LETTER I. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

THE whirl of wheels, a fine flow of spirits, the elysium of expectation, and the vi­gour of fresh horses at ever stage, brought me, in less than twenty hours, from Cavendish­square to the place of date. Having no unne­cessary luggage to retard me, no trifling petit­maitre, who, at two miles distance from the shifting place, drives back for his gloves, his cane, his snuff-box, or his white handkerchief; I rolled, THORNTON, on the springs of expe­dition; and I sit down, unsubdued by fatigue, to tell thee of my safety.

Richardson's a child, Grandison is a monster, Lovelace a bungler:—since the days of Adam, Nature hath produced but one man of pleasure; and [Page 10] that wonder was reserved to adorn the age before us.

Oh, CHESTERFIELD! CHESTERFIELD! THOU, only thou, knewest the science of joy; thou only hadst the skill to cover the rugged­nesses of life with roses, that bloom from being pressed. Deign then, immortal shade! To look with a gentle eye upon THY PUPIL; teach me emulate thy genius, to practise thy precepts, to hit, with a felicity like thine, the true spirit of dissimulation—soften my features to the blandishments of delight—attune my tongue to the thrillings of persuasion—enrich my senti­ments with so versatile a ductility, that I may obey the occasions of the minute—endue me with perseverance of soul, and condescend to guide me (with all thy attendant graces, assidu­ities, and elegant attentions,) into the bosom of voluptuousness, my Friend, my Mentor, my Genius, and my God!

THORNTON, I am inspired! The rhapsody of my invocation is throbbing already at my heart—it is working its way to the very marrow in the bones. The divine Letters of OUR EARL are this instant brought in by the postilion, who is unconscious of the treasure, with which he is freighted. But soft! I dare not proceed till [Page 11] I have unlocked my hoard, and then, with a more than Persian prostration, paid to maxims by which I am to be conducted, the incense of my idolatry.

LETTER II. Mr. THORNTON to Mr. SEDLEY.

TAKE care: it is easier to advise, than to act. I wish you joy of your system, and I approve it: let it not, however, appear to be imitation; be thyself, and the deities of bliss throw objects in thy way!

P. S. Be explicit.

LETTER III. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

DULL THORNTON!—circumspect citizen! at what art thou alarmed, and "wherefore is thy spirit troubled within thee?" How canst [Page 12] thou entertain so contemptible a notion of thy SEDLEY? Imitation! Curse thee for the thought. Hast thou—illiberal asperser—hast thou, in the course of seven enterprizing years, ever known me deign to stoop from the ori­ginality of self to the slavery of another? 'Tis true, I admire the Lord of CHESTERFIELD: his epistles are, in the reading hour, always in my hand; they repose at night behind my pillow, and they at present constitute my tra­velling library. But I scorn to be fettered, either in body or soul, Imitation indeed! Let me echo the dictates of my rage—curse thee for the thought! The liberty of the under­standing is as dear to me, as the liberty of the person; and I have too much pride, too much dignity, to become a plagiary. THORNTON, no; the Earl is, as it were, my tutor; his sen­timents are such, as I have long felt, but such as, till now, I was cautious to avow. The idle modes of the world stood as a bar, betwixt the precept and the practice. Hitherto, I have been restrained in my actions, and lost half the joy of voluptuousness, because, forsooth, no­body had either reputation, ingenuity, or taste enough to keep me in countenance. I swam the common current of pleasure, but was al­ways afraid of going out of my depth. The [Page 13] herd are contented to be libertines in the ordi­nary, shallow, shadowy way, and, before the appearance of these enchanting Letters, which, like the sun, broke out upon our grossness, we wanted the imprimatur of a man of celebrity,—of such a soul as Chesterfield's, to give credit and eclat to the efforts of an enterprizing spirit. But now the impediment is removed,—the avenue is opened,—the ice that custom had frozen about the heart is thawed, and the pros­pect of pleasure is palpable. The repository of STANHOPE, the cabinet of CHESTERFIELD, the Earl's arcanum, are all disclosed:—EUGENIA—bear, bear the name, ye rosy­wing'd deities of joy, in gratitude to heaven!—EUGENIA has given to mankind the invaluable remains of her father,—remains which—(Oh, THORNTON, echo EUGENIA!)—have disco­vered, to every elegant character, flesh roads to the temple of felicity; virgin resources of per­sonal extacy; and treasuries of bliss as yet un­tasted, and unexplored.

My design then, is to indulge my principles, by improving upon those maxims which his polish'd pen hath made fashionable. Let duller souls content themselves with vulgar happiness; with yielding beauty, entrapt simplicity, and [Page 14] the mere defloration of female youth.—I can­not be circumscribed by such common, animal sensations: no, James!—give me delicacy, difficulty, refinement,—give me innovation,—or take from me existence.

"To beat the beaten track,—to taste the tasted."—Oh, shocking!—insupportable! I am above it. I scorn it.

In a word then, THORNTON, what our GARRICK is to SHAKESPEARE, I am resolved to be to CHESTERFIELD,—the living com­ment, upon the dead text. The youth to whom the Earl's Letters were originally ad­dressed, thou knowest, is dead; and he wanted a soul to relish, and a taste to improve, had he continued amongst us. Such a cool creature is better in its coffin. Peace to his uncongenial manes! But shall STANHOPE be therefore without an heir? No,—I claim the inheritance, THORNTON, and desire you will henceforth consider me as his son, by the adoption of his sentiment. Nay, had these veins been filled with the rich stream that fed the heart of STANHOPE, I could not have been more like himself—God forgive me! but, were it not said, and said solemnly, that my mother was the Diana of her day, I should suspect she played [Page 15] my father the Alderman false, and threw her­self into the conquering and accomplished arms of CHESTERFIELD.—Earth and skies! Mr. THORNTON, canst thou think I was the pro­duct of a plethoric Alderman, and that that Alderman could be a dealer I hops?—Bastar­dize me, dear friend, in pity to my feelings; and rather than suppose me the offspring of such a conjunction, make me the by-blow of some deity in disguise, and let me catch a ray of comfort from illegitimacy.

So much for the introduction to our corre­spondence. Of preface no more—Prepare for immediate action—Ha! A face passes my window that throws attractions worth pursuing. I press the wafer with my seal, that I may rise to reconnoitre. Hurry sets its mark on my last sentence.

LETTER IV. From the SAME to the SAME.

THE Earl's absent man has already exhibited himself. He is of the name of HOME­SPUN, and is the butt of the bath. His soul is [Page 16] contemplative, and his body pedantic. Never saw I so perpendicular, or profound a figure: a very walking soliloquy; a moving meditation! and his wife, or, at least, the beautiful She who hangs upon his arm as such—O THORN­TON! THORNTON!—I have an object before me already, young, elegant, graceful, and (I warmly hope) a wife—If she should prove indeed the property of this pedant—if the stars should have thrown a hoop of gold in my way, my fortune is made.—Soft a little—enter my landlord; I like the lines of his face—his eye looks communication—intelligence plays the gossip in every feature. He will prove the Daily Advertiser of the bath. In half an hour the budget of Buxton will be open.

Pray, Mr.—I forgot your name—('twas an aukward oversight, not to have learn'd his name, James)—Mr.—Wyngood is my name, Sir.—Pray, Mr. Wyngood, what fine young lady is that now walking with the straight, well made gentleman in raven-grey?

[Always describe favourably when you que­stion a stranger!]

She is wise to the gentleman, Sir, whose name is Mr. HORACE HOMESPUN, a minister [Page 17] come to bathe for the Dissenters disorder. There's a vast deal of company, Sir, in town, and I think you are extremely lucky in taking my lodgings. My lodgings are the best lodg­ings in all BUXTON, and some of the best peo­ple lodge in my lodgings at this moment. Why now, Sir, you would not think it, but I can shew you such things as will surprize you—Here he set off, and I followed him into a bed­chamber, where, without any ceremony, open­ing the drawers of his lodgers, he took out a riding-hat with a blue feather and a spangled button.—"Lookee, Sir, did you ever see the like? These are the things of the gentry who lodge at my lodgings.—Then here is silks upon sattins, and sattins upon silks; and they're the kindest people in the world. They live as cheap as possible. