To Mr. Paulet, at Sir Wm. Ruſſell's, Cavendiſh-Square.

WE are all under the greateſt anxiety about our friend and neighbour Mr. Alrington—his diſ⯑order rages more vehemently than ever, and the phyſicians cannot per⯑ceive one favourable ſymptom of his amendment—have no time to add further particulars, but fear this is only a preface to worſe intelligence— [2] will write by to-morrow's poſt—in the mean time your ſiſter joins in all love with your affectionate father,

To the Same.

AT four o'clock this afternoon I was again ſent for, not to pray by him, but (at my own requeſt) to pay the laſt tribute to expiring friend⯑ſhip—He had no orders to give about either his plumes or his monu⯑ment—"If I have lived well, ſaid he, my deeds will be graven on the minds of men, and I ſhall have the bleſſings of the deſerving—let the poor be decently ſupplied on the oc⯑caſion with all neceſſaries, and if [3] they loved me, they will not wiſh for ſuperfluities—I have ever been their protector, and they would not, I am ſure, convert my funeral into an hour of feſtivity—I feel an awe, but no grief, at my diſſolution—ſome philoſophers, it is ſaid, have been above terrors, but I fear they were below humanity—to ſhudder is the part of the guilty, to ſtand un⯑diſmayed is the language of the Sto⯑ic, to be humble is the duty of a man—before the mortification took place, I had need of all my reſolution, but I hope in thoſe moments I con⯑feſſed virtue on the rack, and ſuffered torture only to refine my ore from its droſs—There is, I am convinced of it, now a counterpoiſe to all human mi⯑ſery—ſome hidden reſource which [4] the mind can beſt ſupply at its utmoſt exigency—I feel it now, and ſhould think it ill exchanged for all that titles, wealth, fortune, or power could be⯑ſtow upon me, and tho' I am journey⯑ing apace to that undiſcovered coun⯑try, from which I never ſhall return, I would not wiſh for one hour of added life for aught but for my friends, amongſt whom, my deareſt Paulet, I have ever principally eſteem⯑ed you—thus ſaying, he preſſed ea⯑gerly my hand, looked fervently to heaven—ſighed—and expired.—A ſcene like this awakened all my feel⯑ings, and for ſome moments I expe⯑rienced an awful ſomething without a name—tears and grief had nearly overwhelmed me, but I have again recovered my tranquillity, for it would [5] ill become me to fall a victim to diſ⯑treſs, when my life and my profeſſion demand me to make uſe of its inſtruc⯑tion—I have gained by his death a trial of that fortitude, which I hope I have not altogether diſgraced—what I have loſt you can eaſily re⯑count with me—He was a man, (for I muſt ever dwell on his character) who, though he had experienced all the falſehood of a bad world, had ne⯑ver ſteeled his heart againſt the feel⯑ings of humanity—he was benevolent without vanity, and generous with⯑out oſtentation—he had a heart, per⯑haps, too ſuſceptible of ſoft impreſ⯑ſions, which ever laid him open to the deſigns of the artful and diſingenu⯑ous, ſo that from the ſuperiority of his underſtanding he derived a weak⯑neſs [6] in his worldly conduct—he was warm in his reſentments, but, leſt he ſhould be behind hand in reparation, paid always over price—he was ſkill⯑ed in all the neceſſary truths of the religion he profeſſed, and it was no inferior branch of his knowledge, that he was ever willing to remain igno⯑rant of thoſe deeper myſteries which its divine Author thought fit to con⯑ceal from him—he was to me a pa⯑tron, a benefactor, and a friend, a friend that—but I will here cloſe the ſubject, entreating you, my deareſt Charles, to withdraw frequently from the buſy ſcenes of life to contemplate the character of a man, which may add fervour to virtue, zeal to religion, and confidence to truth.

To Mr. Paulet, &c.

FOR all what Mr. Pope ſays—that people never want to receive let⯑ters but from London, I have the va⯑nity to think you'll be glad to hear from me, tho' confined in this gloom of ſolitude—We have had a ſad dull winter of it; my father being ſtill quite moped for the death of poor Mr. Arlington: indeed he is a great loſs to us all, but we hope ſoon to have ample amends made us by the great man that has juſt purchaſed his eſtate—he came down yeſterday for the firſt time to view it, for he bought it only from the fine deſcription that was given of it by the great auctioneer in London—his name is Maſſem—he has a ſiſter who is come to that time [8] of life, when you ſay we women be⯑gin to caſt long ^* ſhadows—there are a Mr. and Mrs. Clip, who came with them two dependents, and a Mr. Lay⯑out, a deſigner in taſte in gardening, and no end of ſervants—I have only ſeen them as they paſſed by, for they ſtay but a day or two, as Miſs Maſſem ſays ſhe is indiſpenſibly engaged to go with ſome ducheſs or other to the maſquerade on Thurſday evening next—The pariſh are quite delighted with their appearance; but my father ſeems afraid that theſe great folks ſhould contaminate his flock, but I can't ſee why they ſhould, for they ſay that they will be vaſtly good and charitable to the poor, and when they are down will almoſt entirely main⯑tain [9] them without work out of their own kitchen—I thought brother you would like to hear a little how we went on, and as you will pay no tax for this intelligence, I could not help ſcribbling a few lines, tho' it was on⯑ly to aſſure you that I remain ever your affectionate ſiſter,

If you are not too much taken up with your new office, I ſhall be glad to hear how you like London.

To Miſs Paulet, at Marleſton.

I Hope you would not ſuppoſe that either the diverſions of town, or the dignity of my new character as pre⯑ceptor, [10] would ſo entirely engroſs my attention, as to make me forget my friends—It is true, this mode of life has not a little engaged both my at⯑tention and my wonder—I wonder at every thing I ſee, and then I wonder that I ſhould wonder at any thing—all here is one perpetual ſcene of tu⯑mult, noiſe, and diſſipation—mankind ever in purſuit of ſomething, which when found, creates more wants than it ſupplies—a general ſiege is laid againſt an old offender called Time, which, though every one complains of the loſs of, yet every one is in league to kill it as faſt as poſſible—the old maid at Ranelagh may have hopes of making a conqueſt, and the old ma⯑tron at a rout may be enraptured with ſpadille—but, believe me, theſe are [11] only ſecondary conſiderations—to kill ſo much time is the principal point in view—for how can the old maid experience any real pleaſure from haunting thoſe circles where ſhe is conſcious that ſhe is conſidered but as the forlorn ſhadow of her departed beauty—or how can the old matron receive any high gratification from returning to thoſe tables, where ſhe muſt reflect (if ſhe has not ſtifled re⯑flection) that ſhe can only afford new ſpecimens of the acidity of her tem⯑per, and the fraudulency of her inten⯑tions—indeed ſhe has one conſolation, that the troops ſhe is engaged with are generally full as corrupt and con⯑taminated as herſelf.—You will ſay that the old can have but few proſpects and amuſements—it is true, but they [12] can have real ones, proſpects ever brightening, as attraction muſt ever encreaſe, the nearer we approach the object—but you will now exclaim that I appear already to write from my dictatorial chair, and give laws in the true ſtyle of a ſchool-maſter; but I can never help expatiating on this ſub⯑ject, for it is not ſo much the comet itſelf, as the tail of that comet that I am ſo much in care for—there is al⯑ways ſome expecting niece or entruſt⯑ed couſin, who, to be kept out of harm's way, muſt be the watchful ſentinel to all this ſcene of diſorder—good Heavens! as if the mind could be more in harm's way, or more diſ⯑ſipated than by ſitting ſeven hours at⯑tendant on a card-table, now and then admiring work, perhaps indulged by [13] introducing her knotting, and ſtoring her mind (for to read would be ill manners) with thoſe remarks only that avarice, ignorance, and ill hu⯑mour are continually ſuggeſting—and what are the fruits of this miſerable farrago every day's experience too fa⯑tally evinces.—You think I wiſh to deter you from coming here—indeed I do,—for tho' the country, I fear, affords frequently no better examples, yet it is impoſſible to drive quite ſo faſt on croſs-roads, as it is on a turn-pike; and there are numbers who can keep themſelves afloat on a gentle ſtream, whoſe ſtrength is yet utterly inſuffi⯑cient to ſtem a torrent.—I do not doubt either the goodneſs of your heart, or the firmneſs of your inten⯑tions, but remember the wiſeſt and [14] the beſt have found the inefficacy of reaſon againſt worldly ſeduction—nor do I mean to ſtifle a generous en⯑deavour, or preclude that trial which is appointed to virtue—I know both their value and reward—but conſider—true courage conſiſts in combating an enemy nobly, that attacks you—it is the part of a bravado only to be affi⯑duous for a conteſt.

I ſee I have run out my letter to an unconſcionable length, ſo conclude myſelf abruptly, with duty to my father,

To Mr. Paulet, &c.

HOPING as how your honnur will excuſe my bouldnes, I truble your honnur to tell you that I have lit of a miſhap, and am afeard my old meaſ⯑ter ſhould know ont—I have Sr for a long time been after one Jane Felly the weelrites dawter, and now ſir ſhe wants to be married to me, ſeeing as how ſhes in a full condition for it—to be ſure ſir I have ſavd a little mon⯑ney in ſarvice, and if your honnur would but be ſo good as to get her a place in London, if it was neer ſuch a bad one, I think the thing might be ſoon huſhd up—I dont at all mind what a place it is, ſeeing as how it is [16] for nothing but a kiver, indeed the worſer the better as they ſay, as it is only for a time—I have no friend on earth to ply to but your honnur, and indeed I need not have one more cleverer for this or any thing elſe, if your honnur would but be ſo kind as to ſarve me int, and ſay nothing ont to my old meaſter—ſo hoping for your goodneſs I am your dutiful ſarvant

To the Revd. Mr. Paulet, at Marleſton.

I Now ſit down to give you ſome ac⯑count of the pupil who is entruſted to my care—He is a young man of rank and fortune, and not totally de⯑void [17] of literary attainments—for a ſhort time he has been at Weſtminſter ſchool, but (as too frequently is the caſe) has been ſo much taken off by the diverſions of the town, that it was well if in the courſe of the week the Maſters were able to remove that love of diſſipation, which the young man had imbibed the preceding days of it—however, before I came to him he could tolerably conſtrue ſome of the eaſier claſſics, and he is by no means deficient in point of natural abilities—by the death of his mother he is now committed to the care of an uncle, who, for a year and a half, has placed him under my direction—what my mediocrity ſhall be able to impart I know not; but attention will not be wanting, and I have a father ever [18] able and willing to ſupply all my de⯑ficiencies—my preſent endeavour is to improve his taſte by furniſhing his mind with the beſt criticiſms on an⯑cient literature, ſuch as Warburton's on the 6th Book of Virgil, and Hurd's on the Art of Poetry.—By the aid of theſe books I perceive his mind to be wonderfully enlarged, and he has al⯑ready remarked that the fame of the commentators ought nearly to equal the glory of their reſpective authors—from hence you will gather that he has Feeling, which in preference to every other conſideration ought prin⯑cipally to be improved.—He has juſt aſked my opinion of the Ramblers, which, ſays he, I find are generally conſidered as pompous and pedantic—I tell him that the Ramblers are my [19] manuals, and I can more properly ap⯑ply the words of biſhop Burnet to them, than to any other modern pro⯑ductions, ‘"That they are the ſtore-houſe of all moral virtues."’ —I fear he thinks I have ſtrong prejudices, for he often obſerves that the world ſpeaks quite otherwiſe—as to the world, I tell him, there are but few who are capable of judging—thoſe that are, either through envy or other malignant paſſions, will rarely do juſ⯑tice to living authors—Johnſon would be more read, was his matter as thinly ſpread as in other periodical publica⯑tions—then he has written on party ſubjects, and this can never be for⯑given by his vanquiſhed opponents—Warburton is not leſs obnoxious on the ſame account—indeed ſo far I will [20] accede—that the one by long dealing in words has too much encreaſed the vocabulary, and the other by dealing too much with mankind has at length exceeded the decent limits of all ſober ſatire—but truth and virtue were their guides, and whilſt theſe remain in the world, ſuch authors will ever be conſidered as their brighteſt orna⯑ments—an old gentleman was by chance preſent at this dialogue be⯑tween my pupil and me, who haſtily exclaimed, "Good God! ſir, why I never heard a ſyllable of all this, in regard to either of them, and I have reſided the greateſt part of my life^* [21] at Bath, except two months that I lived with my brother in Fleet-ſtreet.

To Mr. Paulet, &c.

NOT hearing from your honnur ſo ſoon as was expected we hope now that you will know nothing of the matter, for we have gotten a li⯑ſenſe, and are married, and all is well agen—ſhe thinks ſhe ſhant be lighted of near three months, and thats longer by two than her mother was, and by all three than almoſt any other woman in the pariſh—I am afeared of nobody ſaying ought about the matter but my old meaſter, but you [22] know Sr he is very partickler this way—but if he ſhould ſir I muſt tell him that neighbour Snarles wife was church'd and married and the child criſtned and all the ſame day, and thof to be ſure my old meaſter made a bogle ont, yet you know he was blig'd to do it after all, and the child for ought I can ſee was born in as good wedlock as mine will be—how⯑ſomever I muſt do as well as I can by her now, and hope God will proſper my honeſt endeavours, thof to be ſure I ſhould be ſorry if my old meaſ⯑ter was diſoblig'd by it.

To John Cuttle, at Marleſton.

TO little purpoſe has my father ex⯑plained to you the duties of re⯑ligion, both in and out of church, if at your time of life you have made no better uſe of them—tho' you ought not to deſert the creature you have debauched, yet there can be lit⯑tle proſpect of happineſs where the foundation is laid in iniquity—it is not a number of bad people in a pariſh that can ſanctify a bad action; and, whatever may be the opinion of your neighbours, that will not, or ought not at leaſt, to lighten the burden of your own conſcience—what you have done is in open violation of your duty, and in [24] expreſs diſobedience to the laws of your God—you and your guilty part⯑ner muſt repent of your errors, and where you may have little hopes from the juſtice of the Almighty, through his mercy you may have full aſſurance of pardon.

To Mr. Paulet, &c.

TO day I have paid a viſit for the firſt time to our great neigh⯑bours—Oh! Charles—ſuch a viſit!—I was accoſted with—‘"So, Dr. I rec⯑kon you'd be glad to wet your throat after talking ſo long to your pariſh— [25] pray be free, and call for any thing you like here—you need not ſtand mearly-mouthed, as if you was with ſome of your half-ſtarved country 'ſquires—call about you, man, ſays he—we don't cupboard the bottoms of the bottles here—why, egad, my ſervants in the kitchen live grander than all the gentry hereabouts put to⯑gether."’—‘"Gentry—ſays miſs Maſ⯑ſem—rabble you mean, brother."’—I only replied, that I rarely drank wine in an afternoon—the converſation then chiefly ran on their own gran⯑deur, and the ignorance and poverty of their neighbours—after tea—Mr. Layout favoured us with Remarks on Taſte in Gardening: alas! how dif⯑ferent from poor Mr. Arlington's (which by the bye I ſhall ſelect for [26] you from his papers) and Miſs Maſſem inſiſted on my looking at her Trou Madame table; for tho' ſhe knew, ſhe ſaid, that I would not be ſo wicked as to play of a Sunday, yet ſhe declared that I ſhould look at it—I told her that I ſuppoſed it might be as inno⯑cent as any other game, but that I thought the Sabbath might be full as well enployed—‘"ay, but how Dr. ſays the 'ſquire—for there's no viſit⯑ing hereabouts, and we never go to church; though, in compliment to you, we ſhall always ſend the ſervants."’—I hoped they would come from a bet⯑ter motive—‘"ay, ay, ſays he, thoſe ſort of people like to ſhow their beſt clothes."’—Mr. Layout obſerved that Sunday was only fit to travel on; and Miſs Maſſem added, that at beſt it [27] could only be conſidered as a horrid Bore."—I would have it now, ſays the nabob, as in foreign parts, all life and jollity and dancing, and not keep it as they do here, juſt as tho'f it was a Faſt."—Perhaps, ſir, ſaid I, if limita⯑tions could be ſet to amuſements, it might be an improvement—proper re⯑creations are as neceſſary for the mind as the body, and, when ſeaſoned with temperance, keep both in equal har⯑mony; but the misfortune is, that where no line could be drawn, people would ſoon go from the fields to a play-houſe, from the play-houſe to a rout, and from a rout to a maſque⯑rate.—‘"Well, ſays Miſs Maſſem, and ſuppoſe they did, it would be much better I think than to ſtay at home, and be all out of humour with one [28] another"’—I certainly agreed with her that it would, if that muſt be the neceſſary conſequence.—This ſhort dia⯑logue throws a ſtrong light on their reſpective characters, and when I conſider what a total change ſuch a family may bring about in a vil⯑lage, I reaſon upwards and look with horror on an infected kingdom—if time and reflection can work any improvement, I ſhall gradually inculcate better notions; at preſent, it is in vain to attempt to ſow good principles in a ſoil not formed for their reception.—Your ſiſter joins in all love with

Pray write oftener, for old folks, though they are thrown out of the world, love to hear what is doing in it.

To Mr. Paulet, &c.

THO' my father ſeems to diſlike this new family, and to be ſure they have ſome odd ways with them, yet upon the whole they are vaſtly agreeable—Miſs Maſſem has taken great notice of me, and was ſo kind as to ſend for me the other evening to make up a dance—yeſterday ſhe took me with them to return Sir John Oldbury's viſit—Oh Lord, they are ſo queer and ſo formal—to be ſure we laughed immoderately all dinner-time—Miſs Maſſem declared that if every thing had not been as awkward as it was, ſhe ſhould never have refrained at the ſight of poor ſir John's periwig, to ſay nothing of his antiquated wife, [30] and his two full blown daughters—to be ſure miſs Maſſem ſaid they meant to be very civil, but they were almoſt too bad to viſit, however as they were her neareſt neighbours, ſhe would always endeavour to make an annual ſacrifice.—As to Mr. Maſſem, he ſaid it was much the ſame what places he viſited at, for moſt of our country gentry kept ſuch bad cooks, that he ſhould always be obliged to get away as ſoon as poſſible, that he might make an early ſupper—and for the future, if he muſt viſit ſir John, he ſhould always go out of principle on an Aſh-Wedneſday—However, they know nothing of all this, and if they did not ſee us laugh, I believe took the viſit very kind and friendly.

At the ball, I had the honour to dance with captain Glanville, who is reckoned one of the fineſt gentlemen in England; he was moſt exceſſively complaiſant to me, tho' all the other ladies in the room were much my ſu⯑periors.

To Miſs Paulet.

I Thank you for every remembrance of me—but if you won't take it quite ill, I muſt rally you a little about day viſiting—to be ſure it is con⯑ſidered as a mark of friendſhip and eſteem, but I believe in general that it proceeds from little more than a love of diſſipation, or to gratify an idle curioſity.—I remember paying a viſit of the ſort you ſpeak of, and [32] could not help reflecting how little amuſement there could be either to the entertainers or the entertainees.—Thoſe who are to entertain are anxious for the dignity or propriety of the treat, and where there is much anxiety there can be little or no comfort—then if any awkward circumſtances ſhould occur (as the world now goes), they know they will be the talk of the whole neighbourhood; and where ſervants are not always in trammels, ſome will ſpill the beer, and others trample on your favourite lap-dog.—On the other hand thoſe who are to be entertained, as ſoon as they have ſwallowed their dinners, talked of the wine, the weather, and the roads—heard perhaps that ſir John Strictly's hares are all ſnared, or that Dr. Mean⯑well [33] has got into a freſh diſpute about tythes—are abſolutely told that the coach is at the door—this is all the regalement, unleſs perchance the ladies at tea have juſt had time enough to in⯑form them that the Dr.'s daughters are grown as fat as porpoiſes—nothing more is to be done but to pack up—recall the coachman who has juſt ſtep⯑ped back for one more draught of ale—to expreſs great ſatisfaction for the entertainment they have received—hope that the family will return the viſit as ſoon as poſſible, which will make them moſt inexpreſſibly happy, and lo! the laſt lagging footman is juſt come out to take his horſe.—Well—all ceremonies are now paſſed—and as they are ſafely out of hearing, it is high time to turn every thing into ri⯑dicule, [34] or to recount the miſeries of the day—‘"To think, ſays one lady, of all the trouble I had with my hair, and to ſee no more company—but that is always the caſe when⯑ever I am well dreſſed—the next time I declare I'll viſit in my night-cap."’—‘"Lord, ſays another, I knew very well what the viſit would turn out, and put on a laſt year's negligee on purpoſe—however, we have certainly been of uſe to them—we have aired their plate, reviewed their footmen, and thinned their poultry-yard."’—Thus the badneſs of the roads is be⯑guiled with low ſneers and petty de⯑traction, till the party congratulate one another on their ſafe return to their own home—for awhile they ſit moped—diſcontented—call for the [35] card-table, (one hates whiſt, and an⯑other abominates quadrille) are all kil⯑led with the fatigues of the day; but as home is of all places the worſt, a ſer⯑vant is immediately diſpatched to poor old lady Humdrum's, to acquaint her that they will do themſelves the honour of waiting upon her ladyſhip on the morrow.—Thus is life waſted without either profit or amuſement, and people preſume to thank their ſtars that they can lead uſeful and ra⯑tional lives, whilſt Mr. Pedant is po⯑ring over his books, and Mrs. Conſerve is employed in writing out new re⯑ceipts to preſerve apricots.

To Mr. Paulet.

MY time of late has been much taken up in aſſiſting the executors to ſettle Mr. Arlington's affairs—we now find that from the very advan⯑tageous ſale of the eſtate, after paying off all the debts, there will be ſome⯑thing left very conſiderable for his relations—a circumſtance which, could he have known, poor man! would have greatly contributed to have brightened up the evening of his days—but to wave this melancholy ſubject.

So ignorant, Charles, was I of the world, that I did not know it was one great inſtance of politeneſs to go up to town only juſt to come down again, [37] and that with ſuch rapidity, that a by-ſtander might fancy that the na⯑tional welfare depended on their ſpeed—We have now brought down with us, I aſſure you, as part of our retinue, a domeſtic chaplain, Mr. Pliant—ſo ſilken, ſo ſupple, and ſo complying, that I could almoſt fancy him to ſay to his patron—‘"Is it your pleaſure, ſir, to believe in God?"’—He is, I find on enquiry, a diſtant relation, and ſeems thoroughly broke in to the office he is to fill—yeſterday, as I was return⯑ing from my uſual ride, I met him, like Juſtice Overdo in the comedy, in queſt of enormities, and we really enjoyed a very pretty kind of a chit-chat, till at length ſome how or other I dropped out ſomething about ſervilities—‘"Servilities!" ſays he, "now I reckon [38] you think that I am forced to ſubmit to ſome ſervilities as you call them—no, ſir, let me tell you, my mode of life is perfectly agreeable to me—Mr. Maſſem keeps a good table, has the choiceſt liquors—and, though your country hereabouts to be ſure is dull enough, yet we have always company in the houſe to paſs away the time with—and as for buſineſs, I have nothing to do but to duſt the books—clean the bird-cages, and now and then make rebuſſes for the ladies—indeed if we had not ſome amuſe⯑ments amongſt ourſelves, it would be dull enough here, for I have been ſauntering about," ſays he, "for theſe two hours, and cannot meet with any one thing worthy the leaſt obſerv⯑ation"’—‘"Surely," ſays I, "ſir, nature, [39] to a mind capable of reflection like yours, every where preſents a fund of entertainment—to a man, who knows how to take a ride, this blade of graſs, or this declining hill af⯑fords an infinite ſcope for contem⯑plation—in this ſequeſtered ſcene me⯑thinks I could ſay with Shakeſpeare, that I " Find tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in ſtones, and good in every thing." but if this retired proſpect delights you not, I will return with you to the top of the hill, and preſent you with an object that may call forth all your attention—that is at once a cure for pride, and a lecture to am⯑bition; [40] that reminds philoſophy of its true end, and makes none but the ignorant tremble to behold it—it leads the languid to hope, allays the the thirſt of avarice, and places wealth on its true foundation—to you and me, ſir, it may be the vehicle to hap⯑pineſs; a car more triumphant than ever graced the conqueſts of a Caeſar, or an Alexander"’—‘"Good God! ſir", ſays my companion, "what can you mean?—I can ſee nothing but a HEARSE."’

In ſhort, Charles, as I found the preſent delighted him not, I thought it by no means unfair to raiſe his pro⯑ſpect to Futurity.

To Mr. Paulet, &c.

I Intended by to-day's poſt to have ſent you a ſtring of political reports, with ſome large extracts from ſpeeches ſaid to have been lately made in the houſe of commons; but, as I find the former are nothing but reports, and the latter, like dying confeſſions, were printed beforehand, I now ſit down with an abſolute determination to give you nothing but the truth.

The grand vehicle of buſineſs in this metropolis appears to me to be a Lie—it riſes in the morning with the watchman, bawling out—Half an hour paſt eleven o'clock, and accompanies the 'prentice home, who pulls out his [42] watch with great eagerneſs to con⯑vince his maſter that it has not yet ſtruck twelve—through the regions of darkneſs, its operations perhaps are better ſuppoſed than deſcribed, for it ſtands not unveiled in open day-light till it is circulated through the Strand by paragraphs, poſtcripts, letters, and advertiſements—fame, in the ſhape of a news-carrier, ſounding the trum⯑pet before it.—By its aid the tradeſ⯑man and his wife are enabled to drink their coffee, and by its aid the tradeſ⯑man and his wife are enabled to drink that coffee comfortably, for ſcandal, like irreligion, gives a reliſh to many enjoyments.—But now the whole city is in a ferment, for there its morn⯑ings are monopolized, and it is ex⯑changed and brokered about to greater [43] or leſs advantage from its different degrees of ſanctity in great wigs, and its more or leſs ſolemnity in city faces—indeed it is never a moment unemployed there but at dinner-time, when it ſteals away to meet the ſtateſ⯑man on his return from the gaming-table or the ſtews—with him it holds a levee, where it is decked in ſmiles and graces—(what it has loſt in weight it has gained in politeneſs)—and lends to expectation, even the confidence of ſucceſs—the veil indeed is never taken off, for the promiſer gives a hundred to ſtrengthen one, till time alone convinces you of the uncertainty of a future day—you now plead loudly for admittance, but to-morrow is called in to the juggler's aid, for this afternoon he is engaged to vote [44] againſt the Articles, and at night he muſt negociate with a Jew ere he dares to ſhow his face again before the waiter at Almack's—but his ſer⯑vants perhaps are town-bred, and are taught to deſcry want and neceſſity by intuition—Lying is their profeſſed ſcience, for what miſchiefs might not enſue if through ignorance a ſtranger ſhould be let in to ſee a patriot barter his integrity, or a fair one her reputation and her virtue—if miſ⯑takes like theſe ſhould ariſe, Honour muſt be called in as a ſafe-guard here, as Goodneſs is the ſecurity of the city—but the evening advances, and it is now ſold wholeſale at theatres, lecture⯑ſhops, and all other places of public diverſion—like Scrub, it may be ſaid to be of all profeſſions—‘"one day [45] it drives the coach, another it drives the plough, another it draws war⯑rants, and another it draws beer"’—it ſeems to be the deſideratum of the philoſopher, for it operates uni⯑verſally from the ſpeech that is ad⯑miniſtered at noon-day, to the dark ſlander that is only launching into whiſper-hood—the poet relies upon it for his dinner, and the politician for his pay—the divine—but hold—here it can be of no uſe except now and then to explain a text,—till it openly ſtands confeſſed, and by a nolo epiſcopari becomes a paſſport to a biſhoprick—in ſhort, where is it not of uſe, except in the uncontrouled intercourſe between a tender and in⯑dulgent father and an ever dutiful and affectionate ſon,

To Mr. Paulet, &c.

I Am ſo angry at your laſt letter, that I could almoſt reſolve not to write to you any more.—I told Miſs Maſſem ſome of your Remarks on Day-viſiting, and ſhe ſays that if you give into a way of being ſo ſevere, you will never be a favourite amongſt the ladies—beſides, brother, I re⯑ceive ſo many civilities from this fa⯑mily, that I ſhould tax myſelf with the height of ingratitude, if I en⯑deavoured to give you an opportu⯑nity of turning their foibles into ri⯑dicule—however, as I dare not truſt you with my own remarks, I have at my father's requeſt tranſcribed ſome of Mr. Arlington's, which I doubt [47] not but you will find both valuable and entertaining—the next opportu⯑nity he has of conveying a packet too large for the poſt, he will ſend you, according to promiſe, Strictures on Landſcape Gardening.

To Miſs Paulet.

IT would be one of the moſt melan⯑choly hours of my life if I could ſuppoſe myſelf capable of giving you any juſt grounds of offence—that you might not be caught with the glare of falſehood, inſtead of reality, I have ever endeavoured to give you all the caution in my power;—far would I be from debarring you of the leaſt plea⯑ſures that are reaſonable, but wiſh you only to be moderate in the purſuit of them—if caution of every kind comes not beſt from a brother, from whom can it come? He can have no intereſt but yours, nor any ſtruggle or competition, but who ſhall make moſt happy the tendereſt and moſt af⯑fectionate [62] of parents—but I will not ſuffer myſelf to ſuppoſe that you have ever felt the leaſt reſentment—on all ſubjects let me ſpeak the free ſenti⯑ments of my heart, as you muſt ever be convinced of my utmoſt ſincerity and affection.

P.S. Pray tell my father, that in his next I hope to receive his permiſſion for my going into Orders, that as ſoon as poſſible, I may alleviate the burden of thoſe expences, which have alrea⯑dy, I fear, fallen too heavy upon him.

To Mr. Paulet, &c.

I Received your laſt kind letter, and now ſit down to give you ſome lit⯑tle account of the jaunt I have juſt taken with my good friends into Derbyſhire.—My father, for a long time, was againſt my going, but Miſs Maſſem did every thing in her power to teaze him into it.—At Derby we ſaw the Silk mills, and what I liked much better the New aſſembly room, and the China manufactory, but we ſtaid there only a ſhort time, for there was a low family who found out Mr. Maſſem, and was exceedingly troubleſome and impertinent to him, ſo in the even⯑ing we went to Kedleſton, where we [64] had a very tolerable dance—next day we ſaw lord Scarſdale's, which is very fine to be ſure; but Miſs Maſſem found great fault with the furniture of the houſe, and Mr. Layout, who was with us, allowed no part of the garden ground to be diſpoſed in taſte—Mr. Maſſem admired nothing but the large pillars; and captain Glan⯑ville thought there was a great deal of idle money thrown away upon the library—as for myſelf, I liked every thing, but particularly the ſideboard—from Kedleſton we went to Mat⯑lock, which, if it was not for the com⯑pany, would, if poſſible, be ten times more diſmal than Marleſton—how⯑ever, we danced and went upon the water with muſic, and drank tea at the boat houſe, and, upon the whole, [65] paſſed our time very agreably—from thence we went to Chatſworth—it proved a moſt charming day, and we were all enraptured with the water⯑works—in ſome places, cataracts of water fall down ſtairs twenty yards deep, and in others the water is forced up into the air to the moſt incredible height, to ſay nothing of the artificial tree which would have ſprinkled us all over from its leaves, if it had not been out of order—from Chatſworth we went to Buxton, where we joined parties with lord Canvaſs and Dr. and Mrs. Grudgens—at firſt they took no notice of us, but as ſoon as they found out who Mr. Maſſem was, they were particularly complaiſant and ci⯑vil.—My lord is moſt exceedingly engaging—but Dr Grudgens talks of [66] nothing but eating and preferment—and then ſo ſuſpicious, that in a morning, when he played at all-fours with captain Glanville, if the hand was not out before the bell rung, he was ſure to keep the cards in his pock⯑et all the while he knelt down to ſay his prayers—indeed prayers here are merely made a farce of—for peo⯑ple laugh and whiſper the whole time—tho' it would not ſignify much if they did not, for what with the howl⯑ing of dogs, the bawling of footmen, and the giggling of ladies maids in the paſſages, it would be utterly im⯑poſſible to hear one ſyllable that the parſon ſaid—poor man!—I was really quite ſorry for him, and my father would have been abſolutely ſhocked, for the company had uſed to pay him [67] more or leſs, juſt as they won or loſt at cards—indeed I thought he ſeemed to have no advantage but that of ſay⯑ing grace at the head of the table, whilſt the ladies were fighting for the wings of the chickens.—But I muſt tell you one circumſtance that hap⯑pened about Mrs. Grudgens—one day ſhe was very buſy in carving an immenſe gooſe that ſtood before her, when captain Glanville deſired her next neighbour to help him to ſome apple pye—Mrs. Grudgens, with all the good nature in the world, came immediately out of the gooſe, and plunged directly into the pye—to be ſure ſhe was elbow-deep in ſage and onion—and the captain was ſo un⯑lucky, for he is a man of vaſt wit, as to ſet all the company into a loud laugh [68] by calling out—‘"For heaven's ſake madam ſtop—I aſked for apple pye—I did not mean a medley one."’

