſt go directly, or there would be no living in the houſe for him.

So after I had ſettled a few papers in my deſk, Sir, and had put on my hat, gloves, and cloak, [85] looking for my cane for ſome time, which my ſon Tommy had carried up to the nurſery, for a hobby horſe—Young things will play, Mr. An⯑drews—Mr. Carewe fidgetting and fidgetting about the parlour, all the while, I ſallied out of the door, without any manner of delay, exactly as it ſtruck three o'clock, Sir.

CHAP. XXX.

THREE o'clock! cried out Mr. Andrews, and looking at his watch—'Tis now juſt eight, and allowing an hour for your coming to this point, without any manner of delay, ſince you came in, what, in the name of prolixity and the law, could you have been doing, Sir, du⯑ring the other four hours?

Why there now, again Sir, you may eaſily perceive from hence, the hurry and confuſion that both Mr. Carewe and you had thrown me into; for it had made me near forgot one very material article of my errand, which this queſ⯑tion of yours, now ſtarted, has made me recol⯑lect again. I told you before, Sir, that Mr. Ca⯑rewe had given me debentures to the amount of two thouſand five hundred pounds ſterling—The [86] firſt two thouſand you know already, how that is to be applied; but now for the odd five hun⯑dred—Why this, Sir, Mr. Carewe deſired me, as ſoon as I ſhould have diſpatched you off to him, to poſt away to the banker with, to re⯑leaſe his bond, with your counter-obligation, and bring them to him directly; that he might have the honeſt pleaſure, as he expreſſed himſelf, of delivering them up cancelled to you, himſelf, Sir.

Well Sir—when I had now gotten into the middle of the ſtreet, ſafe and ſound out of his clutches, and found myſelf at liberty of think⯑ing and acting according to my own judgment or experience of matters and things, I began to conſider with myſelf, that my beſt way, un⯑doubtedly, would be firſt to hye me to the banker's, before I came to you, Sir; arguing the point pro and con, in my own mind, thus: Should I defer this buſineſs till the evening, I may poſſibly miſs of my chap, for he may be gone abroad; but as for Mr. Andrews, I ſhall be ſure of finding the gentleman at home, at any hour; for he muſt neceſſarily ſtay till I call upon him. Ay, ay, bonum ſecurum is the word there. At dinner is the ſureſt time of meeting with a man of buſineſs at his own houſe, and I can alſo by this means, kill two birds with [87] one ſtone, and pick up a meal for myſelf, at the ſame time, in ſpite of all Mr. Carewe's hurry and fluſter.

I judged the thing for the beſt, I thought, taking every circumſtance together; and ſo, without any more ifs or ands, away I hied me to the bank, as faſt as my legs, which are none of the beſt, could carry me. I found the gentle⯑man at home, as I ſurmiſed, I told him my er⯑rand, he was overjoyed, invited me to ſit down at table with him, and indeed, to do him juſ⯑tice, made as much of me, as man could do.

While we were at dinner, continued he, the banker ſent one of his clerks to the attorney, acquainting him with the buſineſs, and deſiring him to attend immediately, and ſee very thing performed according to law. He came on the ſummons, and after I had paid the money, and that we had taken our jolly bottles apiece, and a peremptory, I acquainted them with the other commiſſion I was going to tranſact; and ſo came off hither, without ſtop or ſtay, only juſt calling upon a client of mine, for about half an hour, as it happened to lie directly in my way. Buſi⯑neſs muſt be done, you know, Sir. But for all my hurry, I did not neglect the main chance, you ſee, added he, throwing two papers on the table, for there are the girth and circingle, my [88] boy—Five hundred pounds ſterling, with intereſt and coſts, (which latter, by the bye, Mr. Carewe owes me yet) was a plaguy dear purchaſe truly, for ſuch dirty ſcraps of paper—But law is law, Sir.

Mr. Andrews loſt all manner of patience, by this time, and ringing the bell, ſent off directly for his friend the ſheriff, intreating him to come immediately, and take the ſecurities from the attorney, as he dare not venture to let this tedious impertinent go to the office to make the depoſit himſelf, or ſuffer him one moment out of his ſight, till he might be at liberty alſo, to iſſue forth along with him.

CHAP. XXXI.

THE ſheriff returned with the meſſenger, on the inſtant, but brought this unwel⯑come piece of news, at the ſame time, that about half an hour before, a certificate had been lodged in the office, by the ſurgeon who at⯑tended the bailiff, that upon that evening's dreſſing, he had found the wound to have proved mortal; after which notice, added he, I am ſorry to acquaint you that it is not in the power [89] of our office, to accept of bail, without a ſpecial order of court.

Mr. Andrews then turning toward the attor⯑ney, ſaid with a grave, but dejected air, I thank you, Sir, for this; and I hope that Mr. Carewe will reprove you too, with the ſame temper. I underſtand you, Sir, replied he, but having done every thing for the beſt, as I told you be⯑fore, I am not to be chargeable with the con⯑ſequences, d'ye mark. Buſineſs, let me tell you, Sir, (becauſe you really ſeem to be a per⯑fect ſtranger to it) buſineſs, I ſay, is not to be ſcuttled away, as faſt as this man, or that man, or t'other man, take it into their wiſe noddles; as if they thought of nothing all the while, but their own convenience, forſooth. But I find that I have no more buſineſs here, at preſent, Sir, and as I hate loitering where I have nothing to do, I ſhall e'en pack up my awls, and return home to Mr. Carewe, again, with his two thouſand pounds, ſafe and ſound, out of all man⯑ner of jeopardy—I am ſure my delay was lucky for him, at leaſt. So ſaying, he took up his hat, gloves, cloak, cane, girth, and circingle, filled up a brimmer, drank the clerk of the crown's prayer to Mr. Andrews, and hobbled down ſtairs.

[90]The ſheriff, who was really a very good kind of man, ſtaid for an hour behind him, to con⯑ſole his friend; and told him he had hopes, even if the bailiff ſhould die, from former in⯑ſtances of the ſame kind, that upon its appear⯑ing to be a ſudden thing, merely accidental, and without any manner of malice praepenſe, on your part, ſaid he, together with the remarkable ſobriety and excellence of your character, the crown may be induced to make a favourable diſtinction, upon the repreſentation of the court, between the acceſſory and the principal.

I thank you, Sir, replied Mr. Andrews, for your kind wiſhes; but, free from guilt, I am devoid of fear. I would not yet die, becauſe nature ſeems yet unwilling to releaſe me—but, if providence ſhall think fit to ſuperſede her laws, heaven's will be done, and I ſhall ſubmit, without repining.

The ſpirit and virtue of theſe expreſſions, drew tears from the ſheriff's eyes—and ſo they would have done from the hang-man. Farewel, moſt excellent young man, ſaid he, embracing him, and retired.

CHAP. XXXII.

JUST after he went away, the following let⯑ter was delivered to Mr. Andrews:

This letter appeared quite enigmatical; but Mr. Andrews read, prayed, and went to bed, in expectation of the next day's event. No meaſure reſted upon himſelf, and his anxiety was therefore leſs, than it would have been had any iſſue depended upon his own conduct.

The next morning he was informed, that, as ſoon as the King's Bench had met, a counſel, [92] on the part of Mr. Carewe, had moved the court, ſetting forth the whole ſtory of Mr. An⯑drews's accidental and unmerited misfortune, confeſſing that Mr. Carewe himſelf had wounded the bailiff, before Mr. Andrews had come up, and offering, on condition that Mr. Andrews ſhould be admitted to bail, to ſurrender Mr. Ca⯑rewe into cuſtody, to take his tryal, ſhould the bailiff die. The court was extremely ſtruck at the generoſity of the propoſition, but ſaying that the laws admitted of no commutation in in ſuch caſes, diſmiſſed the motion.

Mr. Andrews himſelf, notwithſtanding the greatneſs of his own ſoul, was aſtoniſhed at the magnanimity of Mr. Carewe's; and wept then, for the firſt time ſince his confinement; crying out, this is a man, indeed, worth living for! yet I may die, perhaps, without the happineſs of any farther commerce with him! Say, ſay, ye learned in the philoſophy of nature, is there on earth a tranſport higher than the embrace of ſuch a friend! But I cannot fly to his arms, nor dare he venture into mine.

Juſt as he had finiſhed this expreſſion, Mr. Carewe, with a flow pace, and dejected air, entered the room, moving up toward Mr. An⯑drews, who upon ſeeing him, ſprang back from his chair, crying out, Gracious heaven, Sir, [93] what has brought you into this horrid place? My own extravagance and vice, and your virtue and misfortune, replied he, throwing himſelf at his feet, embracing his knees, and intreating his pity and forgiveneſs. Mr. Andrews, endea⯑vouring to raiſe him, ſunk into his arms.

CHAP. XXXIII.

I WAS obliged to cloſe the laſt chapter ſome⯑what abruptly, becauſe I began to perceive my generous reader too much affected, myſelf not leſs ſo, to ſuffer me to continue the reſt of the ſtory, in deſcription. Therefore, for the mu⯑tual eaſe of both our nerves, I ſhall conclude the remainder of it, in ſimple narrative only.

Upon Mr. Carewe's having heard that his motion had been rejected by the court, he walked about his room, for ſome time, like a diſtracted perſon—Then ſitting down, for a while, compoſed in thought, ſtarted ſuddenly up again, and, on the inſtant, ruſhed out of the houſe, ſurrendered himſelf to the ſheriff, and was immediately conducted to the Compter.

The principle, upon which he took this ex⯑traordinary ſtep, was this: He feared that if [94] Mr. Andrews ſhould be tried alone, he might, in all probability, ſuffer, as being the only de⯑linquent taken for the fact. But that ſhould the principal take his tryal along with him, he hoped that the puniſhment of the chief aggreſſor, might be deemed ſufficient ſatisfaction for juſtice, and incline the court to extend its favour toward the innocent and accidental accomplice. Oh! ſhould this gallant friend ſuffer for my crime, cried he out, what a legacy of life would he leave me! I can die with courage, but I cannot live with igno⯑miny—Death is but an inſtant—Infamy is im⯑mortal! I aſk pardon of my readers. But I am not deſcribing, I am only repeating.

Theſe pair of extraordinary friends paſſed ſome minutes together, in mutual admiration of each other's worth, not knowing how to expreſs their heart-felt ſentiments of ſuch unmodern vir⯑tue, when they were relieved from their diffi⯑culty, by the haſty entrance of the ſheriff, who running up and embracing Mr. Andrews, cried out, in a tranſport of congratulation, Joy, joy, my dear friend, and to you, Sir, alſo, turning to Mr. Carewe, for two of the moſt eminent ſurgeons in London, whom I called in myſelf, to attend the bailiff's dreſſing, this morning, have pronounced him abſolutely out of danger, and even in a condition to walk abroad.

[95]While the two friends attended earneſtly to this diſcourſe, he thus went on: I confeſs, ſaid he, that I was much ſurpriſed, laſt night, upon finding ſuch a notice ſerved upon my office, ſo ſhortly after my having been informed in the courts, juſt as I was going home to dinner, that the bailiff had been pronounced to be in a fair way of recovery. I began to ſuſpect, from this circumſtance, that there had been ſome foul play intended, from ſome quarter or other, in this affair, and therefore reſolved within myſelf, for the ſake of juſtice, humanity and friendſhip, to call in two of the ableſt ſurgeons in the city, at my own expence, to attend the dreſſing of my patient, this morning. However, I did not mention any thing of this purpoſe to you laſt night, added he, turning to Mr. Andrews, think⯑ing it not proper to amuſe you, leſt the ſucceſs might not have anſwered my hopes and expec⯑tations.

CHAP. XXXIV.

THE former ſurgeon, continued he, who was by at this report, appeared to be ex⯑tremely confounded, and ſneaked immediately after out of the room. This ſtrengthened my [96] ſuſpicion, and running haſtily after him, down ſtairs, juſt as he had gained the threſhold of the door, I ſeized him by the collar, pretending to have a warrant for him, in my pocket, upon an information of a colluſion with ſome certain perſon, to impoſe his patient's danger on the court, for ſome ſiniſter purpoſe or other.

His fright betrayed his guilt, and upon a pro⯑miſe of indemnity he immediately confeſſed to me, that the banker's attorney had called upon him in a great hurry, the evening before, and prevailed on him, with a fee of twenty guineas, to make a falſe return upon his patient's caſe; with a deſign, as I apprehend, ſaid he, to ſkrew money out of the priſoner, in order to be ad⯑mitted to bail.

I was tranſported with joy, ſaid the ſheriff, at this fortunate diſcovery; but reſolving not to ſuffer it to reſt here, I ſent immediately for a coach, and carried him, with the two other ſur⯑geons, along with me, to court, ordering the wounded bailiff, by their permiſſion, to follow us in a chair.

I got a counſel then to move the bench, on your behalf, and after a thorough examination into this iniquitous affair, and our producing the patient on the table, the court directed a pro⯑ſecution againſt the attorney, at the ſuit of the crown, and granted me permiſſion to come [97] immediately and ſet you both at liberty, the bench having been juſt at that inſtant informed, that you, Sir, ſaid he, and turning to Mr. Ca⯑rewe, had ſurrendered yourſelf up into the ſhe⯑riff's office, this morning, upon the diſmiſſal of your extraordinary, and unprecedented motion.

They all mutually embraced each other, and Mr. Andrews and Mr. Carewe made the moſt grateful acknowledgments to the ſheriff, for his generous and active ſervices; intreating the en⯑joyment of his company, for the remainder of the day, in ſome ſafe and retired ſcene, beyond the city wards, upon Mr. Carewe's account; where, by the help of friendly converſe, they might endeavour to forget the irkſomeneſs of their late adventure.

The ſheriff excuſed himſelf, on account of the buſineſs of his office, and Mr. Carewe, at parting, put a bill of fifty pounds into his hands, deſiring him to diſcharge the compter fees, to reimburſe himſelf his own expences of ſur⯑geons, counſel, &c. and to give the remainder to the bailiff. He anſwered that he would cer⯑tainly execute the firſt and laſt of theſe com⯑miſſions, but begged to be excuſed from per⯑forming the ſecond, ſaying, that he was no at⯑torney, and that providence had bleſſed him with a fortune which could afford to treat him [98] to ſuch acts as theſe. Mr. Andrews and Mr. Carewe then took a coach, and drove out to Iſlington together.

CHAP. XXXV.

NOthing can poſſibly demonſtrate the vera⯑city of theſe memoirs, more than my two laſt chapters; for the ſudden tranſition, from the danger of the two friends, to their ſafety, is certainly againſt all rules of novel, whatſoever. But ſo it happened, and ſo I was bound to relate it. It is a common theſis of ſchool declamation, whether or no it would have been a prudent meaſure in the Carthagi⯑nians, immediately after the battle of Cannae, to have marched up directly, to the gates of Rome? But then ſurely, that claſs which ſhould aſſert the affirmative, muſt point their court mar⯑tial cenſure againſt Hannibal alone, who was at liberty to have done as he pleaſed, and not at Livy, who was reſtrained by an hiſtoric fact.

Livy and I, 'tis hoped the courteous reader will pleaſe to obſerve, are perfectly alike, in three very remarkable particulars—In being [99] equally ſlaves to truth, in the beauties of our writings, and where the ſame courteous reader, I am ſure, would leaſt of all have ſuſpected any manner of reſemblance, even in the very defects of them. Aſinius Pollio^* arraigns him of a Patavinité, as he phraſed it, in his ſtile, a ſort of impureneſs of language, contracted at Patavium, the place of his nativity; and as I confeſs myſelf to have been born in Ireland—For what Iriſh⯑man is aſhamed? I hope that the Critical Re⯑viewers, or ſelf-named Athenians ^†, will candidly impute the Hibernicities in this here work, to my having been indigenated in that there place.

Had I been at liberty to have ſuffered events to wait upon the leiſure of invention, how plea⯑ſant would it be to have locked up the reader in the goal with them, for a week or ten days longer? The turnkey bringing them accounts, from time to time, of the ſtill increaſing danger [100] of the bailiff? At length, he is given over, and then he dies, and then they are both inſtantly loaded with irons.

After which, I might have related, how, as they were tranſmitting from the compter, to Newgate, they were interrupted by a funeral proceſſion, which, upon enquiry, they found to be the aforeſaid bailiff, going to be buried— And how, upon its taking wind, no matter how, among the populace, that theſe pair of unfor⯑tunate friends were the culprits for the fact, they were firſt inſulted, and then pelted ſo fu⯑riouſly with ſtones, or brick-bats, no matter which, that if it was not for the guard, moſt luckily coming up in the nick, firing among the mob, and killing ſeven or eight poor innocent men, women, and children, who had taken no manner of part in the fray, but only ſtood gaping on—I ſay, that was it not for this ſame unexpected and timely relief, which favoured their eſcape, they would never have lived to be hanged, you may depend upon it.

Well, but after their reſcue, I might have lodged them, ſafe and ſound, in the dungeon, for a week, on ten days longer, till their tryals are brought on; during which interval, I could have highly entertained the reader, (who has vo⯑luntarily confined himſelf to the ſame condemned [101] hold, along with them) with the hiſtories of the ſeveral criminals, neck-yoked in the ſame place; which they might have amuſed themſelves with, to while away the time, till their executions.

As how one man finding another in bed with his wife, did, contrary to his majeſty's peace, his crown and dignity, and contrary to the ſtatute, in that caſe made and provided, blow out the cuckolder's brains, with a charged piſtol, which he happened luckily to have in his hand, at the very time. That the adultereſs had proſecuted, and convicted him for the fact; notwithſtanding it had been ſpecially argued, by his counſel, that jointure-wives ſhould never be admitted as evidence againſt their huſbands, becauſe they are to be gainers by the ſucceſs of the ſuit.

How another hang-dog, having cogged a die upon a young heir, juſt come of age, and ſtript him of a large ſum of money, upon being charged by the loſer, with the fraud, and being a perſon of nice honour, but not having the fear of God before his eyes, whipt him through the guts, upon the very ſpot. With ſeveral other ſuch extraordinary occurrences in life, as ſwell and embelliſh the moſt of our modern novels.

And after I had held the reader in pain, for his two friends, quantum ſufficit, had brought them into the dock, and arraigned them at the [102] bar, I might have introduced the officious ſheriff, aforeſaid, leading in the ſuppoſed dead bailiff, by the hand, and making a diſcovery of the whole ſham, contrived by, &c. There is a twiſt for you now, which would be the more de⯑lightful, becauſe it was quite unnatural to ex⯑pect it.

I ſay, that if I had not tied myſelf, too ſcrupu⯑louſly, down to the very facts themſelves, as they really did occur, (which forces me on a digreſſion, now and then, to give a ſcope to fancy) I could have made this work infinitely more ingaging, both to my fair readers, and to my foul ones too; for I could have exchanged ſentiment for incident, and have forced moral to give place to —

But, have a little patience, good people, for I hope ſoon to rid my hands of the confined work I am now upon; and then I promiſe you to give myſelf a looſe to all the extravaganza of invention; and to preſent the public with a novel, though nothing new, which ſhall at once diſtreſs and delight all hearts—I have here already, in this very chapter, afforded them a ſketch, both of the ſtile, and manner I mean to conduct it in; which I have picked up out of ſeveral ſucceſsful modern performances.

[103]For it ſhall be a moſt diſmal ſeries of adven⯑tures, without language, reflection, or ſenti⯑ment, but rendered perfectly eaſy and familiar, by the il modo baſſo ^*; for one muſt humour the public, like a child, by telling them a ſtory, of what kind no matter, ſo you keep going; for the motto of them all may be, that one is good, till another is told. But methinks, our noveliſts treat the old babes worſe than one does the young ones, for they give them the fable only, but ne⯑glect the moral.

And really, after all, what uſe would the embelliſhments of thought or expreſſion be of, to a work of this kind, except to take up too much of one's attention, from the narrative, or action? which would be juſt as abſurd, as if you were conducting a gentleman or a lady, for ex⯑ample ſake, to ſee an execution, and ſhould ſuffer them to loiter at a bookſeller's, or a picture-ſhop, by the way.

The principle, upon which our fabulous bio⯑graphers proceed, is certainly a very juſt one. That this world is ſo brimful of happineſs, that it quite ſurfeits us; and it is therefore become abſolutely neceſſary, to invent tales of difficulty, and diſtreſs, to relieve our ſatiated minds, with a [104] little variety^*. And therefore, ſince readers have taken up ſuch an unnatural paſſion for cry⯑ing, I think proper to acquaint them that I have framed the plan of a novel, which, if it does not blind their eyes with tears, firſt, ſhall break their hearts with grief, at laſt. The ſtory, in ſhort, ſhall be this:

I will join Clariſſa Harlowe, and Sidney Bi⯑dulph, both in the ſame piece; and, after I have raviſhed Clary, and married Biddy, I will pack them off on a voyage together, no matter why, or where, but in order to have them taken by pirates, and ſold into ſlavery; where, after they have been re-raviſhed, and re-married, to the end of the chapter, they ſhall attempt making their eſcape from Algiers, and be taken in the fact; tried, condemned, but not executed all at once—not ſo faſt, good Sirs—This would be putting the reader out of pain, too ſuddenly, ei⯑ther for his pleaſure, or my profit, by cutting me ſhort of juſt forty entertaining chapters, exactly.

For, in the firſt, I will only lop off a finger, [105] and in the next, a toe; and ſo proceed, alter⯑nately, as often as they have fingers and toes. Oh! oh! oh! till finis ſhall bring us an account of their tedious deaths and burials. Theſe Alge⯑rines, you know, are a mercileſs ſort of people, and it is no matter, in the leaſt, how many lies a good Chriſtian may tell, of Turks, Jews, or Infidels.

But after all, what ſignifies lying? might it not do as well to print off any old ſtory, of a cock and a bull, in onion juice; which, I warrant you, will oblige the ſtrongeſt Cabletonians ^*, in Eu⯑rope, Aſia, Africa, or America, to

for certainly, that kind of ſorrow, which ariſes neither from the truth of the fact, nor the art of the repreſentation, muſt be imputed rather to a weakneſs, than a tenderneſs of heart; and may properly enough be diſtinguiſhed from compaſſion, by the denomination of eye grief.

N. B. This work ſhall conſiſt of nine vo⯑lumes, in octavo. Subſcriptions to be taken in [106] by the printer hereof, at five guineas, in hand, and a guinea, on delivery of the firſt eight books. The ninth to be delivered gratis. The firſt vo⯑lume to be put into the preſs, as ſoon as one thouſand ſetts ſhall be ſubſcribed for.

CHAP. XXXVI.

MR. Andrews and Mr. Carewe dined, ſup⯑ped, and lay, at Iſlington, that night, Mr. Carewe not thinking it prudent to re⯑turn to London, for the reaſons he had al⯑ready given to Mr. Andrews, for quitting it im⯑mediately after his reſcue. They were ſenſible of a mutual ſatisfaction in each other's converſe, and ſeveral polite expreſſions were exchanged between them, during the courſe of that even⯑ing.

But when Mr. Carewe began to compliment his friend, upon the generoſity of his late beha⯑viour, Mr. Andrews interrupted him, by ſaying, that it would rather humble him, in his own opinion, to be praiſed for what, in honour of human nature, he hoped were but common me⯑rits. My firſt act, ſaid he, was but the uſual [107] impulſe of manhood; and the ſecond, but the reſult of common honeſty, only—Your conduct, indeed, upon this occaſion, has been truly no⯑ble.—

Hold, interrupted Mr. Carewe, ſince you will not indulge me, Sir, in the real pleaſure of dwelling on your praiſe, ſpare me, at leaſt, the aukward uneaſineſs of liſtening to my own. Let us, rather, added he, ſince we are, I hope, from this day, cemented friends for life, con⯑trive, after ſome ſort, to commence our ac⯑quaintance earlier, by mutually relating to each other, the private hiſtory of thoſe aera's, which have preceded our firſt meeting; ſo as, in a manner, to retrieve paſt time, and thus take hands, as it were, together, from firſt to laſt, through life.

With all my heart, replied Mr. Andrews; but as the evening is now too far ſpent, that you have declared your purpoſe of retiring farther into the country, to-morrow, and that I muſt neceſſarily return to proſecute my fortunes, at London, let us defer entering upon this propo⯑ſition, till we may hereafter, be more at leiſure together; and, for the preſent, we'll paſs the ſhort remnant of our contracted ſpan, in a more general converſe.

[108]The next morning, they parted; and their dif⯑ferent avocations keeping them ſtill at a conſi⯑derable diſtance from each other, the firſt place they ever happened to meet in, after their ſepa⯑ration at Iſlington, was the farm, as before re⯑cited, in the firſt chapter. And now, ladies, I have fairly kept my word with you, for Mr. An⯑drews has but juſt alighted at Windſor, and I ſhall leave him to continue his narrative to you, which I took the liberty of interrupting, at the end of the ſeventeenth chapter.

CHAP. XXXVII. The continuation of the ſtory of Mr. Andrews and Mr. Carewe.

I Dined, ſaid Mr. Andrews, at the inn, and, after I had changed my dreſs, I went imme⯑diately to pay my compliments to miſs Beville. I met Mrs. Beville in the hall, ordering ſome wine into the parlour, where I heard a great noiſe of ruſtic mirth, going forward. I ſaluted her, and enquired, with earneſtneſs, how her daughter was? She ſighed, and replied, that ſhe had been, for a conſiderable time, ill of [109] ſomething like a ſlow fever on her ſpirits, had loathed food, and declined company; that a phyſician had been called in, ſeveral times, but that it had been with great difficulty ſhe could be at all perſuaded to uſe any of his preſcriptions; and that the few which ſhe had been prevailed on to take, had yet produced no viſible effect upon her health.

She added, that, for a week paſt, ſhe had con⯑fined herſelf intirely to her chamber; and that, though this was her birth-day, upon which oc⯑caſion her father had invited ſome friends to dinner, in order to tempt her down ſtairs, to do the honours of the table, ſhe had declined it, by ſaying, after her preſent low-ſpirited manner, that it would be inſincere in her to affect rejoicing at her birth. Mrs. Beville then preſſed me to go into the parlour, but I refuſed it, telling her that I always avoided every occaſion of drinking; and that ſince miſs Beville had refuſed rejoicing, upon the preſent one, it would certainly be ex⯑tremely ungalant in me, to make merry on it.

After this, ſhe kindly aſked me where I had been this age, as ſhe was ſo obliging to term it; which inquiry I happily took advantage of, by replying that I had been ſtudying phyſic, ever ſince; adding, with an affected ſpirit, that as quacks ſometimes ſucceed, where the faculty [110] have failed, perhaps I might be in poſſeſſion of ſome noſtrum, or other, which might poſſibly reſtore the fair invalid to her health and ſpirits again. She replied, that ſhe really believed poor Fanny would be glad to ſee me, for that ſhe had always ſeemed pleaſed with my company, and had alſo diſtinguiſhed me with particular regards, as her dear brother's friend. I bowed, and ſhe led the way up ſtairs, to her daughter's apart⯑ment.

When I entered the room, I ſaw her ſitting at a table, with a pen and ink, and a paper juſt written, lying before her. She appeared pale and languid, and had a certain air of melancholy diffuſed over all her features. She did not per⯑ceive me at firſt, as her mother walked in before me, I advanced to ſalute her, and ſhe ſeemed ſtruck with ſurpriſe; ſhe roſe to receive me, trembled when I took her hand, faltered in at⯑tempting to ſpeak, and inſtantly fainted in my arms.

I carried her to the couch, looſed her ſtays, and bared her lovely boſom, while Mrs. Beville ſprinkled water on her face and neck; ſhe at length opened her eyes, with a great ſigh, but quickly perceiving the ſituation and diſorder ſhe was in before me, ſhe fell into the utmoſt confu⯑ſion; which her mother endeavoured to qualify, [111] by ſaying never mind it, my dear child, for this gentleman has become a phyſician, ſince you ſaw him laſt, and a deſhabille, you know, is nothing between doctor and patient.

I turned immediately aſide, toward the table, to leave her at liberty to compoſe her handker⯑chief, which while her mother and ſhe were ad⯑juſting, I was tempted to run my eye haſtily over the manuſcript, that lay open before me, in which I read the following lines:

CHAP. XXXVIII. On my BIRTH-DAY.

The ſenſations which affected me on reading this paper, are not to be deſcribed. I was very near wanting the ſame aſſiſtance myſelf, which had been juſt ſupplied to her. Where I expected to meet a birth-day ode, as the title had pro⯑miſed me, I was ſhocked with a funeral elegy, rather. Sadneſs, at other times, may ariſe from ſome ſudden loſs, or tranſient misfortune—The grief may be but temporary — But when a ſeaſon, otherwiſe of joy, ſhall ſupply occaſion of melan⯑cholic reflection, it betrays the ingrained com⯑plexion of the mind. Throughout the whole poem ſhe prefers death to life, and ſeems to [113] have reſtrained her impatience, by the conſidera⯑tion in the laſt line, only.

I did not appear to have taken any manner of notice of the paper, which, the moment ſhe recollected, ſhe ſprang forward, turned upon the table, and bluſhed at the ſame time; which quick reſtored her ſuſpended beauties, and made her ſeem, at that inſtant, more lovely to my eyes, than methought I had ever ſeen her before.

I aſked her about the ſtate of her health; how long ſhe had been ill, after what manner affected; and at the ſame time made a phyſical pretence, of feeling her pulſe, for the natural one, of touching her hand. She anſwered me every queſtion, with as much gravity as ſhe would have done to a regular phyſician, only that ſhe ſeemed to ſeize, with a certain quickneſs, an opportunity from thence, of accounting for her late emotion, by adding, that ſhe had dreamed, the night before, that I was dead, and the tediouſneſs of her diſ⯑order had reduced her mind, as well as her body, to ſuch a ſtate of weakneſs, that the ſud⯑denneſs of my appearance before her, ſo little expected, had ſtruck her, ſome how, as if it had been a viſion.

CHAP. XXXIX.

MRS. Beville, on hoſpitable cares intent, fre⯑quently quitted the room, to order in wine to the company below ſtairs, and give the neceſſary directions about her houſhold affairs; which left her charming daughter and me, at greater liberty to entertain each other. Miſs Be⯑ville, in one of theſe intervals, aſked me what was the whim of her mother in ſtiling me a phy⯑ſician, juſt now? I repeated our converſation below ſtairs, and told her that this was a pre⯑tence I had luckily framed, extempore, in order to intitle me to the privilege of being admitted to viſit her in her preſent retired and invalid ſtate. However, added I, the ſcience of phyſic is not ſo deep a miſtery, neither, as that com⯑mon ſenſe need be at a loſs upon every occaſion, how to preſcribe; and in your caſe, Madam, ſaid I, it is not impoſſible, at leaſt, that I may be able, without a diploma, to retrieve your health, e'er long.

She anſwered that ſhe was very willing to ſubmit to my preſcriptions; adding, that if faith in the doctor, was an help to medicine, no phyſician could poſſibly meet with better ſucceſs, [115] in a patient. This ſhe pronounced with a ſmile, but a bluſh at the ſame time—The higheſt charms of female beauty, joined at once in one!

She then inquired of me, with a modeſt, down-caſt look, and heſitating voice, to what fortunate criſis ſhe was indebted for the pleaſure of my preſent viſit? Then raiſing up her head and voice, a little, hoped that I had returned from Germany, loaded with laurels, and brought home trophies to add to the antient and preſent glory of England; with other railleries of the ſame kind.

I ſmiled at her humour, and told her, as was in truth, the caſe, that I had been trifled with by my father, who, after ſeveral vague ſchemes for my eſtabliſhment in life, had at length, left me at liberty to ſeek out my own fortunes; but that my diſappointments were, at preſent, greatly qualified, by the extreme pleaſure I re⯑ceived in being allowed to behold and converſe with her once more. That I began now to look upon myſelf to be my own maſter, but would willingly exchange that vain prerogative, for the higher privilege of becoming her ſlave, if ſhe had not already engaged one more worthy to be commanded.

[116]She turned her eyes quick upon me, with a regard of emotion and ſurpriſe; but collecting herſelf again, in an inſtant, replied in a low and ſoftened tone of voice, that politeneſs afforded men great advantages, becauſe it indulged them the privilege of ſpeaking in a kind of equivocal ſtile, which none but women who had been bred at courts, could poſſibly have addreſs enough to anſwer. I replied, that though ga⯑lantry might poſſibly admit of ſuch hollow lan⯑guage, it had never yet obtained a currency, in friendſhip; and that, if ſhe would but grant me permiſſion, I would explain myſelf more expli⯑citly, upon this ſubject, to her brother. She bluſhed, and bowed—I kiſſed her hand, and retired.

CHAP. XL.

I HAD come down to Windſor, you may remember, continued Mr. Andrews, in or⯑der to ſatisfy myſelf more fully, about my ſcru⯑ples of love and honour; but perhaps you may think that I had here drawn too haſty a conclu⯑ſion, from the premiſſes. Poſſibly too, there [117] may appear at leaſt as much of vanity as of ge⯑neroſity, in this precipitation.

But you'll indulge me, I hope, in the moſt favourable conſtruction on this paſſage, by ſup⯑poſing rather, that the ſtrength of my own paſ⯑ſion, might have ſuper-added a degree of evi⯑dence to her's; and that having thus wrought the matter up to a moral certainty, at leaſt, it would have been moſt indelicate, beſides ſeeming to rate my purchaſe too high, to have required a more explicit declaration.

A delicate lover will never force his miſtreſs, to a confeſſion—She loſes a good deal of her price, by ſuch a frankneſs; and too categorical a cer⯑tainty, if the expreſſion may be allowed, leſſens alſo conſiderably, the refinement of his own pleaſures. There is a ſubordination in love, of that nice and peculiar nature, that, if once de⯑ſtroyed, can never be reſtored; and the ſtate, thenceforward, either becomes anarchical, with⯑out any order at all, or inverted, by inferiors bearing ſway. Until the avowal, a woman re⯑ſerves to herſelf, the privileges of her ſex, but at that inſtant reſigns her whole prerogative. Na⯑ture ſeems to have from the firſt, endowed them with this empire, and a ſalique law here, would be diſſolute rebellion. The confeſſion humbles a woman too much, and a polite, or prudent [118] lover ſhould never ſuffer his miſtreſs to abate the opinion of her own value. The conferring of favours, preſerves the whole ſpirit of this paſ⯑ſion, which ſickens and dies away, whenever they come to be challenged as a right.

Beſides, is not the confeſſion either needleſs, or uncertain? are there not ſurer tokens of a paſ⯑ſion, even than words or actions? Is the love which declares, or the one that betrays itſelf, the ſtrongeſt? And is a premeditated ſpeech or mo⯑tion, or an involuntary ſigh or emotion, the moſt certain ſign? Love is the great purpoſe, and pleaſure of our lives, and yet how few of either ſex, are capable of that oeconomy, deli⯑cacy, or addreſs, which are requiſite to heighten or confirm its joys, by zeſt or permanency?

CHAP. XLI.

THE next morning, I ſent a card, with my compliments to the family, deſiring to know how they all were, particularly miſs Be⯑ville; adding, that I ſhould wait on them im⯑mediately after breakfaſt, to learn the route to my friend's lodge, in Hertfordſhire. This meſ⯑ſage [119] was anſwered by Mr. Beville's coming down to the inn, and inviting me to dinner; calling me doctor Andrews, in a laughing way, and ſaying that his daughter had been ſo much reco⯑vered, by my friendly viſit, that ſhe would ven⯑ture down ſtairs that day, to receive me.

I readily accepted the invitation, but upon this condition, that my patient ſhould not be ſuf⯑fered to quit her apartment ſo ſuddenly; for that it had often proved fatal, the having miſtaken ſpirits for ſtrength—That as I had accidentally aſſumed the character of a phyſician, I would humour the title a little farther, by directing the proper meats to be ſent up to her from table, and ſhould do myſelf the pleaſure of waiting on her in the evening, to drink tea, feel her pulſe, and receive her commands to the lodge. Theſe preliminaries were agreed to, and I went to dine with the father and mother, at the appointed hour.

I directed ſome broth, and a little white meat, to be carried up to my patient, and then ordered her a large glaſs of wine, with very little water in it; which latter part of the preſcription Mrs. Beville objected to, ſaying that it might perhaps inflame her blood, as ſhe had not taſted any thing ſtronger than tea, for a conſiderable time. 'Tis for that reaſon I direct it, ſaid I, for [120] in all depreſſions of the ſpirits, we of the faculty, madam, uſually preſcribe high cordials, in order to raiſe a fever, and then any diſpenſatory can point out the cure; which admirable expedient ſaves us, madam, a world of trouble, in certain difficult caſes.

We thus amuſed the time during dinner, which I thought a moſt tedious meal, as I was become then more impatient of returning to my charming Fanny, than ever I had been before. I began to conſider her now, in a more intereſt⯑ing light; no longer as one who might merely fill up the vacancies, or amuſe the intervals of life, but as the ſole perſon who was both to inſpirit the buſineſs, and relieve the cares of it—at once to heighten and refine its pleaſures.

I ſoon roſe from table, ſaying that, like a Turk, I preferred coffee to wine, and that a phyſician ſhould always preſerve his blood in an equal temperature, for fear of ſometimes miſ⯑taking his own pulſe for his patient's. Then taking Mrs. Beville by the hand, I led her up ſtairs, to her daughter's apartment.

CHAP. XLII.

MISS Beville was dreſſed with the niceſt elegance and gaiety, and ſeemed ex⯑tremely recovered ſince the evening before, both in her looks and ſpirits, though ſtill weak and pale. I therefore, in order to ſave her the fa⯑tigue of exerting herſelf to entertain me, engroſ⯑ſed the diſcourſe moſtly to myſelf, by repeating to her every incident which had happened to me ſince we parted laſt, to which I added all the articles of news, both foreign and domeſtic, which were then current in London. Among the reſt, I related to her the ſtory of our adven⯑ture, my dear Carewe, ſaid he, and ſhe wept, and wondered, both at the virtue, and the vice of my recital.

I wrought out an occaſion, from ſome part of my diſcourſe, of comparing with diſadvantage, all the pleaſures I had experienced in London, united together, to the ſingle one I had left be⯑hind me at Windſor; adding, that even this, tho' the ſame, was far tranſcended by the preſent enjoyment, as the total excluſion of every wan⯑dering thought, of every alien ſcheme of plea⯑ſure, had now left this favourite one at liberty to occupy my heart and mind intire.

[122]Oh! my dear Carewe, cried he out in a rapture, there is ſomewhat in the rich endow⯑ment of a chaſte woman's love, which exceeds all human bliſs—How low is ambition, how poor are riches, how inſipid is pleaſure, when void of this enlivening ſpirit! Love cannot be deemed a diſtinct paſſion, but rather the inform⯑ing ſoul of every other ſentiment or affection in the human breaſt. It refreſhes labour, relieves care, and gives enjoyment to pleaſure. It not only inſpirits our moral, but even religion is but cold philoſophy, without it. I aſk pardon, ſaid he, for this enthuſiaſtic digreſſion, for with⯑out experience, all this rapture muſt appear but Platonic viſion.

My dear friend, replied Mr. Carewe, you rave not to me, and perhaps I may have con⯑ceived ſtill an higher reliſh for ſuch hallowed pleaſures, even than you, as I have had an op⯑portunity, which your purity may have denied you, of comparing tranſient and libertine joys, with chaſte and ſolid tranſports. Some minutes now paſſed in ſighs and ſilence, on both ſides, after which Mr. Andrews thus proceeded:

After tea was over, continued he, I offered to read to her, which ſhe accepted, and I choſe to take up a play, as it afforded me opportunities, in the love ſcenes, of addreſſing myſelf more [123] perſonally to her, giving me pretences for ſome⯑times ſeizing her hand, or catching her in my arms. She would oppoſe my tranſports, and defend herſelf by ſaying, that ſhe muſt certainly acquit herſelf but aukwardly of a part, which ſhe had never even rehearſed before. To which I replied, that love was a play, contrary to all others, where the beſt performers were thoſe who had practiſed leaſt.

After this chearful and galant manner we con⯑verſed and paſſed away the evening together, till I thought it time for my dear patient to re⯑tire to reſt. I then bowed and withdrew, cal⯑ling upon Mr. Beville in the parlour, to inform myſelf how to direct my courſe to the lodge. I then retired back to the inn, got up early the next morning, and rode poſt to my friend's houſe, about four miles beyond Hertford, where I arrived before dinner, the ſame day.

CHAP. XLIII.

HE was rejoiced to ſee me, my plea⯑ſure was double. I was affected with a two-fold emotion, both of love and friend⯑ſhip. I aſked him a number of queſtions, about [124] the nature of his farm, his intereſt in it, his oeconomy in the management of it, &c. I queſtioned him after that vague and hurrying manner, in which people are apt to inquire about things they have no perſonal concern in, and received his anſwers with that inattention which is natural, when one's mind is occupied by re⯑flections that relate ſolely to themſelves.

After dinner we fell into a more ſettled and deliberate converſation. I gave him an account of my ſcheme and conduct, ſince our laſt inter⯑view. I declared my paſſion for his ſiſter, but with that polite reſerve, that I did not afford the leaſt hint of my fond ſuſpicion about her reci⯑procal affection. I told him of my late viſit to her at Windſor, that I had urged my love and wiſhes, and had happily, though only in a tacit way, obtained her permiſſion, to ſpeak more fully to him, upon that ſubject.

He ſeemed tranſported at the overture, and acknowledged that he had perceived a growing paſſion in his ſiſter's breaſt, toward me, for ſome time paſt, and that this obſervation had rendered him a good deal uneaſy, with regard to the ſituation of her mind; as it was certain that love always produces a more powerful effect in chaſte, than in diſſolute minds; for delicacy of ſentiment, like the pureneſs of gold, increaſes [125] its weight, while vice, like alloy, renders it at once both light and fragile.

He concluded this reply, however, with this reflection, that though his mind had been now made eaſy with regard to that particular, he ap⯑prehended ſome difficulties in others, relating to our mutual ſecurity and happineſs, together. For my ſiſter, ſaid he, has no fortune, and I am afraid that your father has as ridiculous a notion of knight errantry, as ever Cervantes had.

I replied, that this danger might be guarded againſt, for a time, by his being the only confi⯑dant in this affair, until I might be able to in⯑duce my father into a ſettlement, at leaſt poſt mortem, upon the merits of having provided for two of his family already, and at my own ex⯑pence too. But that if a diſcovery ſhould hap⯑pen to occur, before I might be fortunate enough to bring matters to a ſafe criſis, I did not apprehend that his reſentment would extend it⯑ſelf beyond the preſent emotion; for that though his character was not, in ſome things, ſuch as I could wiſh it, yet I hoped and believed that he had proper notions of juſtice; for that his few fail⯑ings had always appeared to me to be rather faults of error, than of vice. Upon the whole, I concluded that if he would riſque the hazard [126] for his dear ſiſter, I would adventure it myſelf, for my ſtill dearer wife. We embraced, and ſet out the next morning for Windſor.

CHAP. XLIV.

MR. Beville rode up directly to his father's houſe, while I alighted at the inn, in order to ſhift my dreſs to one more ſeemly for a courtier, and as ſoon as I was equipt I fol⯑lowed him. I found miſs Beville in the parlour, with her mother and brother; I welcomed her down ſtairs, and wiſhed the world joy of her returning into it again. She bowed, and Mrs. Beville replied, with a ſmile, that ſhe wiſhed her dear Fanny had been a perſon of higher conſequence in it, for my ſake; that the fame of the patient's cure, might make the doctor's fortune. In a ſhort time after, my friend led his mother out of the room, upon ſome pretence or other, whiſpering theſe words to me in French, as he paſſed by, L'amour, et l'occaſion.

When we were thus left alone, I told her that I had waited on my friend, according to her permiſſion, and had intirely explained away [127] all ambiguity of expreſſion, in my late addreſs toward her; and that, in return, he had given me leave to tender her, in more explicit terms, the future ſervices of my life; which I here, madam, in the fondeſt and moſt earneſt man⯑ner, intreat you to accept of, added I, taking hold of her hand, and throwing myſelf at her feet.

She raiſed me up with precipitation, ex⯑preſſing theſe charming words, at the ſame time, that thenceforth, ſubmiſſion ſhould be not only her duty, but her practice alſo, which, while ſhe pronounced, a crimſon glow added a warmth and richneſs to her beauties, which inſpired me with the following reflection: How ill adviſed are women who baniſh bluſhes from their cheeks! They are equally ornamental, to the ſinner and to the ſaint, and ſupply thoſe advantages which either vanity or virtue would deſire, at once both charm and awe, allure the lover, and rebuke the libertine.

Juſt at this inſtant, a criſis, when a polite lover and a delicate miſtreſs wiſh equally to be re⯑lieved from each other, Mrs. Beville returned into the room, to ſearch for ſome keys. I took advantage of this interruption, to retire, on pre⯑tence of ſeeking out my friend and confidant, whom I found in his ſtudy, employed as uſual, in catching the flying moment to improve him⯑ſelf [128] in literature or morals. I acquainted him of my ſucceſs, expreſſed my gratitude for his me⯑diation, and conſulted with him upon proper meaſures to perfect my happineſs, and to con⯑ceal it at the ſame time.

I dined at Mr. Beville's that day, and we ſpent the remainder of it in converſation and read⯑ing. In the evening Beville took his ſiſter aſide, to ſettle preliminaries, and appoint the day for our nuptials, which he told her it was neceſſary for herſelf to do, as the expediency of keeping the affair a ſecret, for ſome time, left us not at liberty to communicate it even to her father or mother.

She replied that it would, by no means, be decent for a young woman to go upon ſuch an errand as this, without the guardianſhip of ſome matron or other; and that ſince it was neceſſary, which ſhe did inſiſt upon, that ſome perſon in that character, ſhould be confided in, her duty and reſpect both, required that her dear mother ſhould become the party. Beville mentioned this to me, I was highly pleaſed with her deli⯑cacy, and conſented to the propoſition. We then deſired miſs Beville to communicate the matter to her mother, who received the propoſal with joy, and in a few days I was rendered com⯑pleatly happy.

CHAP. XLV.

SOON after our marriage, my friend returned to the lodge, and invited his ſiſter home with him, on pretence of adjuſting the oeconomy of his little houſhold, making an apology to his father and mother at the ſame time, on account of the ſmallneſs of his accommodation. I took a formal leave of the family, the ſame day, and returned to London, to examine into the ſitua⯑tion of my affairs there, which finding juſt in the ſame hopeleſs ſtate I had left them, I re⯑paired immediately to the lodge, ſummoned at once by love and friendſhip.

In this charming retreat we ſpent ſome months together, in the higheſt enjoyments of mortal bliſs; love, friendſhip, converſation, muſic, and letters. My dear Fanny was an excellent performer on the harpſichord, and had a voice and taſte ſo very expreſſive, that ſhe could al⯑moſt turn ſound into ſenſe; her brother played finely, on the fiddle, and I had been well prac⯑tiſed on the violincello. What an harmony here, of ſound and ſoul!

We ſecluded ourſelves from all other ſociety at this place, except the miniſter of our pariſh, whoſe merit you ſhall hear of; and were attended [130] by dumb-waiters at our meals; ſo that we might converſe of books, without the imputation of pedantry, and philoſophize, freely, without giving offence to weak minds; for 'ſquires were ex⯑cluded from our table, and ſervants from our ſide-board.

The pleaſures I enjoyed in my new ſtate of life, are not to be imagined but by one who has had the happineſs both to love, eſteem, and poſſeſs a woman of ſenſe, beauty, and virtue. I was then ſenſible, for the firſt time of my life; of a certain ſolid and permanent joy; for the happineſs of marriage, like the intereſt of mo⯑ney, ariſes from a regular and eſtabliſhed fund; libertines ſquander the principal, and ſo become bankrupts.

I happened to rally my wife, one day, about her birth-day elegy, as I ſtiled it; upon which ſhe ſmiled, and ſaid, that ſhe had quite diſmiſſed Melpomene from her toilette, and called down Thalia into her place; adding, that as there were to be none but her firſt and ſecond ſelf by, (bow⯑ing to her brother and me) her third one being to quit the room, ſhe would communicate one of her hand-maid's handy works to us imme⯑diately. So ſaying, ſhe took a paper out of her pocket, threw it on the table, and quick retired. For her modeſty was not confined to chaſtity [131] alone, but formed the bloom and complexion of all the words and actions of her life.

CHAP. XLVI.

IN order to enjoy the pleaſures of this dear ſociety without interruption, or alarming my father, I, ſoon after our marriage, took a large farm in the neighbourhood, which I ſet again in diviſions, to a conſiderable advantage, re⯑ſerving one of the incloſures in my own hands, to lay out my profit-rents upon. About the ſame time my friend took ſome other farms alſo, and obtained ſeveral agencies which enabled him to inlarge his houſe, and encouraged his father to rent his employment at Windſor, to a deputy, and remove with his wife and family, to ſettle at the lodge.

[133]Soon after this, my father ſummoned me up to London, to aſſiſt him in raiſing my ſiſter's portion, who had lately received a propoſal from a gentleman of good fortune, in Surry. Our ſole capital ſtock had been derived from my mother. It was a ſum of ten thouſand pounds, in the funds; but her father dying when ſhe was a child, her guardian and truſtee had involved it in the intricacies of the law, by borrowing ſome money for his own uſe, upon it, before my mother had come of age.

From the time of my father's marriage, to this aera, the difficulty about proving the truſt, had continued in chancery; which prevented his getting an abſolute dominion over the prin⯑cipal, though the court had permitted him, all along, to receive the intereſt. And though his claim became finally aſcertained in the preceding term, yet the time requiſite to make up the de⯑cree, with ſome other common forms, or uſual delays of law, obliged him to borrow the money, wanted upon the preſent occaſion.

This he had engaged from a banker in the city, who happened to be our former acquaint⯑ance, my dear Carewe, ſaid he, and who, hav⯑ing conceived a good opinion of me, from my former tranſaction with him, and which he re⯑lated to my father, inſiſted upon my joining in [134] the bond, as counter ſecurity. I readily con⯑curred; but when the deeds were brought to be ſigned, I confeſs that I was both ſhocked and ſurpriſed to find that his old attorney was the perſon who was employed to tranſact this affair. I hinted it to the banker, and the anſwer he made me was, that the man was perfectly ac⯑quainted with the buſineſs of his profeſſion, and that this article was all the concern he had with him. But as for morals, and all that ſtuff, ſaid he, 'tis a mere jeſt, in things of this ſort, for attorneys will be true to their clients, for their own ſake, and what matter is it to us, how they play the rogue with all the world beſides? Were we to enter into enquiries of this kind, added he, what would become of half the trade of London? A perſon may be a good man, on the Change, who is a very bad one, in his own houſe. Whores and rogues muſt live, concluded he, or the world would be too thinly peopled—I ſigned the deeds, and returned to the country.

Mr. Beville and I gave our whole application toward the improvement of our farms, which was an exerciſe, both to body and mind, equally pleaſant and healthful. The conſtant ſucceſſion of buſineſs, relieves the fatigues of labour, and the rich and various fruits of the earth, ripening one after another, preſent us ſtill with ſomething [135] new, to hope, or to enjoy, preventing all ſatiety; ſo that the farmer may ſay, with Milton, ‘"All ſeaſons and their change, each pleaſe alike."’

CHAP. XLVII.

WHILE Mr. Beville and I lived together at the lodge, we became acquainted with the clergyman of our pariſh, of whom I hinted to you before. He was a man of ſenſe, learning, and humanity, a perſon of ſtrict mo⯑rals, and exemplary piety; but at the ſame time ſo eaſy in his manners, and polite of addreſs, that all who converſed familiarly with him, would have taken him for a mere man of the world; the divine or philoſopher never appearing, but in his actions, or devotions. My Fanny ſaid wittily of him one day, that he certainly did himſelf a ſort of injuſtice, by being ſo agreeable, for that the love and eſteem which his worth alone had intitled him to the whole of, was by this means divided, and each merit thus de⯑frauded of half its due.

His firſt appointment in the church, was to a⯑curacy of forty pounds a year, during which [136] time, his ſiſter was left a dowerleſs widow, with a great number of unportioned children. He immediately fled to their relief, took a houſe to accommodate this helpleſs family, and opened a Latin ſchool in the pariſh, in order to main⯑tain them.

While he was labouring under theſe difficul⯑ties, and life waſting away in celibacy, ſome of his friends propoſed the ſcheme of matrimony to him. But he declined it, ſaying, that, till he had made proviſion for his preſent children, he could neither think it juſt, or prudent, to in⯑cumber himſelf with any future ones. "Why, man alive, theſe children are none of your own, ſurely"—‘Not in a natural ſenſe, indeed, an⯑ſwered he, but in a moral one, I conſider them in the ſame light. Children are the gift of Heaven, added he, and ſince Providence has thought proper to ccmmit theſe orphans to my charge, I will, like Jacob, endeavour to wreſt a bleſſing from the ſtruggle, by ſtriving to perform the duty of a parent, toward them.’

Well, but doctor, are there not warm widows, or ſnug old maids enough, in your pariſh, to feather your neſt withal, and no danger of incumbering yourſelf with a ſecond brood, as you term it? ‘But, gen⯑tlemen, ſometimes ladies, he would reply, [137] I will not mock the church's rites, and to marry, without a lover's wiſhes, or a father's hopes, is the baſeſt proſtitution, ſurely; nor would I graſp another's wealth to enrich an alien. 'Tis enough that I forego my plea⯑ſure for my charge, but too much to expect that I ſhould ſacrifice my moral alſo.’

His virtue was applauded by all the biſhops, and afterwards rewarded, by a lay patron, who promoted him to the benefice of that pariſh, which is computed to be worth about five hun⯑dred pounds a year—Exactly the income of the man of Roſs.

CHAP. XLVIII.

HIS church was always crowded; for there was, in his manner of preaching, ſome⯑thing which caught the attention and fixed it, without either action, or grimace; ſo that many paſſages in his ſermons uſed to be remembered again, and quoted in converſation; and often urged as authorities, upon more ſerious occaſions. I ſhall endeavour to recollect, ſaid he, ſome of them which my Fanny uſed to repeat, for your entertainment, and to make you, in ſome ſort, better acquainted with our worthy paſtor:

[138]The poor man's ſcrip, is the rich man's trea⯑ſury.

The perception of virtue is a ſixth ſenſe.

If, among the queſtions of ſcholaſtic philo⯑ſophy, it ſhould be aſked, what is the ſtrongeſt thing, in nature? I ſhould anſwer, Piety. It ſubdues this world, and wins the next.

Religion is not a ſtoical habit of penance and ſelf-denial, but a phyſical regimen for pleaſure and ſelf-enjoyment.

God is the ſpring and ocean of our thoughts and actions. Every wiſh, every purpoſe, every deed, as they ariſe originally from him, ſhould refer finally to him. Whatever deſign, though ever ſo virtuous, falls ſhort of that great ulti⯑mate, unphiloſophically makes the means the end—This reaches not up to true religion, but terminates in moral heatheniſm, only—

The exerciſe of virtue upon the mere ſcore of intellectual pleaſure, has no more merit than the practice of temperance to give a zeſt to Epicu⯑riſm. As neither of them make any part of the Chriſtian religion, they cannot be entitled to the promiſes of the goſpel.

To rejoice at rain, without an acre of land; to redeem a debtor, remaining ſtill unknown; to quench the fire-brand in others haggart, with⯑out a boaſt; to wreſt the dagger from an aſſaſſin's [139] hand, and ne'er inform the victim; the ſecret tranſ⯑port of ſuch acts as theſe, can never be deſcribed equal to the feeling. In this ſenſe alone, ſtolen pleaſures are ſweet, in any other, bitter.

There is a moral precept obligatory upon all mankind, to do good, as well as to abſtain from evil. Suppoſe that all the world ſhould refrain from abſolute ill, and yet perform no poſitive good? in what ſtate ſhould we remain then? But, in reality, there can never be ſuch a ſuppoſed cir⯑cumſtance in ſociety, for the declining of actual virtue, is the incurring of negative guilt; Qui ſuccurrere perituro poteſt, cum non ſuccurrit, occidit; ſays Seneca, de beneficiis; but we have an higher authority, in ſcripture, for, were not the prieſt and levite both cenſured, for paſſing over on the other ſide, though they took no part with the aſſaſſins?

It was the opinion of the ſtoics, long before Chriſtianity, that all crimes were equal, and that an offence againſt any one moral, was the ſame with a breach of the whole ethic. Can philoſophy then complain againſt the ſeverity of this text? ‘He who is guilty of the breach of one part of the law, is guilty of the whole.’

Epictetus, in the 24th chapter, of the third book, has theſe remarkable words: ‘My chil⯑dren's children will bear the puniſhment of [140] my diſobedience, and fighting againſt God.’ Compare with this, part of the ſecond com⯑mandment, and viſit the ſins of the fathers upon the children, unto the third and fourth generation, of them that hate me.

CHAP. XLIX.

THIS moſt excellent perſon both orna⯑mented and enriched our little ſociety; and my dear Fanny, added he, with an heavy ſigh, ſeemed to receive a more particular ſatis⯑faction, in his company and converſation. She ſaid to me, one evening, juſt after he had left us, ‘How amiable is virtue, in the ſacred cha⯑racter! Is it not remarkable that it ſhould ſtrike us with an higher beauty here, where it muſt be moſt expected, than in any of the other conditions of life, where it might ap⯑pear more extraordinary? Is it perhaps, that in proportion as the deficiency of a character might offend, the perfection of it may pleaſe? Is it not for this reaſon, ſaid ſhe, that modeſty is moſt charming in woman, becauſe it is their peculiar characteriſtic? Is it that virtue ſeems more immediately derived from heaven, [141] in them—That in the clergy, it appears in⯑ſpiration; in the laiety, but inſtruction, only?’

‘What an advantage, continued ſhe, muſt ſuch a paſtor bring to morals and religion, in whom the pureſt virtue, and moſt exemplary piety, are ſhewn not to be inconſiſtent with the eaſieſt manners of a gentleman? For it is the formality of parſons, and the ſtiffneſs of mere good men, which diſguſt the world, and not their ſtrictneſs, or ſanctity.’ All which ſhe concluded, with this ingenious allu⯑ſion, that as matter, indued only with its neceſ⯑ſary properties, would be a lifeleſs maſs of unifor⯑mity; ſo virtue without manners, would be as morally unamiable..

The intervals of all theſe tranſactions which I have recited to you, are not at all material; and indeed, continued he, ſighing, Though I have dwelt long, with pleaſure, upon the former part of my relation, I ſhall now make amends, by ſhortening the ſad remainder of it, the prin⯑cipal event of which, I ſhall comprehend in the exclamation of Brutus—Portia is dead!

He attempted to pronounce this ſentence in the ſpirit of ancient philoſophy; but he was no actor; and, few as the words were, his heart, if I may uſe the expreſſion, failed him in the mid⯑dle of them. A torrent of fond and grateful [142] tears, guſhed ſuddenly to her memory, a gene⯑rous ſympathy affected Mr. Carewe, and Mr. Beville coming juſt then, into the room, quick joined a brother's ſorrow to an huſband's grief.

CHAP. L.

MR. Carewe, in order to change the ſub⯑ject, and give a new turn to their thoughts, aſked Mr. Beville what general news he had brought home from Scarborough, and what adventure had detained him ſo much longer in town that day, than uſual? He replied, that every thing of a public concern, was com⯑prehended in the London prints, which he took out of his pocket, and that he was delayed by taking leave of ſome friends of his, who were ſetting out from Scarborough, for the York races, which had carried off moſt of the com⯑pany out of town, and left the rooms extremely thin.

Suppoſe, ſaid Mr. Carewe to Mr. Andrews, that you and I ſhould accompany our friend, in his walk, to-morrow? It will ſerve to ſhift the ſcene a little, and diverſify our ideas. The emp⯑tineſs [143] of the place, continued he, will be lucky enough for you, but, for my own part, I would be content to bear a little more crowding, for a little more company, to-morrow.

Why truly, I could be ſatisfied with it, my⯑ſelf too, replied Mr. Andrews, upon your ac⯑count; for I would ſacrifice my own eaſe to a friend's pleaſure, at any time. Nay, I will do more for you, added he, I will ſacrifice even my pleaſure to yours alſo, by ſetting you at liberty to go off to the races, to-morrow; and Mr. Beville, I hope, will be ſo kind as to accompany you thither, for a few days, as I really think that both his health and mind require a little more exerciſe and amuſement, than he takes, or can poſſibly meet with, at the farm. Beville bowed aſſent toward Carewe.

No, gentlemen, replied Mr. Carewe—But firſt, let me thank ye both, for your politeneſs, upon this occaſion. However, as well as I love company, I would not ride thirty miles to ſeek it in a crowd. Beſides, your ſentiments upon horſe-racing, ſaid he to Mr. Andrews, have much abated my reliſh for that ſport, which I confeſs I was formerly very fond of; as, in truth, I was once, of every thing that had gaiety, ſpirit, and hurry in it.

[144] Formerly, and once, upon a time, you ſhould have added, my dear Carewe, replied Mr. An⯑drews, theſe are expreſſions too antiquated to be uttered by a young, handſome fellow, of five and twenty. Oh! my dear friend, an⯑ſwered Mr. Carewe, with a ſigh, and graſping his hand, at the ſame time, you have loved— and muſt therefore know that true paſſion ren⯑ders us philoſophers to all other pleaſures, and an eunuch to every other deſire.

The ſtarting of this ſubject, ſent each of the three friends home to their own thoughts, for the reſt of the day; which not ſupplying us with any thing to entertain the reader, who is, I aſ⯑ſure you, my principal concern throughout this work, I ſhall conclude this chapter with juſt acquainting him, that they read the news⯑papers, converſed upon general topics, till ſup⯑per, made a ſlight repaſt, and then retired to bed.

CHAP. LI.

THE next morning, Mr. Beville called upon his two friends, to take a walk with him to Scarborough, according to the purpoſe of the night before; but their ſpirit for the frolic had ſubſided in ſleep, and they ſuffered Mr. Beville to purſue his courſe alone. After breakfaſt, Mr. Andrews led his friend to take a walk with him, along the ſea beach, and thus re-aſſumed his memoir.

I had brought my ſtory to a ſhort period, yeſterday morning, continued Mr. Andrews, for two reaſons. The firſt, becauſe it gave me pain to dwell, for any time, upon a circum⯑ſtance, that whatever has already, or may here⯑after befal me, of loſs, or ſorrow, I may venture to ſtile, by way of eminence, the only misfor⯑tune of my life. And next, that as I had turned toward the window, to hide my eyes from from yours, I perceived Mr. Beville coming up the avenue, and I would ſpare his grief, as well as my own.

But as there remain ſome particulars yet to be mentioned, to compleat my own hiſtory, I ſhall relate the laſt article again, more at large, during [146] our preſent leiſure, and the ſorrows which it muſt neceſſarily renew, will, in ſome ſort, be relieved by the pride and pleaſure I ſhall at once receive, in letting you a little farther into the beauty and delicacy of that amiable woman, my loſt Fanny's character.

Our marriage had been kept ſtill a ſecret from her father, till my wife had become with child; and, as he then lived in the houſe with us, it was not poſſible, at leaſt my nicety about her ſame rendered it improper, to make a myſtery of it to him, any longer; and he was therefore, admitted to be a member of our privy-council. He received the news but coolly; he was natu⯑rally warm and proud; he, at firſt, reſented his not having been made a confidant, from the beginning; and then ſeemed mortified at the neceſſity his daughter was reduced to, of carry⯑ing on a clandeſtine commerce, to the hazard of her reputation, and the humiliation of his own pride.

He had a precipitate manner of reſolving, and acting. He took his reſolution on the inſtant, and, without communicating his deſign, wrote a letter, that very evening, to my father, in⯑forming him of our marriage, ſaying, that he had been a perfect ſtranger to it himſelf, until a few hours before; adding, that he had already [147] pardoned the breach of duty, on his daughter's part, hoping that he might do the ſame on his ſon's; and concluded his letter with ſaying, that he would readily join his intereſt with my fa⯑ther's, to compaſs ſome preferment, or civil em⯑ploy for me, to make amends for his daughter's want of fortune; which he, with juſtice indeed, affirmed to be the only merit in which ſhe could be deemed deficient.

To this indiſcreet epiſtle he received no an⯑ſwer, but I did. My father incloſed it back again to me, with a few lines in the cover, de⯑claring that he had that day made and perfected his will; and had cut me intirely out from all chance of inheritance, for ever, of any part of his preſent, or future fortunes.

CHAP. LII.

I happened to be at my farm, when the poſt came in, and as I had always indulged my deareſt Fanny in the amuſement of opening my letters, in my abſence, ſhe had the unhappineſs of receiving this ſhock, which I would have ſaved her from as long as it might have been in [148] my power, if the letter had fallen firſt into my hands.

When I returned to the lodge, that day, I perceived a remarkable alteration in her coun⯑tenance, though ſhe received me with the ſame tenderneſs as uſual. I appeared alarmed, and taking her fondly by the hand, aſked her, with ſome emotion, whether ſhe had been taken ill, during my abſence. The ſoftneſs of my man⯑ners affected her, ſhe fell into tears, and took the letters out of her pocket. I read them haſtily over, and after making this ſhort reflection, that the indiſcretion of a friend, may ſometimes do one as much miſchief as the malice of an enemy, I caught her eagerly in my arms, cry⯑ing out with hope and fondneſs, that Heaven had, for virtue, more fathers than one.

We then agreed not to mention any thing of this affair, to her father or mother, in order to preſerve peace and harmony at home. Her bro⯑ther had been accidentally made acquainted with it before, as he happened to be by when ſhe opened the letters, and ſnatched them up as they fell from her trembling hand. I endea⯑voured to re-aſſure her ſpirits, for the preſent, by this philoſophical reflection, that as I had long deſpaired of any manner of aſſiſtance from my father, during his life, it was too ſoon to [149] grieve, till we ſhould firſt feel the effects of his reſentment.

Such turns of thought as this, have frequently aſſiſted me to parry, or poſtpone ſeveral unea⯑ſineſſes in life; but my dear Fanny had not the leaſt particle of ſtoiciſm in all her compoſition. She was all delicacy, feeling, and ſentiment. This event therefore, preyed conſtantly on her ſpirits, and, finally, affected her health; and mine alſo, in a great meaſure, along with it. For though I am an excellent philoſopher, for myſelf, I am the worſt in the world, for another. My mind; indeed, is maſculine, but my heart of the true feminine gender. My ſympathy is ſtronger than my nerves, and I feel misfortunes, as one does heat, weak in the direct line, but forcibly from reflection.

CHAP. LIII.

SHE laboured under a depreſſion of ſpirits, till ſhe delivered a ſon to my arms, and then fell into a fever; from which, however, ſhe recovered, but with ſo ſlow a progreſs, that I was alarmed about her declining into a decay; [150] and, to increaſe the danger of which, her fond mother, her firſt connection in life, both of duty and affection, expired in her arms, of a diſorder ſhe had contracted by her conſtant watchings, and aſſiduous attendance upon her beloved child, during the courſe of her late and preſent illneſs.

About this time Mr. Beville, the father, re⯑ceived an account from Windſor, that his de⯑puty had failed, and imbezzled his revenues; which obliged him to return, and try what mea⯑ſures he could purſue, in order to vindicate his right, and recover his employ again. My wife remained with her brother, who ſpared no man⯑ner of expence, in phyſicians or medicine, for the re-eſtabliſhment of her health; while I did every thing, on my part, that tenderneſs, love and duty could ſuggeſt, to aſſiſt her remedies, and expedite her cure. For, oh! I loved her, to the laſt moment of her exiſtence, with tenfold the ardour with which I firſt received her virgin ſacrifice to my longing arms. For where true virtuous paſſion is, the torch of Hymen but ſinges the wings of Cupid, and anneals his ar⯑rows.

Our difficulties were, ſoon after, conſiderably increaſed, by the falling away of Beville's agen⯑cies, one after another, by minors coming of [151] age, and others, for whom he was employed, returning from abroad, to reſide upon their own eſtates; while, in the midſt of theſe ſtreights, and gloomy proſpects, my family was increaſed by the birth of a daughter; which threw the dear mother back again into her former weak⯑neſs, from which ſhe had, for ſome little time, appeared to be tolerably well recovered.

Juſt at this interval, her aunt, by the mother's ſide, became a widow, with a good jointure. She had been made acquainted with our mar⯑riage, as ſoon as the veil of ſecrecy had been withdrawn; and as ſhe lived within twenty miles of our reſidence, we had had frequent in⯑tercourſe of viſits, while my dear wife was able to ride abroad.

Soon after her huſband's death, I waited upon her to pay my compliments of condolance; and, on my informing her of our apprehenſions about her niece's relapſe and danger, ſhe very kindly offered to carry her with her to Spa, whither ſhe was adviſed to repair immediately, on account of her daughter, and only child, a very handſome young woman, about twenty years of age, who had been, for ſome time, in a very precarious ſtate of health.

I expreſſed my thanks, in the moſt grateful and affectionate manner, and returned directly [152] to the lodge, to acquaint my dear wife of this kind and opportune invitation. She, at firſt, declined accepting of it, but, after ſome reluc⯑tance, and her being informed by her phyſicians, that thoſe waters were abſolutely neceſſary, to⯑ward the recovery of her health, with a religious exhortation too, upon this ſubject, from her favourite divine, ſhe was at length prevailed upon, to prepare for her journey.

In a few days after, her aunt and couſin cal⯑led upon her—I put her into the coach—I ſaw her then, for the laſt time!

CHAP. LIV.

I Returned to her apartment, threw myſelf on the bed, and felt infinitely more wretched than at any interval of my confinement in the compter; for now, I had her life to fear for. As my eyes wandered about the room, I perceived a manuſcript paper lying on her table, which, apprehending to be ſome neceſſary memoran⯑dums ſhe had forgot to take with her, I haſtily aroſe, read, kiſſed, and wept over the following lines:

CHAP. LV.

The chidren are come.

My children!

Let us fly to embrace them.

PRAY now, Sir, ſhan't we follow them too, and have the pleaſure of ſeeing the dear little prate-a-paces alſo, which I muſt confeſs I long to do extremely, from the affection and eſteem you have taught me to conceive for their father and mother.

I do not chuſe it, at preſent, Sir, and I'll tell you why. I have been all my life afflicted with a certain praecordial weakneſs, which the Cabletonians, before mentioned, ſtile nervous ^*. I ſaw Mr. Andrews and his children meet once —that was enough for my diſorder. Believe me, Mr. Reader, that, for all the money I ex⯑pect to make of you and your whole fraternity, I would not review ſuch another ſcene—To ſee the ſtorgé, to perceive the workings of the father, [156] when he placed little Harry on his knee! But the looks, the emotions, the tears, when he ſnatched up la petite Fançhon in his arms! ‘So like her mother! Eternity, I have bought you, with her loſs!’

And then we ſhould be plagued, at the ſame time alſo, with the nonſenſe of the nurſe. This is daddy's eye, and that is mammy's lip. This is daddy's this thing, and that is mammy's t'other thing. Now, maſter Harry, walk up ſtrait to your uncle, there—Ah! Mr. Beville, is'nt he the very gunter-part of his father? And miſs Fanny, too, pray hold up your head, miſs, and drop a daiſy there, for the gentleman—The mother's air, as I am a ſinner, to a tilly—

You are a whimſical man, Mr. Tri⯑glyph, and ſhift ſo ſuddenly ſometimes, from ſerious to comical, that I declare one does not know how to accommodate themſelves to your humour; for you poſſeſs a certain art, of ſetting the upper part of the face a crying, and the lower a laughing, ſo hiſterically, at the ſame time, that I am ſure I muſt, at this inſtant, make as drole an appearance as a whipped ſchool boy eating a tart, while tears with ſyrup mixed, run down his chaps, together.

Indeed, Sir, you happen to miſtake both my talent, and my character. My caſt is in⯑tirely [157] grave, nor do I mean to jeſt, even in thoſe parts of my writings, where I ſometimes ſpeak in humourous images; but I happened to have learned my philoſophy in the porch of Demo⯑critus; and it is a certain, though a ridiculous truth, that, after one has been taught to laugh at the follies of mankind, it becomes morally impoſſible for him, ever after, to preſerve a ſe⯑rious countenance. But then, Mr. Reader, this is not mirth, nor is my moral the leſs ſevere, upon this account; for human frailties do not divert, but tickle me; and extort a ſmile, through pain.

CHAP. LVI.

THE next morning Mr. Beville ſtaid from Scarborough, to play with the children; and Mr. Andrews was as great a romp as the reſt. But, leſt this particular might be apt to ſink the characters of theſe philoſophic gentle⯑men, with a certain claſs of readers, I think proper to acquaint them, that Ageſilaus uſed frequently to amuſe himſelf, with riding hobby-horſes with his children, in the nurſery. Some have hobby-horſes, and others have hobby-aſſes.

[158]Mr. Carewe aſſiſted in the tumult, for a while; but, not being actuated by the ſame parental feelings, his ſpirit ſoon began to flag, and he retired alone to the ſea-ſhore, where he ſpent the reſt of the morning in walking with folded arms, and muſing in deep melancholy, till he was called in to dinner.

There was ſomething in this charming young man's diſtreſs, that had a nobleneſs, a genero⯑ſity, a virtue in it, which, in my opinion, muſt intereſt the mind, even more than the misfor⯑tunes of either Mr. Andrews, or Mr. Beville. For I ſhall juſt hint here, that the latter had ſome to lament, diſtinct from thoſe of the for⯑mer; but the reader muſt ſuſpend his curioſity about theſe matters, till the regular courſe of this hiſtory ſhall, in their proper places, intro⯑duce the ſeveral ſtories, both of Mr. Beville, and Mr. Carewe.

Their converſations for the reſt of that day, and indeed all their evening entertainments, were extremely ingenious, and polite. I muſt confeſs that I have been ſeveral times tempted to interrupt the narrative, in many places, where I thought that I could make the reader ſufficient amends, by introducing him to amuſements of a more refined nature. But thoſe who may have a true reliſh, for ſuch reading as this might af⯑ford [139] them, will be perfectly capable of imagin⯑ing to themſelves, in a more lively manner than I could poſſibly repreſent it, what an ele⯑gant, and elevated ſociety, three ſuch perſons of talents, virtue, literature, and taſte, whoſe minds had been ſoftened by adverſity and diſ⯑appointments, and who were mutual friends to each other, muſt be capable of forming toge⯑ther. O noctes, caenaeque Deûm!

And as for the reſt of my readers, who may not have been bleſt with a genius for ſuch deli⯑cate enjoyments, they will very readily excuſe the interludes, in order to paſs more immediately on to the cataſtrophé of the action. I ſhall there⯑fore, ſuffer the repreſentation to proceed, with⯑out intermiſſion, except where I ſhall think that any of the paſſages in the ſtory may need to be illuſtrated, or explained.

The next morning every thing went on, as uſual, Mr. Beville walked away to Scarborough, the two other friends retired themſelves after breakfaſt, into the library, and Mr. Andrews thus purſued his adventures, in context with thoſe of Mr. Beville.

CHAP. LVII.

ABOUT a year before this event, my wor⯑thy friend, Mr. Beville, who, though a reading and contemplative man, had a great ſpirit for adventure, had engaged himſelf in a certain manufacture; in order to carry on which, with effect, it was neceſſary to borrow a conſi⯑derable ſum of money; and for which purpoſe I recommended him to our old banker, before mentioned, my dear Carewe; who, in order to judge of his ſecurity, ſent his ſame attorney down into the country, who ſtaid a week with us, to inquire into the circumſtances of Mr. Beville's fortune, the intereſt of his farms, the nature and progreſs of the manufacture, with the reſponſi⯑bility of his character. About all which parti⯑culars having received ſufficient ſatisfaction, he drew up the deeds, paid the money for his client, and returned back to London.

While he remained with us in the country, he appeared extremely pleaſed with all the im⯑provements made both upon Mr. Beville's farms, and mine; but ſaid that it was a pity they were not held jointly, by the ſame tenant; for as one was moiſt, and the other dry, they would yield [161] a double profit and convenience together, to the value of both, ſeparately occupied.

He ſeemed to be charmed with the ſituation of the lodge, the gardens, orchards, fiſh-ponds, and the accommodation of his offices; and ſaid, that it would be an happy ſcene of retirement, for any wearied citizen, from the hurry and buſtle of a town, there to paſs, in peace, and re⯑ligion, the remainder of his days; rejoicing in the fruits of honeſt induſtry, and enjoying the fulneſs of a well-earned fortune.

Some time after my dear wife had gone off to Spa, leaving her brother and me in the higheſt of human afflictions, deſpairing, from the many ſymptoms of her diſorder, with ſome dark ex⯑preſſions dropt by her phyſicians, of ever ſeeing a perſon return to us, again, whom we ſo ten⯑derly loved, and ſo deſervedly eſteemed; we received a private intimation, one day, from the ſheriff of our county, that executions againſt our bodies, goods, and lands, had been lodged in his office, that morning, by the banker's at⯑torney, aforeſaid.

We then, both of us, too late, perceived the unguarded weakneſs of putting ourſelves, or for⯑tunes, into the power of a perſon who lay under the dangerous, and wicked influence of one, whoſe malice and revenge, we had reaſon to [162] apprehend, might have inſtigated his avarice and extortion, to injure and oppreſs us. But we ſoon exchanged reflection for action, having but juſt time enough to ſecure our perſons from ar⯑reſt, by flying up to London, together, with what bills and caſh we could muſter up between us, at that time, and of which we made one common purſe, amounting to about an hun⯑dred pounds.

CHAP. LVIII.

OUR farms, ſtock, and furniture, were ſoon after put up to ſale, and in theſe difficul⯑ties we —Nonnulla deſunt.—

[163]I wrote alſo, to my father, continued Mr. An⯑drews, intreating that he would take ſome ſpeedy meaſures to ſtop the execution, and relieve my ſlight and unpatrimonial fortune, from the heavy weight of a family debt, which reſted ſolely upon him to provide for. This letter I ſent to him by his own attorney, who informed him likewiſe, of the banker's malice, in this affair.

His anſwer was perfectly calm and temperate, for he was a great philoſopher, in his own way. He replied, that I had very romantic notions, in ſome things, but vulgar ordinary ones, in others. That my firſt dealings with the banker, and my marriage, were inſtances of the former; and the ſeeming now to conſider my ſiſter's por⯑tion, for whom I was, by the laws of reaſon and virtue, equally obliged to provide, as his ſole debt, was an inſtance of the latter. But that, as the laws of the land had made the ſame diſtinction that I did, I was welcome to recover the debt againſt him, as ſoon as I ſhould have diſcharged it myſelf, and had the judgments aſſigned over to me; by which time he hoped, by the finiſhing of his own ſuit, to be in a con⯑dition to anſwer mine: —Multa deſiderantur.—

[164]Here the three following chapters, in which are contained ſome curious anecdotes, muſt ſleep ſome time in manuſcript, for the reaſon already given above; ſo I ſhall paſs on to

CHAP. LXII.

AFTER theſe diſappointments, I wrote to the principal tenant on my own farm, to come up to town, and give us an account of the tranſactions which had paſſed in the country, with regard to our unhappy affairs. He was an intelligent perſon, and had attended the ſheriff's ſale, both of poor Beville's effects, and mine. He told us that every thing had gone off, at a third or fourth of their value, as they always do upon ſuch unhappy occaſions; except my wife's picture, and mine, which, having been bid for, by our honeſt friend the clergyman, dropping ſome indiſcreet expreſſions of regard, at the ſame time, were raiſed upon him to a conſiderable price, by the attorney, who was preſent at the ſale, and took the hint from his earneſtneſs.

He then added a large encomium upon our friend, and concluded with an expreſſion, the [165] ſimplicity of which forced a ſmile from both Beville, and me, even in the midſt of our di⯑ſtreſs, that the doctor was certainly a primitive Chriſtian, if ever there was one. He told us alſo, that the attorney had purchaſed the intereſts of both our farms, at a very trifing value; as the ſub-ſheriff immediately declared the ſale, as ſoon as he began to bid for them.

I ſettled accounts with this man, for his rent, and the ballance in my favour, which was forty pounds, I directed him to pay into the hands of his worthy paſtor, to whom I alſo wrote a letter of thanks, begging him to keep that depoſit in his hands, to defray the current expences of my dear children's nurſing, who were rearing in his pariſh. I offered him the money he had paid for the pictures, and told him where he might find us incog. if his occaſions ſhould ſum⯑mon him up to London, before we might have determined upon any ſcheme of life, or rather of living.

About a week after, a carrier called at our lodgings, left a letter for me, with a large deal box, and went away directly, without waiting either for payment, or an anſwer. The letter was from our friend, the clergyman; and I give it to you here to read, added he, juſt as I received it, excepting a bill for forty pounds, [166] which was incloſed in it. Mr. Carewe took the letter, and read

CHAP. LXIII.

AFTER Mr. Carewe had made proper re⯑flections upon the polite addreſs, and truly Chriſtian ſpirit of this letter, Mr. Andrews re-aſſuming his ſtory, with an heavy ſigh, a flow⯑ing tear, and heſitating voice, I am arrived now, ſaid he, to the laſt period of my life—To my firſt death, at leaſt—To the laſt event that can ever be of moment to me hereafter, except ſo far as I have revived again in my dear chil⯑dren, and renewed my fondneſs on thoſe living relicts!

I wrote every pacquet to my dear Fanny, but without giving her the leaſt account of our miſ⯑fortune, for fear of diſturbing her mind, in the preſent ſtate of her body, and had received ſome letters from her, in which ſhe informed me that ſhe had got a ſevere cold in her voyage, which [168] had greatly increaſed her diſorder; but that the phyſicians at Spa, had put her into a regimen, and that ſhe would do every thing in her power to keep up her ſpirits, and aſſiſt her medicines.

In the midſt of theſe difficulties, while poor Beville and I remained in privacy together, mu⯑tually aſſiſting each other's philoſophy by moral reaſonings, and religious arguments, ſcheming from day to day, ſome new project, or untried adventure, toward reſcuing us from our preſent forlorn condition, I received a letter from our aunt, at Spa, that my dear Fanny's cold had fallen ſo heavy on her already exhauſted ſtrength and ſpirits, that the phyſicians had almoſt de⯑ſpaired of her recovery.

The next pacquet brought me a black ſeal!

CHAP. LXIV.

AS Mr. Andrews will not be inclined, for ſome minutes, at leaſt, to continue the remainder, and leſs intereſting part of his ſtory, I ſhall make uſe of this interval to verify the authenticity of theſe memoirs, by obſerving to the reader, that no writer in the world, who had either ſenſe, taſte, humanity, or virtue, could [169] poſſibly think of diſpatching the amiable Mrs. Andrews off the ſtage, ſo abruptly, without bringing about any other cataſtrophé, but her own. To be at ſuch expence of beauty, wit, ſentiment, love, and delicacy, merely to render a man of worth miſerable, during his ſurviving life! Sed parcae vocant, the relentleſs fates have ſnatched her from us; and the ſeverity of hiſtory admits of no redemption.

You have now before you two unhappy men of virtue and merit, labouring under a compli⯑cation of misfortunes, which, ſo far from hav⯑ing been incurred by any vice, or folly of their own, were brought upon them rather by their very ſenſe, and virtue; and therefore may more properly be ſtiled afflictions, by way of contra⯑diſtinguiſhing them from inflictions; being ſuch as neither forecaſt could foreſee, nor prudence might prevent.

The changes of this life, have been frequently obſerved to be ſo extraordinary, ſo contrary to the allowed deſigns of Providence, ſo much be⯑yond even the mere fortuitouſneſs of events, that the antients were induced to worſhip a deity, under the title of Fortune, quite diſtinct from Providence; an intelligence of caprice, only—I think it was a goddeſs ^*.

[170]Thus one man ſhall be attended with a con⯑ſtant ſeries of ſucceſs, during his whole life, Qui⯑bus dormientibus Dii omnia conficiunt, while ano⯑ther, employing the ſame means, diligence, and virtue, ſhall be unlucky through the whole courſe of his. Some are fortunate, or unfortu⯑nate, during certain periods of time and the changes are ſeen frequently to ſhift, without any manner of alteration in the perſon's own con⯑duct. Even at play, where every thing ſeems to be left to blind hazard alone, how often have we ſeen ill luck ſtick to one particular ſeat, for a whole evening together; while, at other times, it has purſued one perſon quite round the table, in ſpite of all the ſhifting, cutting, and ſhuffling of the night?

This ſubject has juſt now brought to my me⯑mory, a ſpeech that I once heard pronounced by a certain fellow, of a certain college, as he was common-placing on the changes, and chances of this mortal life, at the univerſity: ‘Single misfortunes, ſaid he, ſeldom come alone, and the greateſt of evils are attended by greater.’ This perſon was afterwards made a biſhop, and died an archbiſhop. Muſt it not be to chance alone, for it was not in Gotham, that he owed his pre⯑ferment?

CHAP. LXV.

POOR Beville, continued Mr. Andrews, reſtrained his ſorrow, and did every thing in the power of good ſenſe, religion, and friend⯑ſhip, to ſtrengthen my mind, and ſupport my ſpirits under our mutual calamity; while I, in tenderneſs to him, uſed to turn aſide to mourn, and endeavour to conceal a woman's heart, un⯑der a ſtoic's maſk. And this generous attention toward each other's grief, was of more real ſer⯑vice to us both, than all the bravery of philo⯑ſophy.

But, one day, after I had brought myſelf to⯑lerably well, to the preſerving of appearances, at leaſt, an unlucky incident happened to occur, which occaſioned me to relapſe again, into all my former indecencies. After dinner Mr. Beville drank off a glaſs of wine to my health, and taking me by the hand, at the ſame time, Dear brother, ſaid he, this is your birth-day.

The firſt expreſſion conjured up, almoſt to view, my bluſhing Fanny, in her bridal robes, and the laſt brought inſtantly to my mind, that triumphant, that tranſporting ſcene, which I had exulted in at Windſor, upon ſuch another aera. Memory, like lightning, ſhot quick through [172] every interval of bliſs, till the laſt fatal cloſe. My ſpirits were hurried on too faſt, I grew ſick, my manhood failed me, I fainted ſuddenly into my friend's arms.

When he had recovered me to ſenſe again, I juſt hinted to him, without daring to dwell upon it, the groupe of thoughts which had overpowered me. He lamented his expreſſion, though innocent, and we paſſed the remainder of the evening together, in mutual ſilence, ſighs, and tears.

We immediately removed the wine, after my emotion, being both of us of opinion, as well from our own experience, as from a general ob⯑ſervation upon others, that there never was a more fallacious maxim, than that which has been too often impoſed upon the already too unhappy, that wine is ſerviceable to baniſh care. When the body is oppreſſed by fatigue, ſickneſs, or pain, high cordials may relieve, or aſſwage; but where the mind has caught the infection, water is our ſafeſt potion. Wine but augments the diſpoſition it encounters; ſinks dulneſs into ſtupidity, raiſes mirth into madneſs, and aggra⯑vates melancholy to deſpair.

CHAP. LXVI.

TOward the hour of reſt, having compoſed my ſpirits a little, a kind of parallel ſtill running in my mind, between the two birth-days, I took the pen, and wrote theſe lines, ſaid he, opening his pocket-book, and preſenting a paper to Mr. Carewe, which you will find to be ex⯑preſſed in the very ſame gloomy ſtrain of thought and ſentiment, with thoſe I repeated to you before, of my dear Fanny's.

I could not cloſe my eyes, all night, and the next morning I found myſelf in an high fever. I continued ill for about three weeks, ten days of which my life was deſpaired of. During the whole time Mr. Beville lay on a pallet, by my bed-ſide; and our worthy friend the clergyman, upon receiving an account of my danger, by a letter from Mr. Beville, came up immediately to London, and ſtaid in town till I was quite recovered; viſiting, praying, and reading by me, every day.

How often, and how ardently, my dear Ca⯑rewe, continued he, have both Mr. Beville and I wiſhed for the high relief of your friendly con⯑verſe, during our confinement here! But I knew not where to enquire for you, nor dared I ven⯑ture abroad, to ſearch for you in coffee-houſes, or on the public walks.

And this reſtraint was perhaps not the leaſt part of my difficulties in this ſituation; for ſo great is my love of liberty, that though I ſeldom ſtir from home, and uſually, through choice, paſs moſt part of my time in my ſtudy, I believe [175] that there are few perſons alive, who can brook impoſed confinement, leſs than I could.

CHAP. LXVII.

THE clergyman remained in town for a few days after my recovery; he had taken a lodging near ours, and ſpent moſt part of his time with us. Among other ſubjects of conver⯑ſation, happening to ſpeak about our late misfor⯑tune in the country, he told Mr. Beville that, as is generally the way, a few pitied his diſtreſs, but many blamed his conduct; for with man⯑kind, ſaid he, it is crime enough to be unfortu⯑nate; and, in your preſent unhappy circum⯑ſtances, cenſure has purſued you, even for me⯑rits, becauſe unſucceſsful.

This is by no means uncommon, replied Be⯑ville, for the world, like women, never pardon an attempt—if you fail—But prithee, dear Sir, ſaid he, what are the charges produced againſt me, and in what particulars is my conduct re⯑proached in the country?

Why, in the firſt place, anſwered the clergy⯑man, that you turned your mind to extravagant projects, animum habuit ſemper ingentia, ſemper in⯑finita expetentem. Secondly, that you had once an opportunity of eſtabliſhing your fortunes, by [176] the management, as they term it, of ſeven or eight thouſand pounds a year^*, and yet have no⯑thing to ſhew for it, as is the expreſſion. And laſtly, that you have lived above your fortune, till you finally ruined it.

In anſwer to the firſt of theſe indictments, replied Mr. Beville, I hope it will be accepted as a ſuf⯑ficient plea, that as I never had patrimony, pro⯑feſſion, trade, or employ, my life, of neceſſity, muſt have been a life of adventure. Project, or ſtarve, was certainly, in this caſe, my motto. In ſuch a ſituation as mine, to live, itſelf, re⯑quired a ſcheme—Neceſſitas ante rationem. For life hath long ſince ceaſed to be a ſine-cure—Spon⯑taneous fruits riſe not, at preſent, from the earth, as in The Garden; nor does manna now drop from the heavens, as in The Wilderneſs.

With regard to the ſecond charge, I do con⯑feſs that I have known many perſons thrive, for⯑give the expreſſion here, upon far leſs advan⯑tages; who have raiſed fortunes, by purchaſing ſome their neighbour's, ſome their employer's eſtates, and ſprung from dung-carts into a coach and ſix. All this indeed, I know to be true—I had like to have ſaid too true—Too true, alas! for themſelves, I fear.

To take advantage of one man's misfortunes, to over-reach another's weakneſs,

were arts my pride diſdained, my moral ſtarted at. I have a ſympathy in my nature, which, like the cameleon's hue, catches the complexion of occurring objects—I rejoice, and mourn for feelings not my own—What ſhould I gain then by another's diſtreſs, when by augmenting his I muſt increaſe my own! With what a ravening hunger muſt that wretch be ſeized, who eats one morſel in another's wrong! I ſhould deem my⯑ſelf unhappy to have inherited a fortune, ſo dearly earned—How much more wretched then, to be the guilty purchaſer! Yet much I fear, there are, who could revel in a ſacked city, and reckon plunder among the goods of fortune!

The laſt objection, ſaid he, I need give but a ſhort anſwer to—It has been urged, that I have lived above my fortune—But in reality, I never did, I never could do ſo. I never had any—I have, therefore, only lived above no fortune, which the moſt thrifty perſon alive muſt do, in like circumſtances.

I entered the world—I muſt repeat it—with⯑out patrimony, profeſſion, trade, or emyloy; I have unportioned, and unpenſioned, main⯑tained [178] the poſt and character of a gentleman, ever ſince I have entered into life; and, had I not experienced the miſer's gripe, had I not felt oppreſſion's weight, I could now walk un⯑captioned on the Exchange, with a thouſand pounds in my pocket. Let any man firſt ſhew a better oeconomy, and he ſhall then be free to cenſure mine.

I cannot chuſe my life, continued he, all that reſts upon me is to make the beſt of it, as it occurs. My deſires are reaſonable—above de⯑pendance, but below ambition, and I deſpair not of Providence. Should even this whole world fail me, my hopes remain unabated ſtill, nay riſe in meaſure to my diſappointments here. The buſineſs of life is ſo to live, as not to fear to die. This once ſecured, anxiety is o'er— The reſt be Heaven's care. Amen!

CHAP. LXVIII.

MR. Carewe appeared charmed with the ſpirit and virtue of Mr. Beville's juſtifi⯑cation, and acknowledged to Mr. Andrews, that the generous warmth, with which that gentle⯑man [179] had expreſſed himſelf, upon this occaſion, had ſtampt an higher character for him, in his mind, than any thing he had yet ſeen, or heard of him, till then, had been able to raiſe.

In fine, ſaid he, I think that both he and you have revived the credit of the antient philoſophy, and reſtored to poverty its former dignity, in your ſingle and ſingular characters. Regum aequa⯑bat opes animis. I wiſh you could alſo, added he, bring back the golden patronage as happily, that ſome Pollio, or Macaenas, might ſeek you out amidſt ſequeſtered groves, and ‘"Beckon modeſt merit from the ſhade."’ In the mean time, as Pliny ſays, Eſt quidam vera felicitas, felicitate dignum videri.

Mr. Andrews bowed, and returned him equal thanks for his encomiums both upon his friend, and himſelf; and then replied, that he had ne⯑ver conſidered poverty in the abject light that the world is too apt to do. There are two ſorts of pride, ſaid he, with regard to this point. One, the antient and philoſophie ſpirit, which choſe, and gloried in it; the other, the mo⯑dern, and beggarly one, that avoids, and is aſhamed of it.

But poverty, in itſelf, is ſo far from being mean, that it requires certain accidents, to ren⯑der [180] it ſo. Ignoble birth, ſervile office, low con⯑deſcenſions, vulgar manners, diſhoneſt actions, or poorneſs of ſpirit. Any of theſe particulars, indeed, may debaſe poverty to meanneſs; but will they not, at the ſame time, diminiſh the grandeur of riches?

Poverty, continued he, hurts our credit, only on the Change, yet even there, character alone, has raiſed a fortune; but conſidered ſingly, ex⯑cludes us not from a court. The opulence of Plato enriched not his philoſophy, but the indi⯑gence of Socrates has reflected a luſtre upon his. Is there then a ſoul ſo poor, as not to prefer a pedigree from the latter, to the whole lineage of Attalus?

Juſt as Mr. Andrews had finiſhed this expreſ⯑ſion, Mr. Beville and the children came rioting into the room, to acquaint them that dinner was on the table. They paſſed the remainder of this day more chearfully together, than any of the former, except a ſigh or furtive tear, which would often eſcape involuntarily from Andrews, and ſometimes from Beville, alſo.

CHAP. LXIX.

HERE give me leave, Mr. Reader, to offer you a further proof of the authen⯑ticity of theſe memoirs, from an obſervation I ſhall make upon ſome parts of the two preceding chapters. And firſt, there is a very obvious perſonality, perceivable in the warmth, feeling, and lively reſentment, which Mr. Beville has expreſſed in his defence, ſo different from the natural coldneſs of compoſition, that muſt cer⯑tainly, to a critic, manifeſt ſome real and pecu⯑liar adaption in it, and ſufficiently evince theſe writings to be genuine.

But the particular which moſt eminently points out the ingenuouſneſs of this whole per⯑formance, is the high encomiums which Mr. Carewe beſtows upon the characters of both Mr. Andrews, and Mr. Beville. Suppoſing this triumvirate to be three real, and diſtinct perſons, ſuch politeneſs might very fairly have paſſed be⯑tween ingenious perſons, and friends; but, upon the hypotheſis of its being merely a novel, where every thing that is ſaid, in whatſoever character, is to be directly imputed to the au⯑thor, ſuch ſelf-applauſe, admiſſible in no caſe [182] whatever, except the teſtimony of a clear con⯑ſcience, would certainly be moſt abominable.

For though the commendatory verſes, which one often ſees prefixed to the works of ſeveral modern writers, ſeem to ſavour a good deal of this vanity, yet ſtill they are but the compli⯑ments of others, though publiſhed by themſelves. And notwithſtanding the expreſs eulogies, which ſome of the antients have left us of their own works, as the

The

The

What Heſiod tells us, ‘that the muſes had given him a white wand, and a branch of laurel; had breathed into him a divine ſong, and taught him to celebrate things paſt, and propheſy things to come.’ What Homer, in his hymn to Apollo, boaſts of, ‘that when it ſhall [183] be inquired who is the ſweeteſt ſinger among men, you may make anſwer, (dictating to the god) it is the blind bard who dwells in Chios, and whoſe ſongs excel all human har⯑mony.’ Nay, even the modeſt Virgil has his Ille Ego too, with other ſimilar paſſages of flattering authority, might ſeem to warrant a preſumption of this kind, yet theſe are to be conſidered as prophetical vaunts, or poetical licences, only, which have never yet been indulged to vulgar proſe, and therefore can by no means be juſtified in an humble writer of ſimple memoirs, who pretends not the leaſt claim to inſpiration, of any kind. For I ſpeak as I think, and I think as I pleaſe.

CHAP. LXX.

JUST about this criſis, and after an interval of five years ſilence, I received the follow⯑ing letter by poſt, directed to my father's, from my old acquaintance and condiſciple, whom I mentioned to you before. Dear Andrews, cried Mr. Carewe, you cannot imagine what pleaſure it gives me to have that careleſs lively fellow [184] brought upon the ſtage, once more. He comes in critically here too, ſaid he, to relieve your mind, and give a new turn to your thoughts; and will, at the ſame time, treat me too, with a little variety, and ſatisfy my longing to be ſomewhat farther acquainted with this irregular genius. But the letter, the letter—

The ſame man ſtill, I find, ſaid Mr. Carewe; Not the leaſt alteration, replied Mr. Andrews. On the receipt of this letter, my former fondneſs for him began to revive, I needed exerciſe and amuſement, myſelf, in my then weak and ſoli⯑tary ſtate, and was alſo pleaſed at an opportunity of releaſing poor Mr. Beville from his heavy confinement. So we both of us agreed, in his own phraſe, to attend him, took leave of our amiable friend, the clergyman, and accordingly [186] ſet out together, in about a week after the re⯑ceipt of this letter.

CHAP. LXXI.

HE received us with his uſual briſkneſs, and ſeemed particularly pleaſed to ſee me. His character ran through his whole oeconomy. His living was extempore. A market, at ſix miles diſtance, ſupplied him with every thing in his houſe, and his demeſne was over-run with deer and horſes. Within, all hurry, and no order; and without, a number of improvements begun, but nothing finiſhed.

For his way was, whenever he reſolved upon any thing, he immediately commenced it; and, if any other whim came into his head, before he had compleated the firſt, he took off his hands, directly, to enter upon that alſo, for fear he ſhould forget it. So that his whole demeſne was but a confuſed heap of memorandums, and might not improperly be ſtiled Notes for improve⯑ments.

Before his houſe was laid out a mile avenue, of fifty yards long; behind it, a Caſpian Sea, with [187] an hogſhead of water in it; on one ſide, was an obeliſk, three feet high; and on the other, a rialto, of half an arch. His garden was but half incloſed, in one corner of which ſtood the four ſeaſons, huddled together in a groupe, as in the chaos; and in the midſt of them were ſeen time, and a ſun-dial, lying in wait for their pedeſtals.

I found my friend much impaired ſince I laſt ſaw him, both in his looks, health, and man⯑ners. His face was emaciated, his hand ſhook, and inſtead of that free, diſengaged air, which uſed to give the grace of youth and faſhion to all his words, and actions, he had contracted a ſtiffneſs in his geſture, a conſtraint in his addreſs, and a certain mediocrité throughout his whole ap⯑pearance.

I eſſayed him a little, upon literary topics, but he ſoon cut me ſhort, by acknowledging that he had not read one crabbed line, as he termed it, ever ſince we had parted. And why, after all, ſaid he, ſhould we idle away our time, after the concerns of the paſt world, when the preſent ſupplies us with ſufficient occupation, for our whole lives? I perfectly agree with you, my dear friend, replied I, that the current world may very wiſely employ the full meaſure of our time, provided that we conſider it, not as a diſtinct interval, but as a commencement of the next.

[188]I know, doctor, ſaid he, ſmiling on me, that theological philoſophy is always for blending of ſyſtems; but I hope that I do not ſeparate theſe two, myſelf, when I declare that I take the whole duty of man, both abſolutely and rela⯑tively conſidered, to conſiſt in theſe three things: Fear God, honour the king, and pay twenty ſhillings in the pound. Which, in my opinion, added he, fully comprehend the ſcope of all our religious, civil, and moral obligations.

Beville and I ſtrolled into his ſtudy, the morn⯑ing after our arrival, and took a ſurvey of his books. They were but few. About a dozen volumes of plays, novels, and miſcellanies, Bolton's Juſtice, with Hobbe's, Woolſton's, Tindal's, and Chubb's works, Shaftſbury's Cha⯑racteriſtics, and Bolingbroke's philoſophical wri⯑tings, compoſed his whole library.

At length the nuptial morn arrived. Our friend dreſſed himſelf in the gayeſt manner, for the occaſion, and we all took coach together, to wait upon the bride—To commence that fa⯑tal courſe of the ſupremeſt bliſs, or deepeſt miſery.

CHAP. LXXII.

WE got thither about two o'clock, at noon, and were accoſted with a great deal of ruſtic hoſpitality, by the parent ſquire, and two familiar couſins of the family. Sack and cakes were immediately called for, and the fa⯑ther, filling up an half-pint rummer, preſented it to the bridegroom, crying, Pop down this primer, my young ſoldier, for a man muſt make but a feeble aſſault on't, that has not a dram of courage in him. Ha, ha, ha! good, good! damn'd good, that! cried the couſins.

My friend excuſed himſelf from the draught, ſaying that he needed no ſuch auxiliary, that he ſhould not be found baſhful on the field of bat⯑tle, that he had ſeen Pharſalia, &c. Pharſalia, Pharſalia, cried the old gentleman, why that is not my wench's name, d'ye mind me; ſhe was chriſtened Ethelinda, I remember very well— Her godmother was an old romantic maiden lady, and had picked up that unchriſtian name, out of ſome heatheniſh book, or other.

That may be, Sir, ſaid I, winking at my friend, but lovers claim an ancient privilege, ſtiled Poetica Licentia, of giving their miſtreſſes a [190] ſort of poetical baptiſm, and of borrowing names from hiſtory, or romance.

Very good, very good, replied the ſquire; but, prithee, ſays he, who was this ſame—what's the word? Pharſalia, replied I. Ay, this ſame Pharſalia, that I find is now become my daugh⯑ter's nick-name?

That is a name, replied I, well known in an⯑tient ſtory, at whoſe relentleſs feet many thou⯑ſands have died, in ſtrife to win her. A cruel jade, a cruel jade, quoth the ſquire—The beau⯑ties of your outlandiſh times, continued he, were terrible people, terrible people, indeed, Sir. But, thank our ſtars, they are all of them diſtinct, now. Dead and gone, and rotten too, for all their conceit, I dare ſay, long before this. And there is no dying for love now-a-days, not in the leaſt, not in the leaſt, Sirs; no more dying for love, I aſſure you, gentlemen. So my gal⯑lants, you may ſet your hearts at reſt, for the fu⯑ture, believe me. Ha, ha, ha!

Don't you think, continued he, addreſſing himſelf more particularly, to me, that we are much wiſer now, than your old people were for⯑merly? I cannot tell, Sir, ſaid I, for I never was in company with any of them, and I never pretend to judge of perſons characters, by hear⯑ſay.

[191]Very right, very right, good Sir, replied the ſquire, as they are not heretofore, to anſwer for themſelves, it would not be quite fair to be too hard upon them. You really ſeem to have good notions, right notions, indeed, Sir, added he, taking me by the hand, and bruiſing my knuc⯑kles, when luckily a ſervant came in to my re⯑lief, by annoncing us that dinner was upon the table.

CHAP. LXXIII.

THE ſquire led the way, and we followed him into the parlour, where we ſaluted the ladies, and took our places. I was ſtruck with the whole air, and perſon of the bride, al⯑together, but did not fix my eyes upon her at⯑tentively enough to diſtinguiſh her beauties, out of regard to good breeding; as the looks of a ſtranger might have thrown her into confuſion, at ſuch a delicate criſis as this.

And indeed, this politeneſs I ſoon found to be but common humanity toward her; for ſhe had a world of ſorry mirth to ſuſtain, from the vulgar facetiouſneſs of her father, and couſins, [192] who exhauſted all the common-place jeſts, and railleries, that are uſually thrown out by merry dulneſs, upon ſuch occaſions.

The bridegroom too, joined in the ſame ſtu⯑pid humour, though I ſaid every thing I could to reſtrain him from it. I hinted to him, in French, that though, in the reſt, it might be ill breeding only, in him it was indecent, alſo. He replied that he had a deſign in it, for coyneſs was troubleſome, and that he always obſerved when womon once became familiar with ideas, they were ſeldom apt to ſtart at things. I anſwered that he muſt not only be an indelicate, but an indiſcreet huſband too, who would deſire to leſſen a wife's modeſty; but to call in foreign aid, for that purpoſe, added I, is groſs indeed!

The father ſtill went on, blundering in ſenſe, and miſtaking in expreſſion. While the fami⯑liar couſins made more than amends, by ſpeak⯑ing rather too plain, arreſting every innocent word that was uttered, by any of the ladies, and tor⯑turing it to confeſs a double entendre.

Among all the improper behaviour of men toward women, I think that the wreſting a ſingle to a double ſenſe, is the moſt inex⯑cuſeable. A rape upon their perſons, may have ſome temptation, but one on their words can poſſibly have none; and the violating an inno⯑cent [193] expreſſion into an immodeſt ſenſe, may juſtly be cenſured under this harſh appellation.

There is certainly, in ſome men, ſuch a ma⯑lady, as groſſneſs of ears, which, like a dull me⯑dium, gives a bluntneſs to the acuteſt ſounds. I would have the aures aſini affixed to ſuch an head, which, like Midas, prefers a ſatyr's voice, to the melody of Apollo; and that may be com⯑pared to bliſters, which extract only the fouleſt humours. Immodeſt wits may be reſembled to beggars, who betray their poverty, by expoſing their nakedneſs.

CHAP. LXXIV.

DUring the entertainment, the parlour door was left open, to ſtun us with the noiſe of ſhrill fiddles, and hoarſe hautboys; which ſupplied ſtill freſh occaſion of inſipid mirth, by affording opportunities of calling for certain tunes, with arch names; but, at the ſame time, they ſerved to drown a good deal of the ribaldry that was bandied about, while the dinner laſted, which therefore, in ſome ſort, reconciled me to the interruption, for that time.

[194]But I have generally thought the introduction of muſic, at meals, to be a moſt abſurd enter⯑tainment. Friends are more particularly ſelected, and aſſembled at theſe times, to be chearful and ſociable together; 'tis therefore, moſt highly improper to ſuffer any kind of avocation to in⯑trude upon ſuch jovial occaſions, which may either divert the attention, or lay the free circu⯑lation of familiar converſe, under any manner of difficulty, or reſtraint. Is there a ſcold, an evil ſpirit, or a tarantula, in company!

When a perſon treats his gueſts with muſic, at meals, he ſhould always provide each of them with a ſpeaking trumpet, to fill the concert, leſt the vocal ſhould be found too weak for the in⯑ſtrumental. At leaſt, I think that the company ought to converſe together in recitative, only.

I met with a ſign once, in Ireland, that was perfectly emblematical of ſuch an abſurdity. It was a cat eating a mouſe, and playing on the bagpipes, at the ſame time. Is this an Iriſh blunder? No—It is there only, that it is not one. For muſic may not improperly be blended with converſation, where moſt people ſpeak with a tune.

Pere Le Compte, deſcribing the manners of the Chineſe, ſays that they eat and drink to a certain meaſure, which is marked by a perſon [195] who ſtands at the ſide-board, and bea [...] [...] during the dinner. He farther adds, that they never ſpeak a word during meals, but that their whole addreſs of compliment, is performed by geſture, and grimace, only. Muſic would not be impertinent at ſuch feſtivals as theſe; and might likewiſe, have not been improperly intro⯑duced at Belſhazzar's impious feaſt, where all the gueſts were ſtruck dumb at once.

Socrates, in the Protagoras, reprehending the ſophiſt, for quoting poetry in a philoſophical ar⯑gument, compares it to certain ignorant people, who, for want of ſenſe to entertain their company, have their feaſts accompanied by muſic.

CHAP. LXXV.

ABOUT ſix o'clock in the evening, we were ſummoned into the drawing-room to tea, where we found the parſon ready to per⯑form his office. After the ceremony was over, every one ſaluted the bride, in courſe; and when the ſquire gave her his bleſſing, perceiving that ſhe trembled a good deal, he cried out, Hey girl, are you falling into a panatic? Look ye there, look ye there, ſaid he, pointing to her [196] mother, ſhe had the ſame frantics, in her time, wench, and yet you ſee that ſhe is ſtill alive, to tell the ſtory—The couſins, the parſon, and the footmen laughed.

After tea the muſic ſtruck up again, and the ball began; the father and mother led up, I ex⯑cuſed myſelf from mirth, Beville danced with the bride, the bridegroom with one of the para⯑nymphs, firſt couſin with the other, the parſon with my lady's woman, and ſecond couſin with a chair.

Theſe ſix couple jigged it away, as one of the couſins termed it, for the reſt of the evening, with a great deal of ruſtic mirth and jocularity; the only part of which that I remember, was what the parſon ſaid, on their firſt ſetting out. Exulting at the preference he had obtained over poor ſecond coz, who ſtood next under him, What, Mr. Tom, ſaid he, are you tired al⯑ready? Tired, Sir, tired! prithee how came ſuch a crotchet into your nobb, Mr. Parſon? Why really, Mr. Tom, replied he, is it not natural to ſuppoſe that a man is ſo, when he takes a chair? Here a loud laugh—Ay, but doc⯑tor, doctor, parſon upon Dorothy, I have this ad⯑vantage over you, again, that when I am tired, I may reſt myſelf in my partner's lap, which is [197] a liberty you dare not take for your caſſock, doctor—Here a louder laugh—

Mr. Beville entertained his fair partner with his uſual good breeding. He talked to her of indifferent matters, in the gay and polite world; of plays, muſic, and dreſs—Not upon any par⯑ticular modes of the latter, but treating it only as a general topic, and expoſing the improprie⯑ties, and extravagancies of certain faſhions, where caprice reigned alone. From whence he took occaſion of comparing taſte and wit toge⯑ther, which, however they may ſtrike upon the fancy, at firſt, are equally falſe, ſaid he, if one be not founded in ſenſe, and the other in na⯑ture.

He found her extremely attentive, intelligent, diffident, and modeſt. He treated her like a rational creature, notwithſtanding her youth, and beauty; and was ſo perfectly polite all the even⯑ing, as to keep quite clear of every ſubject, hint, or expreſſion, which might even glance, or ſeem to allude to the circumſtances of her preſent ſituation.

During ſupper, he and I both concurred in the ſame ſentiment, and endeavoured, as much as poſſible, to parry all the rude merriment that was thrown out, upon this occaſion. The chap⯑lain though, preſſed us hard, for he ſhewed him⯑ſelf [198] indeed, moſt truly orthodox—in all the myſteries of weddings and chriſtenings—which, by the warmth of his imagination, he joined ſo cloſe together, in his expreſſions, that in a bot⯑tle or two more, I believe he would, like the projector in Triſtram Shandy, have proceeded to baptize the infant, ſlap daſh, in potentiâ rerum.

Our difficulty, with regard to this gentleman, lay here; that we could not tell how to repri⯑mand a perſon, under his character, without ſay⯑ing ſome things, at the ſame time, too ſevere for good breeding, or the laws of hoſpitality. We contented ourſelves, therefore, with taking him in the groupe, and giving a turn to their prolific ein of converſation, by entering into country politics, in which none of us were in the leaſt concerned, or abuſing the miniſtry— becauſe they had never provided for any of us, with ſuch other ſquirely topics; in which the reſt of the company ingaged with modern patriot warmth^*; to moderate the ardour of which, we frequently interluded with quibbling upon words, or retailing Joe Miller's Jeſts. Chuſing rather, to be ſilly, or ſtupid, than looſe, or profane—And in this turn too, they equally [199] joined us, with native humour, and moſt mor⯑tifying applauſe.

The ſtocking thrown, we retired.

CHAP. LXXVI.

WHEN Mr. Beville and I were leſt alone, we commented upon the incidents of the day; and agreed together, that none of the men wanted underſtanding, within their own ſphere, but yet, from an ignorance of the rules of good breeding and decorum, had rendered themſelves either ridiculous, or abſurd, during the courſe of the whole entertainment.

We then purſued this ſubject up to a general reflection, and Mr. Beville very juſtly obſerved, that ſome of the characters which had diſtin⯑guiſhed the antients, ſeemed to be quite loſt among us, at preſent. We have neither a So⯑crates, nor an Alcibiades now, ſaid he. The good are formal, the wiſe ſevere, and the learned pedantic: while the young ſhew little ſpirit, but againſt religion, the gay are profli⯑gate, and the unlettered unmannered alſo.

Abroad, continued he, we hear that appear⯑ances at leaſt, are ſtill preſerved; and as charity [200] is ſaid to cover a multitude of ſins, ſo politeneſs has the addreſs to conceal a number of faults; and 'tis ſome merit, certainly, to be able to palliate a defect in morals, with the decent ſubſtitute of manners.

From this reflection we carried our obſerva⯑tions up to the Britiſh conſtitution, both of church and ſtate; by taking notice that the free⯑dom which we are too apt to indulge ourſelves in, of framing the councils both of our God, and king, gives a certain bravery perhaps, to our ſpeech and actions, which may poſſibly render us greater heroes in a ſtate of war, but are quite incompatible with a ſtate of peace. Our ebullient ſpirits become impatient of inac⯑tivity, and where a foreign enemy does not unite our proweſs, we are too prone to create a ſort of civil diſcord among ourſelves, and ſet one half of the nation at ſtrife againſt the other; ei⯑ther by the ſword, or by the pen.

By this means, the ingenuous arts of life be⯑come neglected, the generous emulation of ge⯑nius ſubſides, all civil commerce is interrupted among us, that traffic chiefly encouraged, which tends merely toward luxury and profuſeneſs, and merit is allowed no other teſt, but that of party, only. Thus do we grow invalids from too much health, and even our wealth but fur⯑niſhes [201] us with means of impoveriſhing ourſelves again.

We then parted, and retired to reſt. The next morning, we eſcorted the bride home to her new empire; the father, mother, para⯑nymphs, firſt, and ſecond coz, with the parſon, forming our cavalcade; who all returned back again, the next day.

CHAP. LXXVII.

WHEN we had paſſed a week together, Mr. Beville and I attempted to take our leave, but were preſſed by our friend, to paſs, at leaſt, the honey-moon, with him, as he ſtiled it; in which invitation, the fair Ethelinda joined him, with ſuch an air of hoſpitality, and polite⯑neſs, that we readily conſented to their requeſt.

She was tall, finely proportioned, fair, and of moſt captivating beauty; ſhe had a grace and decency in her air, motion, and geſture, with ſo remarkable a mildneſs and modeſty in her countenance, that one might imagine nature had infuſed no more blood into her body, than what was juſt ſufficient to bluſh in her cheeks. [202] In fine, there was ſomething in her look and manner, altogether, which won one's friendſhip, at firſt ſight; and I may pronounce that who⯑ever ſaw her even once, with a heart not pre⯑ingaged, could ſcarcely have it to offer, but at ſecond hand, to another.

I attended to her ſentiments and conduct, during the time I remained in the houſe, and obſerved that ſhe was poſſeſſed of a diſpoſition ſingularly compaſſionate, and humane. Her charity was extenſive; but I have known it ſometimes reſtrained, by the fear of having it taken notice of. Her moral was curbed by her modeſty alone.

My friend and condiſciple was a moſt unfit character to be yoked with hers. He was very inconſiſtent, had a princely grandeur in ſome things, and a pedling meanneſs in others. His mind might be compared to an old manſion-houſe, with a few large rooms, but crowded with clo⯑ſets.

His temper too, was incertain; for caprice, good-humour, and paſſion, uſed to ſhift ſo quick upon you, that there was no preſcribing to one⯑ſelf any certain meaſure of conduct toward him. His chearfulneſs reſembled the air pent up be⯑tween two hills, which in the calmeſt day is ſubject to be diſturbed by ſqualls.

[203]He had no ſteady principle of action, neither. He would ſtrike his dependents this hour, and make them preſents, the next. He often gave charity, but repented of it as often, ſo that he impoveriſhed his purſe, without enriching his ſoul.

He was indefatigable at all country diverſions, without underſtanding any of them; and might literally be ſaid to be a ſlave to his ſports, for he was maſter of none. So that I have ſometimes known him to lounge away whole evenings on the couch, like a tired poſt-boy, lamenting the fatigue, without reſenting the pleaſure. He uſed to drink hard, though it always made him ſick; and ſeemed generally to prefer inferior company, which appeared too viſibly in his manners. He who ever affects to be the higheſt of his com⯑pany, will probably become, in time, to be the loweſt of it.

He had been but little converſant in polite life; for want of which he had contracted an uncouth⯑neſs in his manner, and a freedom in his ſpeech and behaviour, that muſt be extremely diſguſt⯑ing to a woman of delicacy, or breeding. Joined to all which, he had fallen under the common prejudices of weak, or vulgar minds; namely, a groſs ſuſpicion of female chaſtity, and an ig⯑norant contempt of all women's underſtandings. [204] The fair and polite Ethelinda, ſoon ſaw, felt, and mourned her diſappointment.

CHAP. LXXVIII.

SHE had no viſitors while we ſtaid in the houſe, for it was in the months of Novem⯑ber and December, the nights dark, and the roads impaſſable; ſo that all the compliments ſhe received upon her coming into the country, were only cards of congratulation on her mar⯑riage, and poſtponing viſits till the ſpring.

Her huſband uſed to ſpend his mornings in hunting or ſhooting, and his evenings in carou⯑ſals, or ſleeping on the couch. So that her whole time was left intirely at her own diſpoſal; which ſhe uſed to divide between working, reading, painting, and muſic; during which occupations, Mr. Beville and I would relieve, or aſſiſt her, by turns.

We uſed to read to her while ſhe was em⯑ployed at her pencil, or her needle, and ac⯑company her at the harpſichord, which concert ſhe much improved by the addition of a fine voice. We uſed at firſt, to call upon our friend, to take his part, as I remembered he had for⯑merly [205] been a good performer on the violin; but he had only one in the houſe, which he reſigned to Mr. Beville, and ſhewed ſo little reliſh to an entertainment of that elegant nature, that he would not even ſend into the neighbour⯑hood to borrow one.

In theſe amuſements though, he would ſome⯑times interrupt us. He would ſtride acroſs the carpets, with dirty boots, give his wife a ruſtic ſmack, then a ſtroke of his whip over her petti⯑coats, and cry, ‘theſe jeſſamin philoſophers, girl, will turn your head. Knitting and paſtry are fitter occupations for a houſewife. Knowledge was the firſt thing that deſtroyed your ſex, my dear, and the devil has never ſo ſure an hold of a woman, as when he makes her learned.’ With other ſuch common-place ſarcaſms as theſe.

The greateſt difficulty that Mr. Beville and I had at firſt, to ſtruggle with here, was to get ourſelves excuſed from drinking; but as our hoſt had remembered that we had both of us always declined the leaſt exceſs of this kind, he would after this glaſs, or that bottle, or clear the deck, or juſt take what is in the room, with ſuch other dalliances of debauchery, ſuffer us to make our eſcape; which I take to be the juſteſt expreſ⯑ſion, in all the peculiar phraſeology of drinking.

CHAP. LXXIX.

AFTER this manner did we paſs the honey-moon together; till toward the latter end of it, Mr. Beville began to grow ſilent, thoughtful, and diſturbed; neglected his favourite ſtudies, and uſed to take long and ſolitary walks in the wood. I quickly perceived the change, and ſpoke to him upon it. He replied, that he had loſt his ſpirits, reſt, and appetite, of late, and apprehended that ſome diſeaſe was undermining his conſtitution, by ſlow degrees.

His danger, together with a languid and de⯑jected look which he caſt upon me, at the ſame time, reſembling the laſt view I had had of his dear ſiſter, produced ſuch a ſudden effect in me, that I could not recover myſelf again, for the re⯑mainder of the evening. I retired ſoon to my apartment, and paſſed the night in fruitleſs tears, and vainer wiſhes.

The next day my dear friend found himſelf unable to leave his room. I ſent immediately for a phyſician, but he was with difficulty pre⯑vailed on to ſee him. He preſcribed ſome me⯑dicines, which he refuſed to take with an obſti⯑nacy which I had never before obſerved the leaſt [207] ſymptom of in him. In two days he was con⯑fined to his bed, in a raging fever.

I got a pallet into his room, and attended him ſolely, myſelf, not ſuffering even a ſervant to enter his chamber, on pretence of the danger of communicating his diſtemper to the family; but more on account of ſome ſymptoms in his diſorder, which greatly alarmed me with regard to the cauſe of it.

He raved much, and in his deliriums would frequently repeat the name of Ethelinda. Some⯑times he would cry out in an extaſy, O ſhe is all angel! nothing but air, voice, and colour! we can but ſee, hear, and breathe her! An Ana⯑dyomene ^*! an Anadyomene! O! had Ulyſſes ſeen but ſuch a ſea-nymph, or Scipio taken ſuch ano⯑ther captive! At other times, Well! I am a a king now, but where is my queen? What is a world without her! with many other extrava⯑gancies of the ſame kind.

The phyſician attended regularly, but I always took care to keep him waiting in the ante-cham⯑ber till I found my dear unhappy friend was [208] compoſed to reſt, that he might have an oppor⯑tunity of feeling his pulſe, and preſcribing for him, according to the changes in his diſorder, without the hazard of ſuffering a ſecret to eſcape which had already given me ſuch complicated uneaſineſs, and might farther be attended too with ſuch unhappy conſequences.

In a few days he began to recover his reaſon, and in ten more was pronounced out of danger, though his ſpirits ſtill continued extremely low. I conſtantly kept up the appearance of chearful⯑neſs in his company, and whenever I found my art begin to fail me, I uſed to ſelect books of the higheſt wit and humour I could meet with in the fair Ethelinda's ſtudy, to entertain him. Serious or religious writings would have been improper for him, at that time.

I took not the leaſt notice of his raving hints to him, nor did he remember any thing of the matter, himſelf, or let me any farther into the ſecret, except by ſuch involuntary intimations as ſighing at the ſound of her name in a meſſage to inquire his health; or by a viſible emotion upon hearing her voice as ſhe walked under his window; with ſuch other unequivocal ſigns of love, more certain than the moſt explicit decla⯑rations of paſſion.

CHAP. LXXX.

AS his fever was not inflammatory, I did not confine myſelf ſo cloſely to his room after his delirium had ceaſed, but uſed to go down to meals, and during the intervals of his reſt. I found the tender and humane Ethelinda extremely concerned at Mr. Beville's indiſpoſi⯑tion, and very aſſiduous about his cure. She meaſured the proportions, and compounded the medicines herſelf, and appointed her ſervants to relieve each other, by turns, in ſitting up every night in the ante-chamber.

She alſo intreated the favour of her huſband not to bring home any of his jolly blades, during Mr. Beville's illneſs, as his chamber happened to lie directly over the dining parlour. He com⯑plied indeed with her requeſt, by ſtaying gene⯑rally abroad with one or other of them.

The firſt two or three days after I had uſed to come down out of the ſick room, the weather happening to be unfit for ſports, the condiſciple and I paſſed moſt of our time in her dreſſing-room, which he employed chiefly, in diſcoun⯑tenancing her from reading, holding lectures upon huſwifry, and paſſive obedience, or in [210] ſpeaking or romping with her after too free and courſe a manner, before her maids, or me.

I quickly perceived how much ſhe was diſ⯑guſted at ſuch ſentiments and behaviour, and uſing the privileges of long and early friendſhip, I reprehended him for it, ſometimes in private, and ſometimes before her, as the occaſion hap⯑pened to urge, or that I found her to be af⯑fected.

This piece of good breeding rendered her at length, ſo much at her eaſe before me, that ſhe uſed to ſpeak to me with the ſame freedom as ſhe might to a brother; which, joined to the open and ingenuous frankneſs of her nature, without the leaſt reſerve in her manners, but what modeſty, or politeneſs had inſpired, led her to addreſs me thus, one evening, juſt after my friend, having thrown her into confuſion by ſpeaking to her ſomewhat too indecently before me, had quitted the room and was rating at a footman in the hall.

Pray, Sir, ſaid ſhe, what is the reaſon that there ſhould be ſo remarkable a difference in the manners of men? While I am in Mr. Be⯑ville's company, or yours, I am ſenſible of both the pleaſure, and the pride of conſidering myſelf as a rational and independent creature, a perſon of ſome rank, or character, in life; but in the [211] preſence of my father, or my huſband, I feel the humiliation of finding myſelf dwindling by turns, into an houſe-keeper, or a puppet-doll.

I have, continued ſhe, had but little oppor⯑tunity of becoming converſant with polite life. I have, indeed, ſometimes read the characters of it in books; but in comparing them with thoſe of my father, couſins, the chaplain, and our neighbouring ſquires, though all of them very good ſort of men, in the main, I have hi⯑therto been apt to impute the deſcriptions I had met with, intirely to the wanton imagination of romance, and uſed to rank ſuch chimeras in the claſs of genii's and centaur's. But ſome obſer⯑vations which I have lately had an occaſion of making, added ſhe, and bowing toward me, have convinced me that good breeding is not purely ideal, and that men may be poſſeſſed of ſenſe, manners, and virtue, without being above the ſtature of others, or having the power of rendering themſelves inviſible.

I bowed, in return, thanked her for her too polite compliment, and replied, that the diſad⯑vantages of not being born to rank or fortune, were ſometimes compenſated by advantages in other things; for that the obſervations and deco⯑rums which were neceſſary to conduct ſuch perſons upon equal terms through life, were [212] things which their ſuperiors in theſe articles, too frequently looked upon themſelves diſpenſed with from paying a ſufficient attention to.

I inſtanced this matter in courts, where it has been obſerved, that the moſt poliſhed manners were generally met with among the ſecond or third claſſes, rather than in the firſt. I quoted alſo from hiſtory, that the moſt ſhining charac⯑ters had often riſen from privacy to the purple; and then concluded this climax of heroes with his preſent majeſty of Pruſſia, who though born a prince, was bred a private man, till his acceſ⯑ſion to the throne.

However, added I, this obſervation is not univerſal, as in the inſtances of the chaplain, and your couſins, for it is not every one who is born with elaſticity enough to ſpring under a weight; but they, on whom this gifted energy may have been beſtowed, ſhould only with humble gratitude enjoy the bleſſing, and not with arro⯑gance aſſume a merit from a grace. Your argu⯑ment is juſt, and fine, replied ſhe, but though your modeſty may reduce the merit, it can never abate the excellence, of ſuch a character.

CHAP. LXXXI.

ONE evening after Ethelinda and I had dined alone, and that Mr. Beville had ſat up for two or three days, ſhe propoſed to me that we ſhould drink tea together in his apart⯑ment. This alarmed me. I did not think that his ſtate, either of health or mind, was ſuffi⯑ciently valid at that time, to ſtand ſuch an in⯑terview.

Beſides, the kindneſs and condeſcenſion of it too, might poſſibly, I feared every thing, have too much flattered his hopes. I knew his ho⯑nour, and his moral perfect, and had conceived as high an opinion of her innocence and virtue. But then again, he had paſſion, and ſhe ſenſi⯑bility.

Upon theſe conſiderations I declined the pro⯑poſal, ſaying that Mr. Beville would be extremely diſtreſſed at receiving a viſit from a lady whom he had ſo much reſpect for, in his preſent deſha⯑bille. Never mind a punctilio of that kind, ſhe replied, I have viſited the ſick often before; my father's gout has made nurſe-tending familiar to me, and if I am willing to diſpenſe with forms, [214] ſaid ſhe, ſurely neither of you can poſſibly have any reaſon to be difficult about them.

I then thought it proper to aſſume an higher key, and told her that my apprehenſion was by no means, that Mr. Beville would not be pleaſed with the honour of her viſit, but that I feared he might perhaps be too well pleaſed with it. Which laſt words I pronounced with a look and emphaſis, that ſufficiently marked their import.

The lovely Ethelinda bluſhed, and caſt down her modeſt eyes, at this expreſſion. I found myſelf too far advanced to retreat, I therefore hurried on as faſt as I could, to rid myſelf of a ſubject which I ſo little cared to dwell upon. I gave her then an account of every particular, ſince my having firſt obſerved the change in Mr. Beville, juſt in the ſame manner I have now recited them to you.

She was ſilent for ſome minutes, and then re⯑plied with a ſigh, I confeſs, Sir, that I am both concerned and ſurpriſed at this misfortune of your friend; but as Mr. Beville has ſhewn ſo much good breeding and reſpect toward me, as never to have given me the moſt diſtant hint of his improper paſſion, it would be injuſtice in me to expreſs any manner of reſentment upon an accidental diſcovery of ſo unhappy an event.

[215]But your own good ſenſe and prudence, Sir, continued ſhe, lifting up her head, muſt certainly think it extremely proper to remove your friend, as far as may be, from this unlucky ſcene, when⯑ever the ſafety of his health may permit. I wiſh him every ſucceſs and happineſs that his merit deſerves, or his virtue can deſire; I approve his manners, and eſteem his character—My circum⯑ſtances in life forbid me to ſay, or even to think more; but even thus far, Sir, ſaid ſhe, with a ſeverer air, you muſt not be at liberty to pronounce; for what has eſcaped me, in juſtice to your friend, might not perhaps, in honour to myſelf, be proper to repeat.

I bowed reſpectfully, and having paſſed my word that I would never ſuffer the leaſt hint of this converſation to tranſpire to Mr. Beville, I went up to his chamber and found him moving about the room by the aſſiſtance of the tables and chairs, trying his ſtrength, as he told me, with a deſign of beginning his journey on the next day, if poſſible.

I was pleaſed at this motion ariſing from him⯑ſelf, but told him that I was afraid his health would not permit him to ſet out ſo ſoon. To which he replied, that he was pretty certain he ſhould be able to perform the firſt day's journey, [216] in our friend's coach, and that if he ſhould not have ſtrength enough to continue his route on horſeback, he would much rather linger at an inn, than where he was, for that he began to feel himſelf extremely uneaſy at the trouble and difficulties his diſorder had ſubjected the family to. Adding, that he had ſtronger reaſons ſtill, for removing himſelf, even at the hazard of his life, from that too fatal ſcene of his preſent mi⯑ſery.

Theſe words he pronounced with an heavy ſigh, and faltering accent, which however, I did not ſeem to take the leaſt notice of, but replied, that I would ſpeak for the coach as ſoon as our friend ſhould return home that evening. Then ſhifting the diſcourſe to general topics, I re⯑mained with him till he retired to reſt, and then went immediately down ſtairs.

CHAP. LXXXII.

WHEN I came into the parlour I found our friend juſt returned home. He was much fuddled, told us that he had ſpent a jovial day among a parcel of [...], of the firſt head, but [217] was ſomewhat afraid that the wine had not been quite ſound, for it began to make him ſick al⯑ready, and that he would, with my leave, retire immediately to bed.

I adviſed him to take an emetic firſt, which he promiſed to do, and went away, deſiring his wife to ſtay and entertain me at ſupper, which juſt then came upon the table. But ſhe excuſed her⯑ſelf, ſaying that duty ſhould ever take the lead of civility. Then deſiring me to drink the healths of all my ſick friends, walked up ſtairs to her chamber, along with him.

I had no manner of inclination to ſit down alone, and would have declined it, but from a nicety about giving offence to the hoſpitality of my hoſts. I therefore went through the ſupper with an appearance of appetite, and then filling up a bumper, drank, with a truly ſincere heart, the double toaſt which our fair landlady had re⯑commended to me, joining her health and hap⯑pineſs along with it.

Thus left alone, I began to reflect, as uſual, upon the unhappy circumſtances of poor Beville's fortunes, and my own. I revolved many ſchemes in my mind, but what ſignifies reaſon⯑ing, without premiſſes? At length I reſolved upon this meaſure, that we ſhould both join our little fund and application together, to⯑ward [218] aſſiſting Mr. Beville, the father, in vindi⯑cating his rights againſt his deputy, and then live with him till my father ſhould have extri⯑cated his fortune out of the courts; and after⯑wards, enter jointly into ſome project of life, to⯑gether, upon the fund of two thouſand pounds, which I had paid for my ſiſter's portion, and which was confeſſedly my due.

While I was revolving theſe thoughts in my mind, the poſt arrived, and the packet of letters was laid upon the table, among which I ſaw one directed to myſelf. I opened it, and found it to be from our worthy friend, the clergyman, be⯑fore-mentioned; the contents of which were theſe, continued Mr. Andrews, taking a letter out of his deſk, and preſenting it to Mr. Carewe to peruſe.

CHAP. LXXXIII.
The Letter.

I Staid a few days here, after my good friends, Mr. Beville and you, had left it. The mi⯑niſter of St. Martin's, in whoſe pariſh I found out that your father lived, was my old ac⯑quaintance, and cotemporary, at Oxford. I paid him a viſit, renewed my intimacy with him, entered into the ſubject of your ſituation and circumſtances, and got him, very readily indeed, to concur with me in jointly employing our good offices and addreſs, toward bringing your father into a proper ſenſe, both of your merit, and his own duty.

My friend invited me to dinner, the next day, and introduced me to your father, without drop⯑ping the leaſt hint of my profeſſion, having be⯑fore directed me to lay aſide my clerical habit, upon that occaſion; telling me, that Mr. An⯑drews, though a moſt rigid churchman, had, from ſome perſonal diſguſt, conceived a ſtrong prejudice againſt the private character of a cler⯑gyman; and that one moral ſent [...], ſpoken [220] by a lay-man, would have more weight with him, than fifty, pronounced by an hireling, as he is apt to ſtile a parſon.

We ſpent the day very chearfully together, and I played off his own character, ſo ſucceſsfully againſt himſelf, by helping him to roaſt the par⯑ſon, who pretended ſometimes to be ſerious upon it, in order to heighten the ſport, that I won his affections ſo far as to be invited to dine with him the following day, which I moſt rea⯑dily accepted of.

The next day, after dinner, I aſked your fa⯑ther what had poſſeſſed him with ſuch a reſent⯑ment againſt the clergy, conſidered perſonally, while he appeared, at the ſame time, to have a very orthodox belief of their appointment, and a juſt ſenſe of the high importance of their of⯑fice?

He replied, that his father and brother had been both clergymen; the firſt diſinherited him, in favour of a ſecond wife's children, and the latter had left him involved for five hundred pounds, which had given him a mortal averſion to the caſſock. This ſtory I had been appriſed of before, by my friend, and only led him into it, in order to ſupply an occaſion of exclaiming loudly, againſt the injuſtice of his father, toward him, which I did.

[221]Yes, Sir, ſaid he, and if you'll conſider at the ſame time, that I was not, on my part, guilty of any one act of diſobedience, to provoke him to ſuch a diabolical partiality. No, Sir, I replied, that is a circumſtance, which I can by no means admit into conſideration, in ſuch a caſe as this; for no conduct of a child, which does not contradict the laws of God, or man, can poſſibly be pretended, as a palliation, for ſo unparental a ſeverity.

I preſſed this ſubject no farther, at that time, becauſe I did not chuſe to let him perceive my deſign, too abruptly; ſo I ſhifted the ſubject to indifferent matters, and ſoon after took my leave; having firſt ingaged him to ſpend a few days with me, in the country, telling him that the parſon there, would eſcort him. I fixed the time afterwards, with my friend, and left Lon⯑don the next morning.

They both of them came down to me, ac⯑cording to agreement, and we paſſed our time pleaſantly enough, as I exerted myſelf to the ut⯑moſt ſtretch of hoſpitality, toward my new gueſt. I ſtill concealed my parſonſhip, during the re⯑mainder of the week, for though we had prayers, as uſual, morn and eve, I appointed my friend of St. Martin's, to the office of chaplain, during that time.

[222]I had your lovely children, my dear Andrews, in the houſe with me, all the while, and fre⯑quently called them into the parlour to fondle with before him, letting them paſs for relations of my own. He was ſtruck with their beauty, and uſed to take them often on his knee, by turns. I have ſometimes felt myſelf a little aukward, on account of my diſingenuouſneſs toward him; but then I quickly ſolved it again, by thinking that if ever a pious fraud was allow⯑able, it muſt be in ſo virtuous a cauſe as this.

At length, Sunday morning arrived. I ſent off my gueſts to church before me, and when I had put on my proper garb, I followed them, walking through the iſle, directly into the deſk, where my friend the clergyman had taken his place before me, after having ſeated Mr. An⯑drews in a pew oppoſite to the pulpit. St. Mar⯑tin's read prayers, and I preached that day, upon a text ſelected for the occaſion, namely, the fifth commandment.

In this diſcourſe, I carried the duty of chil⯑dren up to the higheſt degree, by ſhewing firſt, the general ſenſe of mankind, upon this article, from the earlieſt account of nations, and among even the moſt ſavage race of men; and then wound up my doctrine, by confirming this great [223] natural, and moral obligation, with the expreſs command of God.

I then proceeded to conſider, on the other hand, the great and alarming duty of parents toward their children; which point I carried even higher than the former. For after having firſt inculcated it from nature, morals, and uni⯑verſal concurrence, I pleaded even the ſilence of the decalogue, in this article, as an argument to confirm it.

We have, ſaid I, a command, not to kill; but none againſt ſuicide. We have alſo a pre⯑cept to love our neighbour; but none to love our child. And this, becauſe it was thought ſuper⯑fluous to frame injunctions, for, or againſt things, whereof the paſſion, or averſion, had been ſo ſtrongly rooted already, both in our reaſon, and our nature.

Upon the whole, I concluded, that an unkind parent muſt be conſidered as a reprobate both to reaſon, to nature, and to grace; and I preached the ſermon, with that natural, and moſt perſua⯑ſive kind of eloquence, exceeding all the arts of oratory, with which a perſon is indued upon a ſubject where his mind is convinced, and his heart affected.

During the duties of this morning, I did not attend to any particular, which did not relate [224] immediately to the offices of the day; therefore, I could not perceive what manner of effect, ei⯑ther my unexpected appearance, under a new and ſolemn character, or the arguments of my doctrine, might have produced, upon my moſt immediate object, next to God; but, on my deſcending into the iſle, and ſaluting Mr. An⯑drews in the midſt of the congregation, he ſeemed to be in a ſort of confuſion, and received my addreſs with a certain diſtant reſpect, and awed obeiſance, which gratified me extremely— not from cleric pride, but chriſtian charity.

As we walked home together from church, he aſked me why I had concealed my profeſ⯑ſion from him, all this while? To which I an⯑ſwered, that in general, I neither took pains to reveal, or conceal it, but would however, rather chuſe to ſuffer that particular, always to remain a ſecret, among ſtrangers. Becauſe, ſaid I, ſhould they happen to be good, and formal, epi⯑thets too frequently joined, the awe of it might, poſſibly, throw ſome reſtraint upon the freedom of converſation; and if profligate, and ill-bred, which are terms as often coupled, it might tempt ſuch characters to become rather too free. We ſhould be Chriſtians, every where, ſaid I, turning toward our friend of St. Martin's, but parſons, only in our pulpits.

[225]During the remainder of the day, I behaved toward your father, with the ſame eaſe and free⯑dom as uſual, but perceived that he, on his part, ſeemed to hold a greater reſerve over his ſpeech and manners, than before. I took notice of this particular to him, and he ingenuouſly confeſſed to me, that he could not readily got the better of the ſurpriſe which had ſeized him, upon ſeeing me walk through the iſle in the ſacred habit, and take my place at the deſk, before he had been in the leaſt appriſed of my profeſſion; and that the ſuddenneſs of the tranſition, from my ſuppoſed, to my real character, had ſtruck him ſomewhat like a divine viſion, and impreſ⯑ſed his mind with a certain religious awe, which he could not, for that day at leaſt, nor deſired, during his life, ever to get the better of.

In the evening, I brought your dear infants into the parlour, in my arms, and placing them on their little knees before him, ſaid, Since this has been a day for diſcovering of ſecrets, Sir, I ſhall now acquaint you with one, which is of infinitely greater moment to you, than that which you were let into this morning—Here, Sir, are your grandchildren—whoſe mother your cruelty has already ſent weeping to the grave, has reduced their father to a wandering exile, and driven theſe lovely innocents, theſe peculiar [226] favourites of our redeemer, crying to a ſtranger's gates for bread.

The ſtrength of my expreſſion, with the ſtern⯑neſs of my look, and the voice of authority, which I thought proper to aſſume upon ſo juſti⯑fiable an occaſion, threw Mr. Andrews into the utmoſt confuſion; and I could perceive a certain mixture of ſhame, horror, and ſelf-condemna⯑tion, in his countenance, at the ſame time.

I turned careleſly aſide, to leave him at liberty to collect himſelf, and indeed in order to hide my own diſturbance, alſo. Upon which, he haſtily laid his hands on the children's heads, crying, in an hurry, God bleſs you, God bleſs you both. Then ſaying he was not very well, he ſuddenly quitted the room, and retired to his chamber. I then ſnatched up the children in my arms, kiſſed them, and wept; while the ſportive innocents ſat ſmiling at each other, and club⯑bing their little miſchief together, to throw off my wig upon the floor.

Mr. Andrews came in to ſupper, and after the cloth had been removed, he addreſſed himſelf to me thus: You accoſted me this evening, Sir, ſaid he, with ſuch a ſuddenneſs, and ſeve⯑rity, that I muſt confeſs myſelf to have been to⯑tally deprived of all power of vindicating my character, from ſo heavy a charge.

[227]I am truly ſorry for the fatal conſequences you have mentioned to me; but then, Sir, I hope you will admit, that theſe have ariſen ſolely from my ſon's own undutifulneſs, and cannot, therefore, be in the leaſt imputed to my cruelty, as you were pleaſed, juſt now, to ſtile it. He married, without my conſent, and without a portion; and as my fortune is in my own power, I have but exerciſed my right, in making a will, which, in proper time, may ſhew the gentleman my juſt reſentment, againſt ſo high an act of diſobedience.

Sir, ſaid I, whatever the tenour of our lives may be, we ought to be more particularly care⯑ful of the laſt, than about any other act of it. A will, Sir, though perfected at any time of our lives, as it is not to take effect, till after our death, ought certainly to be conſidered in this moſt intereſting light; and we ſhould therefore, never attempt to ſit down to ſo tremendous a work, but in ſuch a temper of charity and for⯑giveneſs, as we would perform any other action in our lateſt moments^*.

[228]Sir, ſaid he, all this may be very ingenious reaſoning, for any thing I know, but as the laws of the land have inveſted me with an abſolute do⯑minion over my fortune, I think that no perſon whatſoever, can poſſibly urge a claim of right, againſt me; a petition of favour, is the utmoſt they can pretend to, and my eldeſt ſon, by diſ⯑obedience, has forfeited even this pretence.

Dear Sir, I replied, we are not here litigating this point, according to law, but merely deba⯑ting it agreeably to juſtice. Your abſolute domi⯑nion I diſpute not, but Heaven is not a court of law, but of equity; before which dread tribunal, a ſuppliant is required to do juſtice firſt, himſelf, before he can be intitled to receive it. And, believe me, Sir, continued I, with a ſtedfaſt look, that whoever has not virtue ſufficient to diſtinguiſh between a right, and a power, is a caſuiſt for the devil.

Theſe laſt expreſſions ſeemed to ſtartle him; he immediately appeared to retire into his own thoughts, and a dead ſilence enſued on all ſides, for ſome minutes; till the bell rang for family prayers, which I adminiſtered myſelf; and had the ſincere pleaſure to obſerve that Mr. Andrews joined in them with a more em⯑phatical devotion, than uſual.

[229]Our ſupper paſſed away in general ſubjects, but a good deal conſtrained; and the next morn⯑ing, Mr. Andrews took his leave, and returned back to London. I deſired my friend to found him, on the road, and try what effect my lec⯑tures and experiments, might have produced upon him.

He did ſo, and wrote to me, the next poſt, acquainting me that Mr. Andrews ſeemed to have been a good deal awed, was more thought⯑ful than uſual, had ſeveral times repeated to himſelf, the words right, and power; and had treated him, all along, though a parſon, with ſomewhat more of decorum, than he was wont to do. But that with regard to the point in queſtion, his only anſwer, when preſſed to it, was, that reſentments which had been gradually growing warm, muſt be allowed time to become cool, by the ſame degrees, again.

Thus far, my dear Andrews, had I written to you, a month ago, but delayed ſending the letter, upon my friend's laſt hint, in order to wait the final reſult, either to be able to afford you a ſucceſsful account of my interpoſition, al⯑together, or not to interrupt your reſignation and philoſophy, with fruitleſs hopes.

Laſt Monday I came up to London, in order to feel my patient's pulſe again, and accordingly [230] waited upon your father, the next day. I found him in an high fever, but perfectly in his ſenſes, and much pleaſed to ſee me. He told me my reaſonings had wrought a moſt ſalutary effect, upon his too haſty notions of right, and wrong; and that if I would but take the trouble of draw⯑ing up a few lines, according to my own ſenti⯑ments of juſtice, he would moſt chearfully ſub⯑ſcribe to them. This was immediately per⯑formed—I prayed by him, and took my leave— The next day, and the following, his fever in⯑creaſed; and laſt night, —

I have left every thing in charge with my good friend of St. Martin's, and am juſt returning to the country again, to embrace my dear little adoptions. I was young, and now am old, yet ne⯑ver did I ſee the righteous forſaken, nor their ſeed begging bread.

Adieu.

CHAP. LXXXIV.

THIS Letter, continued Mr. Andrews, af⯑fected me extremely, in various ways; I was charmed with the active virtue of my friend, I rejoiced at the proper, though late moral of my father, and do declare that the firſt and principal pleaſure I received from this fortunate event, was in the reflection of his having been brought, at length, to a juſt and equitable ſenſe, of his parental obligations. I reſented the grant, more than the gift, and was ſenſible of a certain pious tranſport, in thinking that this laſt act of my father's, had retrieved his character, and ſealed his merits.

But, oh! my friend, what a torrent of tears ruſhed from my eyes, at the thought of my dear wife's death, juſt then occurring to my mind at the inſtant of theſe reflections! How did I la⯑ment her miſſing of that virtuous tranſport, which would have affected her fond heart and generous ſoul, at ſeeing her huſband and her children thus ſecurely placed beyond the ſcorn of fools, and ſpurn of fortune! In fine, I was ſtruck with ſuch a complicated emotion, of filial gratitude, conjugal grief, and parental joy, that [232] it was late before I could compoſe myſelf to prayer, or reſt.

The next morning I lay ſo long, that Mr. Be⯑ville, impatient to fly that fatal ſcene, had come into my room, and aſked me whether I had prepared every thing ready for our journey. I told him that our hoſt had returned home, the night before, ſo much out of order, that I did not think proper to mention our going, juſt at that time; but as I had received a letter from our friend the clergyman, laſt night's poſt, with an account of my father's illneſs, I thought it might afford a fair pretext for quitting the houſe, ſo abruptly, and that I would immediately riſe, and ſend in a meſſage to borrow the poſt-chaiſe.

Poor Mr. Beville was ſtill ſo weak, that even his ſhort walk acroſs the gallery to my chamber, had fatigued him ſo much, that he was forced to lay himſelf on the bed, by me. I did not think it prudent, in ſuch a ſtate of health, to acquaint him with the full contents of the letter; as the pleaſure it would have afforded him, might poſſibly have had too ſudden an effect upon his preſent low condition of ſtrength and ſpirits.

I aroſe immediately, and as ſoon as I heard my condiſciple's bell ring, I ſent Mr. Beville's compliments and mine to inquire how he was, [233] acquainting him with the ſummons we had re⯑ceived, and deſiring the favour of his equipage to convey my friend the firſt day's journey, at leaſt, as his health was not ſufficiently eſtabliſhed to venture on horſeback, ſo immediately upon quitting his chamber.

He returned his compliments, ſaid he had diſcharged his ſtomach by an emetic, the laſt night, found himſelf pretty eaſy that morning, but was juſt going to take a medicine which would prevent him the pleaſure of ſeeing us. He or⯑dered the poſt-chaiſe, wiſhed us a good journey, and added, that he would be glad to ſee us both again, as ſoon as our affairs might permit.

The fair Ethelinda too, ſent us her compli⯑ments, and deſired that we ſhould take the chaiſe on to London with us, if we found it either neceſſary, or convenient; but, from a very becoming nicety, which confirmed my opinion and eſteem for her, neither joined in her huſband's invitation, nor came down to breakfaſt, on pretence that her attendance on him, required her ſtaying above.

Mr. Beville and I breakfaſted together, and immediately after, ſet out upon our journey.

CHAP. LXXXV.

DUring the firſt day's ſtage, I avoided all particular converſation with my friend, ſpeaking chiefly upon general topics; pointing out to him the ſeveral beauties of the country through which we paſſed, which were ſo ſtrong as to manifeſt themſelves, even through Decem⯑ber ſnows.

It was now near Chriſtmas—I made reflections upon that hallowed ſeaſon, and took notice of the remarkable goodneſs, wiſdom, and oeco⯑nomy of Providence, in appointing that great feſtival to fall upon a time of the year, when the huſbandman's labours are ſuſpended, and that nature had already ordained a vacation, to re⯑joice in! At the moſt gloomy period of the year, to ſend us the moſt glad tidings, that ever yet have reached the ſons of man!

I do not recollect, Mr. Carewe, ſaid Andrews, that theſe remarks have been ever made before, by any of our divines. They occurred to my mind, upon this occaſion, for the firſt time; they warmed my heart, amidſt December froſts, and I endeavoured to communicate the ſame fervour from them, to my friend; in order to diſpel his melancholy, and elevate his thoughts [235] to a ſublimer paſſion, to a love equally void of ſatiety, or deſpair; and which, contrary to all other objects of deſire, we are nearer the frui⯑tion of, in age, than youth.

He joined in my reflections, with that reli⯑gious and philoſophic turn of mind, which was natural, and habitual to him, and which gave me ſtrong reaſon to believe that if I could detain him in ſome diſtant ſcene, where he might never ſee, or even hear the name of the too lovely Ethelinda more, his heart would ſoon recover its former ſpring again. For without hope, paſſion ſubſiſts not long; and I knew that his virtue forbad him even to frame a wiſh, which might ſerve to keep it alive.

When we had been ſettled for the evening, at our inn, he aſked me what ſcheme of life I had planned out for us both; for you were more at leiſure than I, ſaid he, with a ſigh, for ſuch contemplations, during our late viſit in the country.

I told him of the purpoſe which I had framed juſt before I received the letter, and added, that I had ſome encouragement from my friend, to hope that all matters would be accommodated between my father and me, as ſoon as we ſhould arrive in London. How ſhould I rejoice at ſuch an event, replied he, but much I fear that miſ⯑fortune [236] has marked us for her victims! Such ex⯑traordinary incidents! ſuch uncommon adven⯑tures!

We made a ſlight repaſt, went early to bed, and purſued our journey the next morning, in the chair. He ſeemed to be much recruited in health, but ſtill too weak to venture to ride, or even drive poſt; ſo we travelled together at his leiſure, through the whole journey.

This ſecond day I found him continue thought⯑ful, and melancholic, and imagined from the hint he had given me, when he preſſed to quit the country, with ſome others which he had let drop, the night before, that he would be pleaſed to be queſtioned upon this ſubject, though his delicacy ſeemed backward to propoſe it, in a more direct way, himſelf.

I conſidered alſo, that it is a great relief to a mind oppreſſed, to be at liberty to communicate its uneaſineſs to a friend; and being myſelf alſo, ſollicitous to know how high his paſſion might have ariſen, or what kind of ſentiments he had himſelf about it, I reſolved to enter upon the ſubject with him, at our next ſtage; and accord⯑ingly, after dinner, accoſted him thus:

CHAP. LXXXVI.

MY dear friend and brother, the diſorder which you have been lately affected with, has given me moſt extreme apprehenſion, and concern; which is, however, rather increaſed, than abated, by your recovery; if we may ſtile it one, while it leaves you ſtill ſubject to the depreſſed and melancholic ſtate, which your mind and ſpirits ſeem, ever ſince, to have la⯑boured under.

And yet, even this, is by no means, my principal concern about you; for the moſt obſti⯑nate diſtempers are ſtill within the dominion of phyſic: But, I am much afraid, from ſome ex⯑preſſions which have eſcaped you in your ravings, with others that you have thrown out, ſince the recovery of your reaſon, that your principal malady may be of that nature which Ovid ſays, ‘Non eſt medicabilis herbis.’

He bluſhed, and appeared in confuſion; but quickly aſked me, with great emotion, after what manner he had expoſed the ſecret, or be⯑trayed his paſſion, during his delirium? I ſoon made him eaſy, with regard to this particular, [238] by aſſuring him that no ears, but his own and mine, happened to have been within the reach of his voice, on his firſt extravagance, and then acquainting him of the precaution I had uſed, during the remainder of his diſtraction.

O! then, cried he out, in a tranſport, my alarmed mind is again reſtored to peace, and this ſecret ſhall be now entombed with me; for I may truly ſay, that it hath not yet eſcaped me, ſince you alone, my ſecond ſelf, are the only maſter of it. Yes, my dear Andrews, I confeſs the paſſion, but deny the guilt. It was not my choice, it is not my acquieſcence—It was my fatality, and is my misfortune.

My dear Beville, I replied, the ſlighteſt ſuſ⯑picion, either of your honour, or your virtue, has never yet reſted on my mind. But, in this unhappy affair, you muſt give me leave to be ſomewhat diffident, of your prudence, or diſcre⯑tion, at leaſt. For love, whatever the poets may have written of that paſſion, is a fair, and open enemy, and always affords us ſufficient warn⯑ing, for a retreat. It is by dalliance alone, that we are conquered; and after we have delivered ourſelves over, willing victims, to the ſoft per⯑ſuaſion, we would defend our own weakneſs, by pleading of its ſtrength. The braveſt, who ſtand [239] their ground, may be o'erpowered, but the fugi⯑tive was never yet o'ertaken.

I intreat my dear friend, replied he, that you will be ſo charitable as to ſuſpend your judgment, till you have heard my defence; and though I truſt that I ſhall be found an object of compaſ⯑ſion, rather than of cenſure, yet I muſt confeſs, that the fond nicety, which I have ever had, about preſerving your favourable opinion toward me, oppreſſes me, notwithſtanding, at preſent, with a kind of generous diffidence, on my de⯑feat, though conquered by ſurpriſe—even as a general, before his miſtreſs, for having loſt a day, though the odds a million.

CHAP. LXXXVII.

WHEN firſt I beheld the fair Ethelinda, continued Mr. Beville, I was ſtruck with admiration at her tranſcendent charms; her form, her grace, her air, her features. The contemplation of beauty, in whatever ſubject, is natural to the mind of man; and not defended by the moſt ſevere philoſophy. I indulged my⯑ſelf, therefore, in this ſublime delight, while I [240] found the chaſte pleaſure not yet deſcending from, the refinements of taſte.

When I became acquainted with her mind, was converſant with her underſtanding; had conſidered her virtues, and obſerved upon her manners; I found myſelf affected toward her, with a warmer ſentiment indeed, but ſtill of the ſame platonic kind. For the beauty of morals and of nature, are reciprocally analogous; and we may become ſuſceptible of a ſenſation for either, quite diſtinct from paſſion.

Again, when I began to obſerve upon the un⯑couth manners, and indelicate behaviour of her huſband toward her, ſeeming totally devoid of the leaſt taſte or ſentiment, for her mind or beauty, was it not virtue to lament her fate! This was humanity—not deſire. I grudged him an happineſs, which he ſeemed unworthy to en⯑joy. But this was envy, and not jealouſy.

Thus were my admiration of her beauty, my eſteem of her merits, and compaſſion for her misfortune, reſtrained within the precincts of innocence, and virtue—As diſintereſted, and pure, as is a brother's love. Under ſuch chaſte, and delicate ſentiments as theſe, had I paſſed the firſt three weeks of our acquaintance, with⯑out receiving the leaſt hint from my paſſions, [241] which might have alarmed my virtue, or have warned my prudence.

I endeavoured often, though obliquely, to reform his manners, but without preferring my own; and have, upon ſome occaſions, even re⯑ſtrained my own politeneſs toward her, where I imagined that the contraſt might have been too ſtrongly marked. My ſole deſire was to have reclaimed his conduct, and my warmeſt wiſh breathed for their mutual happineſs.

A father might have felt ſuch ſentiments—an angel might have loved her ſo—But,

CHAP. LXXXVIII.

ONE morning, I happened to take a long and ſolitary walk through the woods, ru⯑minating upon our paſt misfortunes, my dear Andrews, ſaid he, and forming viſionary ſchemes for future life; when returning diſpirited and fatigued, I ſtrolled into the green parlour, and there threw myſelf upon the couch; where, perceiving my wearied ſenſes diſpoſed to reſt, I looſened the cords of the ſuſpended curtain, and [242] letting it fall careleſsly about me, folded my arms, and reſigned myſelf to ſlumber.

After ſome time, I was awakened by perſons coming haſtily into the room, and from under part of the veil, where the cord had happened not to have run to its full length, I perceived the lovely Ethelinda iſſuing from the warm bath, which lay within this apartment, attended by her maid, who laying down a parcel of cloaths upon the carpet before the fire, retired imme⯑diately out of the room, locking the door, and carrying off the key.

I felt myſelf in the utmoſt confuſion, upon this adventure; but had no retreat; and before I could poſſibly have reſolved upon what mea⯑ſure of decency to obſerve, the charming fair let fall her looſened wrapper to the ground, and at once revealed her naked beauties to my ra⯑viſhed view. O, my dear friend! ſhe was ipſa forma ^*, indeed! Were the Anadyomene ^† of Apelles but half ſo bewitching, how happy for the world it was ſo early loſt.

She dreſſed herſelf in haſte, and every attitude expoſed ſome new, ſome hidden charm to my racked ſenſe— ‘[243]In me tota ruens Venus.’ I gazed—I doated—A ſudden fever ruſhed through all my frame—My ſenſes were intranced —Reaſon in vain oppoſed the fond delirium—I could as well command a dream—Religion was ſuſpended—Chaſtity ſwooned away—I quick loſt all reflection; and Pigmalion's ſtatue, new in⯑formed with life, was equal miſtreſs of its paſ⯑ſions.

When ſhe was dreſſed, ſhe rung the bell for her maid, and retired out of the room, without having perceived me. I immediately aroſe, and ſtole out to the woods again. How did I feel! My mind was diſturbed, my frame diſordered. I walked through the groves like a frantic per⯑ſon; now with a quick, now with a ſlow pace. The bell tolled—I returned to the houſe—The dinner was ſerved—I entered the room with con⯑fuſion—I avoided even your eyes—I dared not look on him. But when ſhe appeared—what a two-fold emotion, equally of ſhame, and paſ⯑ſion! I felt a convict—Imputed a crime to ac⯑cident; and, like a rifled maid, found myſelf ſhocked at the unhallowed pleaſure, even of a guiltleſs deed.

Oh! I could never think of her from that moment, without the moſt turbulent affections! [244] My admiration of her beauty, my eſteem of her [...], my compaſſion for her misfortune, were deprived, at once, of all platonics, and became new fuel to my flame. Whene'er I ſaw her, I felt as if I had injured her—and when her huſband hap⯑pened to occur to my mind, methought I had wronged him too.

Such paſſion, with ſuch conflict, ſuch deſire, with ſuch ſcruple, ſoon, my friend, o'ercame me. I pined, I raved, I drooped—I betook myſelf to my bed. A double fever ſeized both mind and body—The reſt you know—O! ſpare my weakneſs, and aſſiſt my virtue! Tears forced their paſſage through his eyes—He threw himſelf into my arms. We embraced.

CHAP. LXXXIX.

I SHALL really be under a good deal of uneaſineſs for ye, ladies, while ye are read⯑ing the foregoing chapter. You had certainly a natural right to have expected ſomewhat more of adventure, in ſo critical, and opportune a ſcene. A young fellow, in health and vigour. A lovely woman, in flower of youth, and beauty's pride, na⯑ked, [145] and alone—A couch—The door ſafe locked, and the key in the very bottom of Abi⯑gail's pocket! Had mother Behn, or grannam Heywood the handling of this paſſage, they would have ſatisfied your curioſity, at once, without even waiting to have raiſed it.

Now let us frame an hypotheſis in this very criſis, by way of argument only. Suppoſe, I ſay, that the very moment ſhe had ſlipt her bagniane, he had ſlipt alſo, into her arms—She could not, in decency, have done leſs than faint. He lays her on the ſopha, and applies his beſt endeavours to awaken her ſenſes. She re⯑vives, and reſents his ſervices—by looks and ſtruggles, only—For ſhe certainly, could not have the aſſurance to have cried out, and expoſe herſelf in ſo ſuſpicious a ſituation, and ſuch un⯑ſeemly circumſtances.

In all difficult caſes, one is apt to govern them⯑ſelves by precedent, and as ſhe was a lady of great reading, ſhe muſt ſurely have known, that throughout all hiſtory, ſacred, or prophane, there are but two examples of female chaſtity, upon record. And between you and I, ladies, queer ones enough, they are.

Suſanna's coyneſs could poſſibly ſupply no rule of conduct here, for in the naked Ethe⯑linda's caſe, there happened to be no Elder. Lu⯑cretia's [246] ſtory indeed, was the very caſe in point. And how did ſhe acquit herſelf, I pray ye? Why ſhe firſt moſt heroinely yielded, to ſave her fame, and then wickedly deſtroyed herſelf, to revenge her adultery. Now, though the chaſte Ethelinda's diſcretion might poſſibly have induced her to the firſt, her religion, Lucretia was an heathen, 'tis to be hoped, would have ſaved her from the latter^*.

But poor Mr. Beville was verily, in a moſt aukward ſituation, as he deſcribes himſelf. I mean for ſuch a ſort of man as he was. He might truly be compared to Tantulus, viewing the ſtaking font, and the forbidden fruit, with un⯑quenched thirſt, and appetite unallayed, And [247] as liſteners are ſaid ſeldom to hear good of them⯑ſelves, ſo is there a proverb alſo, that folks ge⯑nerally pay for their peeping. The ſtory of Acteon is known by every ſchool-boy—Coventry Tom, too, of prying memory, is the ſecond inſtance in hiſtory; and the unfortunate William Beville is now put upon record, as the third example of this fatal curioſity.

CHAP. XC.

MR. Andrews, continuing his narrative, ſaid, I really felt a moſt extreme compaſſion for my unhappy friend. Senſe and virtue add ſtrength to love. The ſame vigour of mind, which exerts itſelf in reaſon, takes equal hold of paſſion; and refined affections, like purged wa⯑ters, preſerve their properties longer than foul.

I therefore endeavoured to reconcile him to himſelf, by acquieſcing in his juſtification. I condoled with him upon the unluckineſs of his adventure, and concurred in the virtuous and manly reſolution, which he ſeemed to have ta⯑ken, of exiling himſelf from the object of his fatal paſſion, and of excluding from his mind [248] all manner of fuel, which might ſerve to nouriſh his unhappy flame.

I then thought it might relieve his ſpirits a good deal, to let him into the intire ſecret of my late letter from London, and accordingly laid it before him, for his peruſal; ſaying, My dear Beville, though fortune has uſed us ſometimes for her ſport, you ſee ſhe has not quite marked us for her victims, yet.

The reading of this letter had the deſired ef⯑fect; it diffuſed a chearfulneſs over his counte⯑nance, and he confeſſed to me, but with an in⯑genuous ſhame, that he was ſenſible of perhaps a quicker kind of pleaſure, in having my for⯑tunes eſtabliſhed by this ſort of revolution, than poſſibly it might have done to have had them even augmented, through any other medium. For beſides my concern for your misfortunes, my dear brother, added he, I have alſo laboured under a certain delicate diſtreſs, from the reflec⯑tion that your alliance with my family, had been the occaſion of them.

I then took an opportunity, from this expreſ⯑ſion, to mention a ſentiment to him, that my heart had, for ſome days, with difficulty re⯑ſtrained; which was, that the alliance he hinted at, was not diſſolved, but devolved only, and that I hoped he would henceforth conſider him⯑ſelf [249] as heir, in his dear ſiſter's place, to ſhare an equal benefit in my fortunes.

He bowed, but quick replied, that he could not poſſibly think of accepting a thing he had no claim to, in a caſe where even the gift could not confer a title; as his ſiſter, he rejoiced to ſay it, had left more rightful, and more worthy heirs behind her.

To which I anſwered, that as I had, in the firſt inſtance, already dedicated my fortunes to love, I could not think in the ſecond, of ex⯑cluding friendſhip, its younger brother, from its ſhare of the portion; and that as virtue forms ſtronger connections than nature, the fond tie which had once allied us, would induce me ever to look upon him as a real brother, if that title were not already comprehended, under the higher and nobler one, of friend.

At length, after ſeveral days travelling, we ar⯑rived in London; he recruited by the journey, and I fatigued with the delay. We paſſed the evening at the inn together. The next morn⯑ing he went down to Windſor, to wait upon his father, and I called on the miniſter of St. Mar⯑tin's, to ſettle with him about the effects com⯑mitted to his charge.

He came with me to the houſe, and delivered me the will, and keys. The ſcene affected me. [250] I dropt tears of filial duty, and felt my heart fill at the ſame time, with pious gratitude toward the great diſpenſer of all earthly, as well as hea⯑venly bleſſings.

CHAP. XCI.

UPON looking into the ſituation of my af⯑fairs, I found that the family ſuit, which had ſubſiſted for ſo many years, had been ended the preceding term, and the debentures, for ten thouſand pounds, were lying on the deſk, with about three hundred pounds more, in bills and caſh.

The will had bequeathed the intire fortune to me, except two legacies of one hundred pounds, apiece, to each of my brothers; the eldeſt of whom had been lately promoted to a troop of horſe; and the younger, beſides his employ⯑ment, had a little time before, been married to a merchant's daughter in the city, with a fortune of four thouſand pounds. My ſiſter had died in childbed, about ſix months before.

Both my brothers happened to be in London, at this time, and came to condole with me upon [251] our late loſs. I had always loved them affec⯑tionately, and was much rejoiced to ſee them. I laid the will before them, and they very gene⯑rouſly acquieſced in the diſpoſition of it, without the leaſt jealouſy, or murmur. They were both of them already well eſtabliſhed in life, and ac⯑knowledged the intire merit of it, to be owing to my diſintereſted, and fraternal kindneſs.

I then paid each of them their legacy, and made a preſent, at the ſame time, to my mar⯑ried brother, of all the family plate; which might be in value, about an hundred pounds; promiſing the captain alſo, to pay him a like compliment, whenever he ſhould do me the pleaſure to invite me to his wedding.

In a day or two after, my friend Beville re⯑turned from Windſor, and told me that he had found his father in the greateſt diſtreſs; for his attorney had informed him, that the laws could not poſſibly afford him any manner of relief, for as he had diſpoſed of the income of his employ, during his life, he could not poſſibly recover his office again; and that, as his deputy had ſold his intereſt, and retired to Holland, there was no remedy to be had, againſt him, neither.

My friend left his father all the money he had about him, and ſeemed to be extremely depreſ⯑ſed, upon this additional misfortune; though I [252] ſaid every thing that friendſhip could ſuggeſt, to ſupport his ſpirits, by intreating that he would ſuffer me to conſider us all, as of one family; adding, that in this inſtance too, I might chal⯑lenge it as a right; as I had the honour of claim⯑ing his father, as mine, alſo.

CHAP. XCII.

I WAS impatient to ſee my dear children, and to return my moſt grateful thanks to my valuable friend, the clergyman; but I could not think of reviſiting any of thoſe once happy ſcenes again, which had prevented me from paying my duty, at Windſor, alſo. I therefore wrote a letter of acknowledgment to my friend, intreating the favour of a viſit from him, at Lon⯑don, and at the ſame time, ſent down a coach and four, to bring him up, with the children.

They all arrived in town, the next day, and in this fond ſociety, the pleaſures I enjoyed, were ſo blended with thoſe I had loſt, that I might be ſaid to have truly felt that ‘"Sad luxury, to vulgar minds unknown."’ So that I had but little advantage, in this parti⯑cular, by ſhifting the ſcene, while ſuch ſtrong remembrances ſtood ſtill before me.

[253]Poor Beville's health and ſpirits recruited not ſo faſt as I had hoped for. He was frequently abſent, in company, and would ſometimes ſuf⯑fer a whole morning to paſs unmarked away, without books, or muſic; and when he did play, it was always in the andante, paſtorale, or amoroſo ſtrain; and when he read, Ovid, Catul⯑lus, or Petrarch, were his ſtudies.

I took notice of this turn of mind, to him, and he ſeemed ſo alarmed at it, himſelf, that he laid aſide muſic intirely, as he acknowledged that harmony, of any kind, might be a dange⯑rous ſolace, in the preſent diſturbed ſituation of his mind; for that the ſoft airs but ſoothed his paſſion, and the bolder ones ſerved only to ele⯑vate its tranſports.

He then began to apply himſelf to his former, and ſeverer ſtudies, but was ſoon interrupted in them, by an illneſs which had the appearance of a milliary fever. The phyſicians were called in, and determined it to be a ſcorbutic humour, which had been thrown into his blood, by checking his late diſorder, too ſuddenly, and ſuffering him to come abroad, at ſo inclement a ſeaſon, before the dregs of his diſeaſe had been ſufficiently purged away. They preſcribed him medicines, and recommended the Scarborough [254] waters, and ſea-bathing, to him, as ſoon as the weather might permit.

I took a hint from this advice, to propoſe to my friend, to take a journey with me, imme⯑diately, to Scarborough, and fix ourſelves in ſome convenient ſituation, near that town, be⯑fore the concourſe of ſick and gay, who are gene⯑rally ſo oddly coupled, at all Spa's, might ren⯑der our accommodation difficult, or inconve⯑nient. He readily accepted my propoſal, and after I had ſet off my houſe, and diſpoſed of the furniture, by auction, we ſet out together for this country.

Before I left London, I ſent my dear children back again to Hertfordſhire, with my good friend the clergyman; to whom, at parting, I made a preſent of a ſelect collection of books, value about two hundred pounds; which had devolved to my father, from his father and brother, who were both of them perſons of learning, and had formed their libraries with judgment and care.

I alſo wrote an invitation to Mr. Beville, at Windſor, to come and reſide with us at Scar⯑borough, during the ſeaſon; and then to accept of an apartment in whatever manſion I might afterwards fix myſelf, during our joint lives. He wrote me an anſwer, full of acknowledgments, [255] and promiſed to follow us, as ſoon as he could ſell the intereſt of his houſe and parks, at Wind⯑ſor, and diſpoſe of his other effects.

CHAP. XCIII.

MY friend and I took lodgings at Scarbo⯑rough, and about a month after, old Mr. Beville came to us, with a debenture of five hundred pounds, which he had realiſed out of the remnants of his reduced fortune. He was very ill on his arrival, languiſhed for ſome time, and at laſt expired of a broken heart, as he con⯑feſſed, occaſioned by the loſs of his wife, and his daughter, together with that of his fortune.

As ſoon as we had got to Scarborough, I be⯑gan to inquire whether there was any place to be let, near the town; for I liked this country extremely well, as we rode through it; and the purpoſe, which had occurred to my mind, at London, was now framed into a kind of reſolu⯑tion, of ſettling myſelf ſomewhere hereabout.

The only counties I had ever any acquaint⯑ance with, were Berkſhire, and Hertfordſhire; and being now ſelf-baniſhed from theſe, all other places had become quite equal to me. But [256] this one had obtained a preference, in my elec⯑tion, upon my dear friend's account, becauſe of its extreme diſtance from the ſtill too charming Ethelinda's reſidence.

I was informed of ſeveral houſes and farms to be let, and rode out to ſee them; but as none of them happened to be ſituated near the ſea, I de⯑clined them all. I conſidered, in the firſt in⯑ſtance, that they could not accommodate my friend, with regard to one part of his preſcrip⯑tion; and I confeſs alſo, that in the ſecond, I had all my life the higheſt reliſh for ſea-proſpects, and a deſire to fix myſelf in ſome ſituation near the coaſt.

There is ſomething extremely awful and com⯑manding in a view of the ocean, which enlarges our ideas far beyond the richeſt landſcape; and in the contemplation of its uſes, properties, movements, and contents, our minds and hearts become naturally elevated toward the greatneſs and goodneſs of Providence, at the ſame time.

But I own that there is another ſentiment, much ſtronger than this, which had always in⯑duced me to ſuch a choice of ſituation; and it is this, that I might poſſibly have the good for⯑tune, after ſome horrid ſtorm, of ſupplying re⯑lief to ſome poor ſhip-wrecked voyagers, and of defending them alſo, from the ſavage cruelties, [257] and inhumanities, too frequently exerciſed by the greedy and lawleſs peaſants, upon all coaſts, againſt ſuch unhappy objects of real diſtreſs, and commiſeration.

At length, I fixed upon this charming ſpot; the rent of which farm was conſiderably abated, on account of its not having the accommodation of a houſe or offices upon it. Which conſidera⯑tion being computed, and added to the ſavings of alterations and repairs, brings the expences of this building, almoſt within a ſaving upon the preference.

I commenced this houſe on the firſt day of March laſt, and, as it was conſtructed with brick and wainſcot, it was rendered habitable by the firſt day of this month, July, when I en⯑tered into poſſeſſion of it, and ſhall very pro⯑bably here fix my ſtation, for the remainder of my life.

CHAP. XCIV.

WHEN Mr. Andrews had brought his ſtory to a concluſion, Mr. Carewe made him a great many acknowledgments for the high entertainment it had afforded him. He ſaid that there were a great many intereſting events, in theſe memoirs, even to an hearer; but as a friend, added he, I could moſt ſin⯑cerely have wiſhed that they had been leſs rich of incidents, by two very affecting particulars.

My ſtory, continued he, which by agreement you are intitled to exact, will by no means re⯑turn you the ſame amuſement, either in kind, or degree. You are not to expect from me, a continued ſeries; my life has been too diſſi⯑pated and extempore, to afford much chain, and may rather be ſtiled a collection of incidents, than a connection of events.

I have been generally too much an individual of ſociety, and, till a late criſis—whether happy, or unfortunate, added he, with a ſigh, remains yet within the womb of time—there was not any perſon in the world, who could either di⯑rect, or govern, give a conſiſtent tenor, or ſteady purpoſe, to my life and actions; which [259] for the matter of them, and following after your's and Mr. Beville's, may be conſidered as a lively epilogue, or a merry farce, after a mov⯑ing tragedy.

My dear Carewe, replied Mr. Andrews, the moſt trifling particulars, relating to one friend, are intereſting to another. Their paſ⯑ſions, their affections the ſame, namely, a mu⯑tual reſentment of each other's pains and plea⯑ſures.

But this is a treat which I muſt not churliſhly enjoy alone. We have ſecluded my dear Beville long enough from our retired converſe, already; and if you will be ſo kind as to ſuffer him to form a triumvirate with us, in our mutual confi⯑dence and friendſhip, it will double my pleaſure and ſatisfaction, by affording to that unhappy man, ſome kind of amuſement and relief from his too fatal paſſion; which, in ſpite of time, abſence, philoſophy, and virtue, ſeems ſtill to ingroſs too much his whole heart, mind, and affections.

I moſt cordially agree to your propoſal, my dear Andrews, anſwered Mr. Carewe, for I ſhould think myſelf but half your friend, were I not wholly his. Nor do I, in the leaſt, appre⯑hend that the admitting this very worthy perſon a third in our union of ſouls, can in a [...] ſort [260] diminiſh our own mutual fondneſs toward each other; but that we may then be conſidered, rather as a triangle, whoſe angles, though they exceed not the quantity of two right ones, ſerve however, by this diviſion, to ſtrengthen and ſupport each other.

When Mr. Beville had returned from the Spa, he was made acquainted with this plan of amuſe⯑ment, and received the motion with the utmoſt ſatisfaction; for he had conceived an high eſteem and affection for Mr. Carewe, from the ſtory of his adventure with Mr. Andrews, which had poſſeſſed him with a fond and generous concern in the ſmalleſt matters which related to him.

He therefore returned thanks to Mr. Carewe, for his kind concurrence with Mr. Andrews's propo⯑ſal; and, in order to leave Mr. Beville ſtill at liberty to continue his courſe of bathing, their future evenings were fixed upon for this enter⯑tainment. Accordingly, after dinner, that day, Mr. Carewe commenced his memoir; as you will find it written in the ſecond volume.

CHAP. XCV.

I THINK it full time, here, Mr. Reader, to put a Finis to the firſt volume of theſe me⯑moirs, in order to give you leiſure to digeſt the matters herein contained; and afford you op⯑portunity alſo, for a relection. For, believe me, dear Sir, that no book is worth reading once, which does not both require, and deſerve it twice.

Of writing of books there is no end, ſaid Solomon —but whether he ſpoke literally, of his own times, as we have no cotemporary account of them, except what he has been ſo communica⯑tive to hand down to us himſelf, I cannot ſay; but he has certainly ſpoken prophetically, at leaſt, of ours; if, inſtead of writing, you will give me leave, after the manner of ſcholiaſts, to ſubſtitute copying in its place.

For, in reality, what are the volumes that load our preſſes, now-a-days, but tranſcripts, tranſpoſitions, or tranſlations? Moſt of our modern writers have the impudence to ſteal, even in the face of the living, and the moſt modeſt of them are but robbers of the dead.

This impoſition on the public, however, is nothing new among us, for our fathers and [262] grandfathers have laboured under the ſame grievance, before us. Let us but look back into the amaſs of literature, for half a century paſt, and we ſhall hardly meet with any thing new, except the type, ink, and paper. Nothing but former writings dreſſed up again, and re⯑publiſhed. No work of genius, no uſeful diſco⯑very; except the hardy, but ingenious attack upon Longinus, and one or two attempts to⯑ward diſcovering the Longitude, at ſea, if de⯑monſtrated.

What are Gaſſendi's, or any of the modern treatiſes on morals, but extracts, or paraphraſes on the Enchiridion, on Seneca, or Tully? Or Derham's phyſics, but compilations, or com⯑pendiums of Galileo, Boyle, Deſcartes, or New⯑ton? Works of learning, and labour, indeed, but not of talents, or genius.

A perſon well grounded in a college courſe, has, at preſent, nothing new to read, except a very few writings of wit, or humour; and yet, books are printed, or rather reprinted, every day, which but vary or tranſpoſe the pages written in former centuries; and only ſerve to puzzle and obſtruct all ſcience, by opening dif⯑ferent avenues to the ſame point, and by in⯑ducing ſtudents to imagine the Encyclopoedia to [263] be more tedious, and difficult, than in reality it is.

In fine, we may venture to pronounce that the wiſeſt man, even at preſent, as was once ſaid by a learned antient, is he who has read the feweſt books—provided he has but choſen them well. For learning, beyond certain limits, but dulls the genius, confounds the intellect, and multi⯑plies ſtudy, without increaſing knowledge.

If an ingenious ſociety of men would take the trouble of making a critical review of the Mega Biblion, or tautology of learning, and reduce it all into a digeſt, I dare affirm that the whole com⯑paſs of ſcience, phyſical, philoſophical, theo⯑logical, political, metaphyſical, and moral; taking in the claſſics and poetics, in all lan⯑guages; with all hiſtory that is worth reading, for knowledge, ſtile, or obſervation, would not compoſe a library exceeding the purchaſe of fifty pounds; and the whole ſtudy might be com⯑prehended, within a ſeven years college courſe.

But then indeed, I ſhall confeſs that there muſt be an intire reform alſo, among the pro⯑feſſors in each ſeveral branch, with regard to their preſent prolix method of inſtruction. For the proverb of ars longa ſhould be more properly changed to artifices lenti And the rapid pro⯑greſs which ſome extraordinary, and uneducated [264] perſons have been reported to have made in the arts and ſciences, might have been owing to their having inſtructed themſelves more by rea⯑ſon, than by rule.

Nor would this ſcheme be of the leaſt diſad⯑vantage to the world in general; for though ſome laborious dunces might by this means, perhaps, want bread, unleſs much better employed in ſowing and reaping it, yet the uſeful and ne⯑ceſſary trades of printers, bookſellers, and ſta⯑tioners, would ſtill continue to thrive, even bet⯑ter than before. For there would then be a thouſand libraries, for one we have, at preſent; as men are often diſcouraged from making col⯑lections, for want of proper catalogues to direct them where to begin, and where to end.

I know many perſons of fortune who have not five pounds worth of books in their ſtudies, at preſent, and thoſe picked up by chance, or inheritance, and who would not give five ſhil⯑lings for five pounds worth more, and yet would readily lay out fifty, to purchaſe a compleat li⯑brary; which, if once pointed out, and aſcer⯑tained, would be then deemed one of the appen⯑dages of fortune and grandeur, even to thoſe who cannot read, as many furniſh ſtables of horſes, which they cannot ride.