Whether you are at all entertained with my letter or not, you will ſee at leaſt that my reſentments are of no long continuance—and that I am as much as ever,

To Mr. Paulet, &c.

I Muſt ſtill think you too young to go into orders—I may be particu⯑lar in my notions perhaps—but I will chearfully ſtreighten my own circum⯑ſtances to approve my ſincerity.—It has been well obſerved, that [69] ‘"young men are apt to miſtake the completion of their academic courſes for the completion of their theologic ſtudies"’—a miſtake which inclines them to aſpire to teach others, ſeeing the rather, (as St. Paul expreſſes it) that they ought to be taught them⯑ſelves."—Thoſe who are appointed to explain the oracles of God, ſhould have attended to them moſt particu⯑larly—otherwiſe they may ſoon be caught in the deluſive ſnares of mo⯑dern infidelity, or wax old in the pernicious ſyſtem of not changing ‘"the poſture of defence, and of keeping to ſtrong holds."’—And I am ſorry to ob⯑ſerve, that true religion has nearly ſuffered as much from the one as from the other—Our Saviour, per⯑haps, has confined the practice of [70] our duty within the limits of his own ſermon on the mount; never⯑theleſs, as a divine, it will be requir⯑ed that you ſhould be able to give a rational account of the faith that is in you—a rational and a cautious one let it always be, for the Scrip⯑tures, in the hands of controvertiſts, have generally been wreſted to the moſt infamous purpoſes—each man inſiſting on that being irreligion, which was only not conſonant to his own prejudices.—St. Auguſtine, I know, aſſerts, that ^* ‘"when any enquiry is made, it is not neceſſary that you ſhould ſay any thing to the purpoſe, but well or ill that you ſhould al⯑ways keep talking"’—but none but [71] ſuch a ſaint would have ſaid it, and this very aſſertion with me would invalidate his whole authority.—In regard to ſtudying the Fathers in general, I can only ſay, that I hope they were ſincere, but by their ſtrange interpretations, (to ſay no worſe of them) they have opened a door to ri⯑dicule; and from their abſurdities, modern infidels have ſought occaſion to undermine the main fabrick of re⯑ligion itſelf. What can be ſaid in ex⯑cuſe for writers, where ſome endea⯑vour to prove that it was neceſ⯑ſary there ſhould be only ^† four evan⯑geliſts, becauſe there were only four elements, four climates, four cardinal [72] winds, and four cardinal virtues; and others^‡, that Chriſt could not aſcend to ſit at the right hand of God, for if he ſat at the right, God himſelf muſt ſit at the left."—Theſe are not merely the teſtimonies that Voltaire, Rouſſeau, or even Dr. Middleton, may bear againſt them, but the more certain teſtimony that they bear a⯑gainſt themſelves;—from what I have ſaid, therefore, think no ſcorn to trace the cauſes of their miſtakes, but by no means preſume to determine eſſentials on their fallacious authority. And let me require you never to raiſe ſcruples in the minds of well diſpoſed people, under the pretence of preach⯑ing againſt infidelity, for if your ar⯑guments [73] are ever ſo cogent, you can⯑not ſtrike at any great number, for very few infidels will ever be your hearers—and there is no ſuch thing as a Sect of Free-thinkers—it is juſt as ridiculous, as Dr. Bentley ob⯑ſerves^‖, as to talk of a rope of ſand.

And let me particularly enjoin you never to take up ill opinions of, or denounce againſt any man, merely on account of his ſect or party—for, as our Saviour ſays ‘"In his Father's houſe there are many manſions,"’ ſo I have no doubt but there are many ways that may lead to them.

Enthuſiaſm is the growth of a nar⯑row mind and a heated imagination, infidelity is the reſult of falſe reaſon⯑ing, [72] [...] [73] [...] [74] and a wicked biaſs—from the former we are empowered to believe ‘"a ſolid ſyſtem of old wives ſtories,"’ and from the latter, that, though the hiſtory be ever ſo authentic, we ought never to believe at all—what⯑ever may be their difference in an⯑other world, in this, they equally tend to gloom, madneſs, and deſpera⯑tion—by not calling in our reaſon, we debaſe the religion we profeſs, and by calling in too much, we are apt to invalidate faith, reject revelation, and then our minds will extravagate through all the wilds of error and abſurdity.

P.S. In regard to the preſent diſ⯑pute about the Articles, my own opi⯑nion is, that no other teſt ſhould be required than the Apoſtles Creed; but this opinion is not orthodox.

To Mr. Paulet, &c.

I Am juſt returned from Sadlers Wells, which does not only lower my idea of the times, but even of human nature—I do not ſo much re⯑flect on the entertainment itſelf as it is called, as on the cruel means that muſt have been made uſe of before the managers could have procured ſo dreadful an exhibition—whence can ariſe the pleaſure of ſeeing children ſuſpended in the air, or toſſed about [76] at the utmoſt hazard of their lives to gratify the avarice of unnatural parents? But indeed the country affords almoſt as ſtrong inſtances of cruelty, as town, for wreſtling, ſingle-ſtick, or even foot-ball, are never conſidered as di⯑verſions by the common people, but as attended with danger, miſchief, or blood-ſhed;—but in town, what ſhocks me moſt, is that continual flocking to executions—in the country, from the leſs frequency of them, even butchers weep, but here they are ac⯑counted the next diverſions to Sadlers Wells; and by uſe men can ſee a monkey dangling from a wire, or a fellow-creature expiring at the gal⯑lows with equal unconcern—how much care therefore ſhould be taken to inculcate the principles of humanity [77] in youth, a term which in general, I believe, is miſtaken for cowardice; how little care indeed is taken, even amongſt the higher ranks of people, who ſuffer their children unmercifully to treat the whole brute-creation, and then wonder that in time they be⯑come cruel enemies and undutiful children—they think not how early theſe inhuman principles are imbibed; they begin indeed in infancy only with torturing flies, but they end in de⯑lighting to view the moſt horrid murders of the inquiſition.

At other places of great reſort, a dog ſhows you what it is o'clock; bears dance minuets, and ſparrows country-dances; but ſuch exhibitions ought not to be allowed in a civi⯑lized country; for no valuable diſ⯑coveries [78] are likely to be made from them, that can any ways atone for the tortures which the birds or animals muſt experience in the training.

You find I am deſirous of ſeeing every thing once, and giving you my free thoughts as they flow, without ſtaying to marſhal them in any order. I return you my beſt thanks for the kind advice contained in your laſt—and wiſh to receive more hints on the ſame ſubject.

To Mr. Paulet, &c.

THE alterations already made at Marleſton are ſo great, that I hard⯑ly know my own village—Mr. Maſ⯑ſem every day makes purchaſes of ground, no matter at what expence, that Mr. Layout may at leaſt acknow⯑ledge he has ſcope enough for his invention. I hear of nothing but Obe⯑liſks, Statues, Gazebos, Terminations, and a Laurel-belt—they talk of taſte juſt as if it was to be brought down in a broad-wheeled waggon, and they had nothing to do but to ſcatter it at random—Mr. Layout thinks there ſhould be a clump, and there is one; the 'ſquire thinks it would look pretty [80] to cut a viſta through it, and it is cut; and his ſiſter thinks ſhe ſhould like a dairy-houſe near the ſpot, and ſhe builds it—ſo that at laſt it will be an Olio, a Chriſtmas Pie, a Solomon Gundy, or perhaps a Fool's Coat—I muſt own, it rather grieves me to find that the grove on the right hand, where the ruſtic ſeat was, with the motto of Hae latebrae dulces & ſi jam credis, amoenae, ſhould be condemned to be cut down, as well as the large one, which Mr. Arlington had uſed to call Shenſtone's Grove, for the urn to his memory was pret⯑tily executed, and the placing of the ſtatue of the Sibyl in front of it, which ſeemed to exclaim Procul O procul eſte profani! was in my opinion a very happy thought—however, they are all to be ſwept away, to make room, [81] as the 'ſquire informs me, for a fine Mercury with his quiver, and a Her⯑cules with his trident—I fear, ſome how or other, theſe Latin mottoes have called down vengeance on the groves themſelves, for I am ſure, that neither he nor his chaplain can conſtrue them—inſtead of theſe ve⯑nerable ſhades, a paltry ſhrubbery is to be planted, which is to be deco⯑rated (as the 'ſquire would ſay), ‘"with all the monſters of the internal world."’—By what I ſee of the in⯑tended alterations of the water, it is deſtined to take any courſe but its own, for the merit of every thing ſeems to conſiſt only in the ſum it is to coſt;—where the genius of the place is attended to, I am as much delighted as any man with modern [82] improvements—but where expence is only conſidered, or miſtaken as an⯑other name for real taſte, I feel ſo much diſguſt, that I turn away my eyes from falſe ornament, to con⯑template nature herſelf in a ſimple farm, unbroke-in upon by a Mr. Lay⯑out.

Mr. Maſſem has not only qualified himſelf to act as a Juſtice of the peace, but has likewiſe bought a ſeat in parlia⯑ment—from this latter acquiſition to his dignity, he will be enabled to do very little good or harm; but from the former, where ſome preparation is neceſſary, much miſchief may ac⯑crue to the neighbourhood, if he ſhould prove, as I fear will be the caſe, ‘"a law unto himſelf."’—indeed I am far from wiſhing to circum⯑ſcribe [83] the power of a juſtice, for very few are willing to act as it is with⯑out pecuniary advantages,—and this I partly attribute to the great en⯑creaſe of attornies—theſe ſinful men in the fleſh (as the Quakers call them) have ſtopped the free courſe of juſ⯑tice, and turned that food, which ought to have proved our nouriſh⯑ment and ſupport, into a diſeaſe.—What could be his motive for going into parliament (except the honour on't) I did not foreſee, but Miſs Maſſem informs me, that this will account for his civility in bowing to many of the ſhabby-looking people that he meets with in the ſtreets of London—he may now call them his conſtituents, but I believe in reality [84] they are no other than his own poor relations.

Oh! Charles, this Miſs Maſſem is, I fear, a woman of bad principles; and though ſhe is particularly kind and attentive to my daughter, yet I heartily wiſh the girl had never been introduced to her—ſhe is artful in her conduct, violent in her prejudices, and ‘"made up of paſſions."’—Her friends pretend to excuſe her by ſay⯑ing that ſhe cannot curb herſelf, and that ſhe is always the ſame before every body, but I ſhould be apt to add, except her brother, from whom ſhe has large expectations, ſo that you ſee the God of Wealth has infinitely more influence over her than the God of Heaven.

[85]There is a captain continually with her, whom I utterly deteſt; but of him more hereafter.

P.S. Mr. Maſſem has juſt been with me, and told me the price of his ſeat; and I agree with him that he has bought in very dear, for the ſtocks on that exchange are ſoon likely to fall.

All your letters give me pleaſure, ſo, pray, write as often as you can.

Your ſiſter joins in all love with your affectionate father,

To Mr. Paulet, &c.

MR. Maſſem's family intend to go to town immediately after Chriſt⯑mas, to ſtay only a very ſhort time, and they have been ſo kind as to offer to take me with them, and bear all my expences—this is a favour that I had no right in the world to expect from them; but, great as it is, I fear I ſhall not be able to accept it, unleſs you, brother, will be ſo good as to throw in your intereſt with my fa⯑ther—Miſs Maſſem has lain at him continually, but let her ſay what ſhe will, he ſeems to have no inclination but to mew me up at Marleſton—whenever I urge any thing of the [87] neceſſity of my ſeeing more of the world, he always ſays he does not wiſh it—that he had much rather ſee me married to a good man, than a great one, and I believe he is as like⯑ly to meet with the one as the other in this neighbourhood, unleſs he can perſuade poor old Dr. Snore to make an offer, or the ever amiable and charming maſter Patty Pipkin; but perhaps he aſpires ſo high as to think I may marry 'ſquire Homebrew'd, or Parſon Poacher—if I ſhould be honoured with the firſt, my employ⯑ment would be I ſuppoſe to make tea all day long to ſettle his ſtomach, and if I take the other, I ſhould be conſtantly engaged in packing up hampers of hares and partridges to ſend to town, to be exchanged by [88] his correſpondents for oyſters and brandy.—My father ſeriouſly, I be⯑lieve, means all for my good, but I am every day more and more con⯑vinced that his not knowing the world, will be my greateſt misfor⯑tune, for I am ſure Marleſtone is not the place, if a woman (as Miſs Maſ⯑ſem ſays) is intended to make the moſt of herſelf. In ſhort, brother, all my comfort this winter depends, upon you, for there is nobody elſe can perſuade my father if you can't; and you muſt have a poor opinion indeed of me, if you think both my ſafety and my prudence are at ſtake, becauſe I ſhall chance to breathe for a week or two the air of London.

Let me hope ſoon to feel the effects of ſuch a letter as you can write if [89] you pleaſe, which will ever confer a moſt laſting obligation on your af⯑fectionate ſiſter,

To Miſs Paulet, &c.

BY all the affection I bear you, let me entreat you not to urge this London journey too far—my father is convinced that it is abſolutely im⯑proper, or he never would deny you; and I think you could not enjoy pleaſures abroad that muſt be pur⯑chaſed with uneaſineſs at home—perhaps he wiſhes not to receive ſuch obligations, or perhaps he thinks that it will throw you into a mode of life [90] not calculated to promote your real happineſs—whatever are his objec⯑tions, I ſhould think his ſentiments ſhould be the rule of your conduct. In regard to ‘"women making the moſt of themſelves,"’ Miſs Maſſem has borrowed that idea from her brother, who has been uſed in India to make ſuch purchaſes at a public market; and indeed if the plan was as openly avowed here, in my mind it would make but very little difference—for what is running from plays to con⯑certs, from concerts to routs, and from routs to the Pantheon, but being equally expoſed to ſale at a public market—and what is the preparation to it but the vileſt proſtitution of time, reaſon, and tranquility—the mornings are paſſed in ſelecting orna⯑ments, [91] and the conqueſts of the even⯑ing depend on the ſkill of the hair⯑dreſſer in adjuſting them—how im⯑portant He is conſidered can only be known by ſeeing the diſappointment, vexation, and uneaſineſs that are oc⯑caſioned when, after two hours wait⯑ing, the fatal meſſage is brought, that he cannot poſſibly wait on the lady till next day—and what are the conqueſts after, all, that are to be made here—of men perhaps cha⯑grined at having loſt their laſt guinea, or of fops who have found out a new way to trim their frocks, or tye their neckloths—alas! theſe men are too much taken up with themſelves to be ſufficiently attentive to the ladies, and the Wiſe have long ſince known that, where a woman's darling paſſion [92] is Vanity, the firſt fruits of marriage can only be a Divorce.

I have been obliged to ſpeak out; but I make no apology, for I am cer⯑tain that your future welfare depends entirely on your preſent caution.

I am with more ſincerity than complaiſance,

To Mr. Paulet, &c.

ALL the diverſions I ſee here con⯑tribute to lower my reſpect for the public—whether the national ca⯑pacity is weakened, or whether the encreaſing numbers of the idle and the vain make it no longer neceſſary to conſult propriety in entertain⯑ments, I know not, but certain I am that the taſte of the town is as de⯑praved as its principles,

It was a complaint made, ſome years ago, that our Operas were diſ⯑graced with the loweſt inſipidity of compoſition and ſing-ſong, and that there was nothing to be admired but the mere tricks of the performers—this muſt always be the caſe in a nation where a fidler is more eſtimat⯑ed [94] than a compoſer; but now the times are ſo far altered, that neither the fidler nor the muſic are attended to at all—if the eye is pleaſed, the ear and underſtanding are ſuppoſed to be gratified of courſe.—Thoſe who chiefly frequent operas, gape out this part of the performance, and wake not till they are caught up with raptures at the unmeaning ſtrut of a celebrated Dancer.

Tranſlations of that miſerable dia⯑logue, which were heretofore thought only fit to be ſet to muſic, are now received at the theatres with the greateſt applauſe, under the appella⯑tion ^* of Comedy—bewilder only the attention with a quick ſucceſſion of [95] incidents, and Scotticiſms, French jar⯑gon, and Iriſh blunders, in ſhort, a Babel of languages are ſure to ſupply all deficiencies of wit and humour.

In regard to Tragedies—thoſe that I have ſeen are merely indebted to the quackery of a manager for their ſucceſs, indeed moſt of them appear to be made by the ſame receipt—the ingredients are a tyrant, a mar⯑riage, inceſt, murder, and a triumph: the poetry (once thought eſſential) now ſeems to make the leaſt part of the production—a ſcheme is laid be⯑tween a manager, a painter, an au⯑thor, and a ſcene-ſhifter to fabricate a new piece—the action muſt be laid in a part of the world that will beſt ſuit the ſcenery of the houſe; for, by a little dexterity in the painter, the [96] figure of a Coloſſus may be eaſily changed into an Egyptian idol;—the next ſtep is to conſult the ſtrength of the houſe, in regard to the per⯑formers—as there are no tolerable men, the lady muſt recite at leaſt half the play—they have an old man that can make a ſhift to whine out a ſmall part, a roaring tyrant, and a d—m your blood lover, and then the ſcene-ſhifters may ſupply the reſt—Whilſt the work is perfecting, the public is informed by the News-papers that a gentleman of diſtinguiſhed abilities (now abroad) will ſoon favour the town with a new tragedy—the firſt night of the performance the houſe is crowded in every corner of it (for mankind are not in queſt of what is good, but of any Haſh that they miſ⯑take [97] to be a new one)—the curtain riſes to ſoft muſic, the lady makes vows at the altar, the tyrant and his trumpets alarm her—ſhe faints, and is ordered to be married.—A hermit ſecretes her from the tyrant—diſcovers himſelf to be her father, the lover finds out the hermitage, and the ſe⯑cond acts ends with their embraces.—They muſt then embrace no more—he is her brother—ſhe flies from him to an altar, or a tomb, (this makes variety in the puppet-ſhow)—the ty⯑rant ſees her, and would abſolutely bear her off, but ſhe is reſcued by her brother.—In the fourth act her brother is ſeized by the tyrant's guards—is impriſoned—ſhe viſits him—the guards drag her from her bro⯑ther to the tyrant—he then reſolves [98] inſtantly to marry her—ſhe ſcreams, and the hermit burſts in, and pro⯑miſes to make an important diſcovery, if he will only delay the nuptials—the tyrant ſtill perſiſts—his guards ſeize the hermit—ſhe rages, prays, and goes mad—the noiſe encreaſes, and the theatre is drowned with tears.—Expectation is now big for the fifth act—what a ſcene of diſtreſs!—ſhe is abſolutely forced to the altar, but there, rather than marry the tyrant, the murderer of her race, ſhe re⯑covers her ſenſes, and murders him herſelf—the guards take no notice of the matter, and the houſe applauds her for near a quarter of an hour;—the hermit then declares that her lover is not her brother, but a young prince whom he has educated, and [99] therefore with great piety gives his bleſſing on their nuptials—all then is joy and exultation—and thus, agree⯑able to all the rules of Tragedy, ends this miſerable happy cataſtrophe.—Some half dozen in the theatre per⯑haps may be rather diſcontented, but to keep them in humour, a favourite actreſs takes off their attention from the play, by giving them the news of the town by way of epilogue.

This may not be the exact drama; but Sethona, which I have juſt now ſeen, is, if poſſible, much more ri⯑diculous and inconſiſtent.

P.S. The author of Sethona has ſacrificed his own better judgment in compliance with the taſte of the town—his tragedy of Zingis has infinite merit, and his Hiſtory of Hindoſtan intitles him to a high rank amongſt the learned and ingenious.

To Mr. Paulet, &c.

MR. Maſſem's family have been ſome time in town, and I begin to think it full as well that I am left behind; however, I ſhall always ſubmit my ſolicitudes to the prudence of my friends.—My father has been very kind in paying off all my ex⯑pences on my Derbyſhire tour, though Mr. Maſſem was very much againſt it; and he ſays, that as ſoon as ever he thinks it expedient, he will give me leave to take another journey—do not think ill of me for the over anxiety I have ſhown about this, but rather view me with an eye of [102] pity, for though I ſhare the caution of a father, and the affection of a brother, yet deprived of a mother's peculiar watchfulneſs and care, what am I but a poor unſheltered bark ex⯑poſed to every gale.

To Mr. Paulet, &c.

ACCORDING to your deſire I ſhall now endeavour to point out to you ſome Minutiae, as they are called, which may ſerve as proper hints, before you go into Holy Or⯑ders—Minutiae, which not being ſuf⯑ficiently attended to, always confirm me in the opinion that a miniſter is either ignorant of, or indifferent to the ſervice he is to perform.—By the Rubrick, before the Common Prayer of the 2d of Edw. VI. it was ordered that the prieſt being in the quire (that is, in his own ſeat there) ſhould begin with the Lord's Prayer; but early in the reign of queen Elizabeth, [104] reading deſks were ſet up in the body of the church, and then the Sen⯑tences, Exhortation, Confeſſion, and Abſolution were generally introduced^‡—in regard to the Sentences, I ſhall only obſerve that any of them are proper, but if you begin with ‘"If we ſay that we have no ſin, we de⯑ceive ourſelves, and the truth is not in us, but if we confeſs our ſins, He, &c."’—you muſt here ſupply the word God, for He has no reference. The exhortation, which muſt be read with dignity and earneſtneſs, ſhould cloſe I think at ‘"heavenly Grace,"’ and the words ‘"ſaying after me,"’ ſhould be pronounced as you are kneeling down.—The abſolution [105] ſhould not be given, as I have fre⯑quently heard it, as if the miniſter had power to forgive ſins, but the voice muſt be carefully kept up till you come to ‘"He pardoneth and for⯑giveth," &c.’—The Venite, which muſt now be conſidered as another exhor⯑tation, was formerly uſed to haſten people into church, and Durandus, I think, mentions that ſome lazy Chriſtians had always uſed to lie in bed till they heard the Venite ſung.—The Pſalms ^* have been objected to [106] by many, as being compoſed for par⯑ticular occaſions, and not general enough in their uſe, but they con⯑tain ſuch energy, ſuch ſimplicity and elegance, that the fineſt fervour of devotion muſt be borrowed from them—the ſtops you know are calcu⯑lated for the chaunt, and much ab⯑ſurdity [107] will ariſe if you do not mi⯑nutely conſider the ſenſe, and keep up your voice at the end of thoſe verſes where the ſentence is not com⯑plete—nor is this all—the manner muſt be particularly attended to—a penitential Pſalm ſhould be read very differently from that of an exulta⯑tion;—in regard to the leſſons, there is a ſtill greater ſcope—the manner of reading them, ſhould be as va⯑rious as the matter; for what can be more oppoſite than the commands of Pharaoh, and the ſupplication of Ju⯑dah—this is ſcarce ever attended to; for moſt divines, I am ſorry to ſay, read even the threatnings of Goliah with the meek voice of David—the New Teſtament demands that in the goſpel you ſhould plainly recite a [108] narrative—in the fifteenth of Corin⯑thians, that you ſhould triumph in your redemption.—In the Belief, I confeſs, that I am much hurt that moſt congregations ſhould bow at the name of Jeſus, and not at that of God the Father—this—if it has any meaning, exalts the Son above the Father, which is unneceſſary in a Pro⯑teſtant country—but the cuſtom has crept in from taking a text in St. Paul in the literal ſenſe ‘"at the name of Jeſus every knee ſhall bow," &c.’—Then follow the Collects—and here I muſt particularly take notice of that on Advent Sunday, which I hope you can repeat with the pro⯑priety it deſerves—when you come to that paſſage ‘"that at the laſt day, when He ſhall come again in his [109] glorious Majeſty," &c.’ your own feelings will prompt you to throw in a ſuitable degree of ſolemnity—weigh the whole of it, I entreat you, for it is one of the fineſt models of petitionary compoſition.—When the Order for Morning and Evening Ser⯑vice began with the Lord's Prayer, it ended with the third Collect for Grace—the Litany was then a ſepa⯑rate ſervice, and I could almoſt wiſh that it had either remained ſo, or that more prayers were omitted on thoſe days that it is appointed to be read—the recital of it however requires particular attention—oh! how fre⯑quently has it offended both my ear and underſtanding when a miniſter has made a full ſtop at ‘"all uncha⯑ritableneſs,"’ as if he had no need to be [110] delivered from it."—In regard to the Communion Service, I ſhall at preſent only obſerve, that you ſhould not give the Commandments from the altar—this is making the old law of more weight than the new—the code to be amended more ſacred than the law explained—in ſhort, if it muſt be read at all, it ſhould be read at the beginning, not at the end; but I need not inform you that this likewiſe was originally a ſeparate ſervice. Theſe are the chief remarks which imme⯑diately occur, and which being weigh⯑ed, may add propriety to the fervency of your devotion—the ſubject will improve upon you by attention, for though I am not ſo zealous as ſome di⯑vines who aſſert that our ſervice is perfect in the beauty of holineſs, yet [111] I am fully convinced, that upon the whole it is a reaſonable and a holy ſervice^‡.—In regard to ſermons, let me aſk you the following queſtions—have you ſtudied Dr. Jeremy Tay⯑lor for matter and not for ſtyle? have you read Dr. Clarke for fine ar⯑guments and nice diſtinctions—Sher⯑lock for ſtrength and perſuaſion^*, [112] and Jortin for plain reaſon, and ſober ſenſe—have you felt the ſublimity of Warburton^†, and admired the con⯑ciſe [113] elegance of Hurd?—You can anſwer, I hope, all theſe queſtions in the affirmative—let me then adviſe you to buy all the ſermons that Man⯑waring has ever publiſhed—would his pamphlets were folios! but for more common uſe attend to—ſtudy Bour⯑dalone—the length of your diſcourſes ſhould not exceed twenty minutes (few hearers can keep up their atten⯑tion ſo long), but ſhould you be dull, heavy, uninſtructive, nay I will ſay unentertaining, half that time will be eſtimated an hour—a good ſermon, delivered with propriety and earneſt⯑neſs, always attracts—even the infidel keeps his ſnuff-box in his pocket, and the ladies are ſilent about their fans; but once loſe their attention, the whole air diſtils the dews of Mor⯑pheus, [114] the 'prentice recollects his Sa⯑turday's fatigue, and his miſtreſs is forced to pinch her huſband to pre⯑vent a ſnore—in ſhort, though I hate both, I think volatile eſſence is a better ingredient in a ſermon than a down⯑right opiate.—But what ſubjects muſt; you chooſe for diſcourſes?—here I ſhould heſitate—by no means intro⯑duce party—never preach at any body; this is the fruit of private reſentment, not of Chriſtian zeal—don't pretend to expound very difficult texts—ex⯑poſitions of this kind become the preſs better than the pulpit—ſuch diſquiſitions ſhould be read, not heard—addreſs the ſenſes and the heart—quote not chapter and verſe, but give the ſubſtance, and, if you could, the manner of St. Paul; for I am con⯑vinced [115] that he preached not like—or—but like Hinchliffe, Porteus, or Hurd;—now and then take ſubjects from the Bible, but moſt frequently from the New Teſtament; a good comment on any ſentence in our Sa⯑viour's ſermon on the mount is of it⯑ſelf a full diſcourſe, but you may make excurſions—I have read ex⯑cellent diſcourſes againſt gaming, and very lately a moſt uſeful ſermon againſt inhumanity to brutes. But where are you to preach?—by no means for a conſtancy in a village, where your principal auditors will be only a few overgrown farmers^*—it [116] is ſcarce poſſible to do much good amongſt them—they will not regard you for your reaſoning, but for your revenue; and I declare I would al⯑moſt as willingly ſee you tranſported to live amongſt the New Zealanders, as (after the education I have given you) that you ſhould fall at laſt a dupe to groſs ignorance and low con⯑ceit—the ſoldier is brave, and the ſailor is generous—the mechanic in the courſe of his traffic has had op⯑portunities of enlarging his ideas; but the farmer having never burſt the web, thinks himſelf as wiſe as the pariſh clerk, who is convinced of his own omniſcience, becauſe he has never met with any one but the parſon to tell him the contrary—I allow that I ſpeak here with ſome degree of acri⯑mony, [117] but I am clearly convinced that theſe men have greatly augment⯑ed the diſtreſſes of the inferior clergy, and it is chiefly owing to them, in conjunction with attornies, that there is ſo much ‘"leading into captivity, and ſuch complaining in our ſtreets."’—Theſe are the only men about us, my dear Charles, who have ſhown neither gratitude nor affection to the memory of poor Mr. Arlington, yet are ready on every occaſion to bow the knee moſt ſervilely to the Na⯑bob.—This brings on melancholy re⯑flections: adieu for the preſent, and believe me ever

P.S. Let me give you one more caution in regard to ſermons—never introduce any thing ludicrous in them—it may be called preaching in the manner of South or Sterne, but it is a bad manner, and I pray you avoid it—Atterbury has frequently diſguſted me beyond meaſure with vulgar alluſions; and even the biſhop of Glouceſter, when he talks of Ho⯑cus Pocus tricks, in a ſermon on the reſurrection.

To the Rev. Mr. Paulet.

I Cannot forbear ſending you my earlieſt acknowledgements for your kind remarks—I will give them, at leaſt, all the attention they deſerve.

I have not only ſeen your neigh⯑bour, Mr. Maſſem, but have heard him ſpeak in the houſe of commons on the bookſellers petition—he enlarged on the nearneſs and dearneſs of pro⯑perty in general—‘"that it was for that only that men had been enabled to riſque every thing that was valu⯑able to them in this life—that he thought authors were a very perni⯑cious race of men; that they cauſed all that abuſe on men of property that [120] appeared ſo frequently in the news⯑papers, and that the bookſellers were a pack of bloodhounds that ſet them on; that he therefore hoped neither of them would have any relief under this here bill—that he thoroughly un⯑derſtood this particular kind of pro⯑perty; he had weighed it, and viewed it in every light, and was fully con⯑vinced that the whole was merely a diſpute between the ſtatute law and the common law of the land; for his own part, therefore, he ſhould al⯑ways be for the former."’—He ſpoke long and with great confidence, and was much better heard on the ſubject of property, than either a Burke or a Barré would have been, had the weight and circulation of it been materially engaged againſt them.

[121]I write with a rapid pen, which you muſt excuſe, &c.

To Mr. Paulet.

I Was in hopes to have found more Remarks of Mr. Arlington's on Gardening, &c. than I am at preſent able to ſend you—he evidently in⯑tended to have ſaid more on Archi⯑tecture, which is abſolutely neceſſary likewiſe to be thoroughly underſtood by the complete Maſter of modern Deſign.

From theſe papers you will ſee what notions the ancients held of [122] gardening in general; but ſhould you ever wiſh to dive into further parti⯑culars, I will ſhew you a moſt cu⯑rious book on that ſubject, which I have by me; the title of it is Stengel de Horto—mine is the ſecond edition, printed in 1650.—There are a thou⯑ſand different receipts to make para⯑diſes; and his account of the gardens in Italy will much divert you: indeed I ſuſpect that the Italian gardens are not much improved ſince the days of Phflaumeren.—In regard to the French gardens, you may look over a book entitled Voyage Pittoreſque des Environs des Paris, par M. D. . . He be⯑gins, as you would ſuppoſe a French⯑man to begin, with ſaying, ‘"Ce n'eſt point un paradoxe, d'avancer que les plus beaux jardins de l'Eu⯑rope [123] ſont ceux de France."’—I was ſurpriſed to find in Maundrell's Travels, that there was ſo much ge⯑nuine taſte amongſt the Turks.

Since lord Kamis and Mr. Shen⯑ſtone publiſhed their Remarks, there has appeared a little Eſſay on Deſign in Gardening, by a gentleman of the Temple, and an octavo volume of Ob⯑ſervations, written by Mr. Wh—ley; both of them books of merit, but the latter, I think, is too full of technical terms for a novice to en⯑gage in.

Mr. Arlington differs in opinion from Mr. Maſon, in regard to ave⯑nues—this is combating great au⯑thority, but if I was to decide, I ſhould be ſo old-faſhioned as to give my verdict againſt the poet. But [124] you will ſay, what is all this to me, who perhaps may never have ten acres of ground in my poſſeſſion, or ever cultivate any thing better than potatoes or cabbages—this may be very true, but I would be equally able to feel, and to make proper re⯑marks, and to exclaim in the words of Goldſmith, that lawns, lakes, towns, fields, and woods

To the Rev. Mr. Paulet.

I Have of late forborne to give you any account of my pupil, as I could not give you a very favourable one—he is permitted by his uncle to ſit up ſo late over-night, that he is generally unfit for buſineſs all the next day.—A circumſtance has lately happened that has given me much uneaſineſs, though I believe I had more reaſon to be concerned for his principles than his ſafety;—a diſpute aroſe the other evening (at cards I ſuſpect), and words ran ſo high, that it was at length agreed to decide the important mat⯑ter by ſingle combat—the heroes met in form at the appointed time—their [147] piſtols miſſed fire, and the ſeconds interpoſed,—and there it ended;—this, however, with the initials of their names—in couched terms—with diſ⯑tant obſervations—and ſhort inuen⯑does, makes out a very pompous pa⯑ragraph for the news-papers.—I have often, in my own mind, attributed the great encreaſe of duelling to the accounts that are there inſerted—of this I am certain, it is one cauſe at leaſt, if not a principal one; but duelling will always be practiſed in every country ‘"where the dread of ſhame is greater than the love of glory"’—for inſtance, now we read that ‘"a great diſpute happened the other day at a certain great aſſem⯑bly" (the Robinhood perhaps, or the Sixpenny Pantheon) "which was [148] determined to be decided by ſingle combat—on the day appointed Mr. A— met captain B—, Mr. D— was ſecond to Mr. A—, and captain G— was ſecond to captain B—; Mr. A— received the firſt fire, and aſked captain B— if he would then aſk pardon, who roughly an⯑ſwered—no; his honour forbad him;—then ſaid Mr. A— I muſt fire, though it will give me the moſt inex⯑preſſible concern to rob the public of ſo gallant and ſo reſpectable a charac⯑ter—on which he preſented his piſtol, pulled the trigger, and the ball gra⯑zed captain B—'s ſhoulder-knot, who inſtantly fell to the ground—the ſeconds interpoſed, and Mr. A— called to a ſurgeon who ſtood at a ſmall diſtance to aſſiſt captain B—, [149] who was immediately carried home in a chair."’—Then comes ‘"We hear that the amiable Miſs C— was ſo alarmed at captain B—'s danger" (ſhe did not know, we preſume, at what diſ⯑tance they were to fire) "that ſhe lay in fits the whole day, and her life is even now deſpaired of,—captain B—'s miſery on this occaſion is ea⯑ſier to be conceived than expreſſed, but he was conſcious that a man deſ⯑titute of honour muſt be totally un⯑worthy of Miſs C—'s love."’—Let your barber only read all this, and he ſleeps not till he makes himſelf conſpicuous.

Accept my beſt thanks for the gar⯑dening papers, which I have juſt re⯑ceived—will write again ſoon—in the mean time, believe me, &c.

To the Rev. Mr. Paulet.

MY ſituation is every day more and more diſagreeable to me,—my pupil has formed connections that will ruin his peace, and deſtroy my ſatisfaction,—his fortune is come too ſoon, and there are vulturs that al⯑ready make a prey of him;—his un⯑cle ſays he diſapproves of Gaming, but is for ever ſpeaking reſpectfully of the moſt abandoned characters of the times; and the young man is taught in the world, that to diſcharge any debts, but thoſe of honour, is mecha⯑nical,—to regard money is below a man of rank, when ſo many men without any can cut ſo great a figure; [151] —it is not, I find, till men have play⯑ed deep that they know the reſources—then they can borrow money, and get great names to be bound with them; if one does not pay, another muſt,—but if none can?—they muſt bilk their creditors by going abroad, unleſs ſome lady of great fortune will in the mean time make herſelf happy by marrying a man of faſhion and of the world.—This year then the whole ſet are again eſtabliſhed, they contract new debts, and find out new fools to become ſecurity for the payment of them.—Whilſt our nobility and gen⯑try are thus ſquandering away their eſtates, what wonder is it that nego⯑ciators and attorneys are purchaſing all the principal ſeats about London—their incomes are made great by [152] annuities, and their principal is eſta⯑bliſhed by premiums—theſe uſurers (if they have not the impudence to take ſeats in parliament themſelves, can nevertheleſs carry on the ſale of boroughs for their dependents; and young men thus ſeduced, are gene⯑rally compelled to barter their deareſt intereſts to gain petty places in the exciſe, perhaps at the foot of the trea⯑ſury-board, that they may ſatisfy the rapacious demands of an uſurer's clerk.—Intereſt in the Houſe ariſes from connections at Arthur's; and popu⯑larity is gained in the world from the clerk's brother being a writer in the news—every day new fools admire, and new fools are every day admitted to be plundered.

[153]My pupil, alas! is already a melan⯑choly inſtance of a ſlaviſh ſubjection to the tyranny of faſhion, and will ſoon be irrevocably plunged into the deep and deſperate gulph of ga⯑ming—laſt night, however, he gave me at leaſt a ſerious hearing, but inform⯑ed me that it was utterly impoſſible that I ſhould know any thing of life or of the world—‘"Gaming," ſays he, "is as neceſſary a qualification for a young man of faſhion as dreſs, danc⯑ing, fencing, or a knowledge of mo⯑dern languages—it is practiſed uni⯑verſally abroad; and play here at a high ſtake is not only an introduction, but become the only key of admit⯑tance into moſt of the beſt companies;—how would Sir John Rouleau have ever got a ſeat in parliament, if he [154] had not made a good acquaintance at Arthur's or Newmarket?—theſe are the only ſchools of advancement; and thoſe fortunes," ſays he, "which you call loſt, are only transferred for a night or two into other hands—beſides, if they never return, the Great can eaſily make other compen⯑ſations; and where is the difference between receiving a large income from a place, or from dirty farms, except that the former is here conſidered as the more honourable—thoſe who va⯑lue the latter only, can never be re⯑ceived into company at all, except at county-meetings or race-balls; and then they are only admitted like par⯑ſons, to laugh at bad jokes, or dance with ugly partners."’—All this may be very true, but I am yet to be con⯑vinced [155] that it is neceſſary to become a man of faſhion, if the title muſt be purchaſed at the expence of peace, virtue, honour and religion; how⯑ever, no reply can be made to argu⯑ments which have no ‘"weak ſide"’ of reaſon to be attacked upon; but of this I am certain, that ſuch principles every day encreaſe in the kingdom, and in a ſhort time, I fear, will over⯑whelm it.

You will, moſt probably, receive my next from Bath,—on my return from thence, I intend to leave my pu⯑pil and go into orders.

To Mr. Charles Paulet, &c.

I Shoot this letter at random—if you have left town for Bath, it will only for a while delay ſome uneaſi⯑neſs.—Glanville, I had been inform⯑ed, [157] had taken ſuch liberties with your ſiſter, that I was determined to intercept a letter which I ſuppoſed to have come from him—it proved to be the encloſed, which I ſend for your peruſal; in the mean time, I have made no other comment but to for⯑bid my daughter from ever having any more connections with that fa⯑mily.—You will ſee the uſe that is made of Lord Cheſterfield's Letters, which I have read,—his mind, poor man! was a fine flower-garden, over-run with weeds—but he is dead—Mr. Stanhope is likewiſe dead—they are both dead—to meditate on Death is to paſs the ſevereſt cenſure on thoſe epiſtles—had he reflected on Death as frequently as on the ‘"Graces,"’ he would not, I think, have taught his [158] ſon that ‘"to diſſemble"’ was to pre⯑pare for it.—But read the encloſed.

(From Miſs Maſſem to Miſs Paulet.)

AFTER you left us laſt night, you cannot think how captain Glan⯑ville laughed at your notions of ever⯑laſting conſtancy; and that if once you had given your affections, you was ſure they could never be alienat⯑ed;—do you know that he ſwears no woman's affections ever yet ſerved a regular apprenticeſhip, and that you have arts and graces enough to make [159] any man wind about and ſerpentine juſt as you pleaſe.—Apropos—you muſt read Lord Cheſterfield's Letters, which I will ſend you,—his advice to his ſon in regard to the world, will hold exactly right as to any woman's management of a huſband;—he ſays very juſtly ‘"that becauſe man is a rational animal, you muſt not ſup⯑poſe, therefore, that he always acts rationally; you muſt watch his weak, unguarded moments, get into his ſe⯑crets, engage his heart, and you will eaſily dupe his underſtanding."’—Diſſi⯑mulation is the virtue of the Great, and as you will ſee from theſe excel⯑lent books, the men not only practiſe it, but profeſs it as a ſcience; how then ſhall we be able to cope with them, if we do not fight with as good [160] weapons, and play off their own arts againſt themſelves?—Now, for in⯑ſtance, ſuppoſe you was to marry an old bachelor—I think you might overthrow all his little ſyſtems in a fortnight—to be ſure, at times, he would be reſtive and croſs, but then you muſt ſuppoſe he never ſpeaks his real ſentiments; and at others he will quietly enough return to his ſhackles—this is what Mr. Pope means by

Why ſhould ſhe ſhow it? for her time to take advantage is only when alone; before company ſhe muſt al⯑ways acquieſce, or the world will not be of her ſide; and, as Lord Cheſter⯑field [161] ſays, the world is always the dupe of deceit; and it is, therefore, much better to ſeem than to be."—I knew a lady that adopted this mode of conduct exactly, and was very ſuc⯑ceſsful,—to be ſure, the man was very miſerable, and at laſt, I believe, died of a broken heart; but the world, to this day, are almoſt unanimouſly agreed, that ſhe undoubtedly made him one of the very Beſt of Wives.

For the future, leave all your let⯑ters at Mary Cuttle's, and I ſhall be ſure to receive them ſafe.

[162]But, my deareſt Suſy, I muſt of all things caution you againſt marry⯑ing a Wit—it is a noxious ſeeing ani⯑mal, againſt whom you may play off a whole battery of Tears, Oaths, Sighs, and Proteſtations, to no effect.—As to money, you muſt be an oeco⯑nomiſt in his pleaſures, if you mean to be extravagant in your own.

To the Rev. Mr. Paulet.

I Have now been near a week at Bath with my pupil—we lodge at the new hotel, called York houſe, which is very commodious—indeed more ſo, I think, than the noble one juſt fitted [...] in Covent-Garden, as there are [163] more conveniencies under the ſame roof.—You have heard ſo much of the neatneſs and regularity of the build⯑ings here, that it is unneceſſary for me to expatiate upon them—the Cir⯑cus and ſouth front of the Square are beautiful beyond deſcription; but I cannot approve the Creſcent, though I muſt confeſs I never ſaw any build⯑ing (where ſo many rules of architec⯑ture were violated) that altogether looked ſo well.—To deſcribe the man⯑ners and faſhions here, would be far beyond my art, though they have many peculiar to themſelves—as in town, people quarrel for places and preferments, and where ſome great prize is held up to the aſpirants; ſo here, for want of better employment, they have been abſolutely compelled [164] to quarrel for nothing at all—not whether one man ſhould have more popularity or higher diſtinction than another, but whether he ſhould go up the hill or down to dance his mi⯑nuet; and whether the important place of maſter of the ceremonies ſhould be filled by a native of Ireland or England—nay, to ſo great a degree has this faſhion of quarrelling for no⯑thing prevailed amongſt the fair ſex, that, not content merely with the war of the tongue, they have even deſ⯑cended to blows—this can be attri⯑buted to nothing but the extraordi⯑nary Fermentation of the waters.

The numberleſs evils to which man⯑kind are always by neceſſity expoſed, ſhould make them, one would think, at all times endeavour to unite in [165] bands of mutual harmony, and here eſpecially, where ſo many are in a perpetual ſtate of ſuffering—yet here, from mere faſhion, the ſtrangeſt infa⯑tuation prevails, even amongſt inva⯑lids, who fly as far as poſſible from the baths and the ſhelter of the lower town, to brave the turbulency of the mountains;—the buildings are now extended ſo far, that, as the Iriſhman would ſay, ‘"Bath is run away from itſelf, it is abſolutely gone out of its own town;"’ and it may do very well for the healthful to follow it, but ſure it is the greateſt abſurdity in the world that invalids ſhould fly as far as poſſible from ſhelter, and from all thoſe advantages for which Bath is ſo peculiarly and ſo juſtly celebrated.

[166]The waters (if you believe the Apo⯑thecaries) are ſpecifics for all diſor⯑ders; there is only one that you can poſſibly die of, which is Obſtinacy—this becomes incurable from not tak⯑ing advice enough about the uſe of them, when preſent, or by removing from the benefit of them too ſoon—it is true, lady Skinandbone has been coughing up her lungs here theſe two years, but would certainly have re⯑covered, had ſhe not obſtinately refuſed to ſtay one fortnight longer; and my lord Laſtlegs would abſolutely have relinquiſhed his crutches in a few days more, and hung them up in the pump-room as the moſt memo⯑rable trophies in it—had he not obſti⯑nately reſolved to change theſe ever efficacious waters for thoſe of Briſtol.

[167]In regard to the diverſions, there is a play-houſe here, where the actors (excluſive of Garrick) are in general full as good as thoſe in town—in tra⯑gedy they do not always ſpeak with ‘"a good accent and good diſcretion,"’ but I have ſeen ſome characters in comedy really ſupported with great humour and propriety.—The new rooms are elegantly fitted up, and may be better calculated, perhaps, than any others for the purpoſes of dancing and gaming; but as I never partake of the latter, and not very frequently of the former, they afford me but little or no entertainment—for an evening or two I might have been delighted with the ſplendor of the appearance, but ſoon, (as ſome one expreſſes it)

In ſhort, if I was obliged to give you my opinion of Bath, I ſhould define it to be a place, in which though life, perhaps, may not be paſſed moſt uſe⯑fully, it may, nevertheleſs, be waſted agreeably—amongſt wanton widows, and debauched wives, forſaken Iriſh⯑men, and forſaking men of quality.

This place is ſo fertile of anecdote, that I could ſend you volumes from it inſtead of epiſtles.

P.S. There is a literary ſociety eſta⯑bliſhed near Bath by a ſet of gentle⯑men and ladies where many im⯑provements [169] are made on the prizes that were diſtributed by the ancients—inſtead of the bay they give jeſſa⯑mine, and inſtead of laurels artificial noſegays—I have not ſeen any of the literary productions, but hear there will ſoon be publiſhed a moſt excel⯑lent didactic poem on the beautiful arch of lady Horatia Pedant's auburn eye brow.

To Mr. Paulet.

THIS morning put a period to all my happineſs—your ſiſter—your loſt unhappy ſiſter is fled with Glan⯑ville!—The care, the affection that I [170] have ever ſhewn for her—all the prin⯑ciples of virtue and religion that I have ever endeavoured to inculcate, have availed her nothing, and ſhe is fled at laſt with Glanville.—From her infancy I have laboured to prove my⯑ſelf a kind and indulgent father; and now when I meant to reap the har⯑veſt of my toil—behold, this is my reward!—but I myſelf have been the cauſe—I have given up too far,—but as ſhe had loſt her mother, and my notions of life were ſuppoſed to be too contracted, the opinions of others have weighed againſt me, and I have relaxed my own principles to her ruin.—I have got ſo far on my road to town, but can hear no tidings which way they took—nor is it needful for me to inquire—I am rather flying [171] from myſelf than in purſuit of her—ſhe is for ever loſt—ſhe's ruined—ſhe fled, alas! with Glanville.—Had his intentions been honourable, whence this ſecrecy?—but nothing can excul⯑pate her—ſhe knew the depth of mi⯑ſery into which I ſhould be plunged, and, had ſhe thought of marriage, would have ſaved my deſperation.—Glanville would not marry her—he owns no ties of either honeſty or ho⯑nour—he could violate all engage⯑ments (if he made any) and the infa⯑tuated world would call it Gallantry.—All her principles were polluted—ſhe was deaf to ſhame, as well as virtue, who could dare to triumph thus over the weakneſs of a father's heart.—Delay not, my ſon, to ſeek—to inquire—to upbraid—it is too late, alas! to [172] recall,—and ſhould chance or fortune caſt her in your way—reproach her with her infamy—tell her that ſhe has violated her duty to herſelf—to me—and if there needs an aggravation of her crime—to her God—that no pe⯑nance can obliterate the ſtain—that ſhe has pulled down ruin on herſelf and on her father, and that his tears will be drops of vengeance on her head for ever:—tell her—no, no, this may be too harſh,—tell her only that if ſhe would return—I could forgive her.

I Have now no hopes of ſeeing you before I leave town, for I have at laſt got ſome faint intelligence of your ſiſter, and ſhall ſet off immediately for Dover—ſhould ſhe have ſet ſail (for I hear he is carrying her to France) I ſhall then relinquiſh all purſuit, and leave her to the protection of that power that can amend her heart, and aſſuage my ſorrows—when you per⯑ceive me thus torn and diſtracted with my grief, harbour not a thought that your ſiſter was ever dearer to me than yourſelf—ſhe is loſt—and now awak⯑ens all my anxiety, ‘"but thou art ever with me, and all that I have is thine."’

LET thoſe only talk of bearing up againſt afflictions, who have never felt them—there may be ſuch ſitua⯑tions that no principles can fortify the mind againſt, and under which the greateſt and the beſt muſt ever fall—into ſuch a one is your unhappy fa⯑ther plunged.—I purſued my journey ſo much faſter than I expected, (for man neither knows his weakneſs nor his ſtrength) that I thought by night I ſhould even reach Dover, but gain⯑ing no tidings, I began to ſink under my fatigue, and to hope only from time for that aid which philoſophy could not afford me.—As I was paſſ⯑ing through a ſmall village, I ſaw all the people running out with unfeel⯑ing [175] curioſity after a poor wretch, who they told me was falling into labour—the officers, I found, were perſecu⯑ting her, to ſave expences, to the next pariſh, and had refuſed her not only harbour, but relief—no ſituation can diſpenſe with our humanity—I deter⯑mined, therefore, to allot ſome few ſhillings to ſuccour, at leaſt, if not to ſave this victim of diſtreſs;—as I came nearer the rabble ſtopped, and, for a while, I even forgot my own miſeries to contemplate hers—I in⯑veighed againſt their cruelty in the bittereſt terms—broke through the crowd, and inſiſted on their affording her ſome relief—they told me ‘"there was no occaſion, for the woman en⯑treated only for to die"’—I demanded that they ſhould convey her to the [176] next ale-houſe,—that I would leave my watch—my money;—my aid to carry her into it, alas! I was unable to give, for ſhe was now from agonies, become an object too ſhocking for humanity to behold;—I was, at length, reſponſible for her charges, and the crowd were indifferent to her diſtreſs.—As ſoon as they had borne her in, I entreated her to take comfort—be⯑wailed her miſeries—aſſured her, that if either by leaving my watch or ſome money, I could procure her cordial medicine or aſſiſtance, I would relieve her—ſhe looked up wiſtfully in my face, and told me ſhe wiſhed me only to forgive.—Think, my deareſt Charles, what muſt be my feelings, when I found this object of miſery to be no other than my poor unhap⯑py [177] daughter, whom that villain Glan⯑ville had thus baſely deſerted—for a while, I fear, I was unable to yield that aſſiſtance as a father, that ſhe would have found from me as a friend;—but recovering my tranquillity—I aſſured her that all reſentments were loſt in her diſtreſs; that I had even forgot ſhe had offended me, and that if ſhe could recover—‘"Alas! ſays ſhe, it is now too late, for I have languiſh⯑ed whole days from want—without friend—without money—and without that comfort that innocence could have afforded me;"’ but that to ſee me once again was more than her fondeſt wiſhes ever formed; nor had ſhe an⯑other hope than by the bleſſing of a fa⯑ther to look up for the forgiveneſs of her God."—But here I pauſe, for [178] the ſcene became too affecting, and I believe I was carried away from her before death put a period to her diſ⯑treſs.—Fondly bewailing her un⯑timely fate, I ſit by her faded corſe, and ſhed the tender tribute of unavail⯑ing tears—thinking that I ſtill ſee her only as aſleep—that I ſhall again enjoy the ſweets of her converſe, and that we ſhall again be happy—happy, in⯑deed, we may be in another world, but never more in this—but I bluſh to refer myſelf only to futurity, when on earth I can feel no more comfort—Oh! Charles, think not that I mean to vindicate wrong, or that my fond⯑neſs gets the better of my principles—I know her errors, but will not, with a malicious world, think this the only fault that a woman can never [179] expiate—it is not, believe me, an hor⯑ror at the crime, but the pride of life that begets theſe diſtinctions. Let the cold, the ſelfiſh, and the unfriendly ſpeak rigidly of her offences, a father could feel only for her diſtreſs.—When this firſt burſt of my grief be⯑gins to ſubſide, I ſhall endeavour to take ſome meaſures for her removal; for at all adventures I reſolve to bury her at Marleſton, not with thoſe ho⯑nours, perhaps, as if adorned with virtue; yet, nevertheleſs, with a de⯑cency that is due to the unfortunate; and leſt ‘"ill tongues ſhould hereafter be too buſy with her fame"’ I will in⯑ſcribe ſomething like the following epitaph upon her tomb—‘[180]Stop—gentle maid—whoever thou art;
She that lies buried here, was once
as fair and amiable as Thyſelf.
Whilſt ſhe was innocent, ſhe was happy;
but by yielding to the ſeduction of Man,
and of the World,—ſhe was cut off in
the early bloom of youth,
to deter Thee
from following her
Example.’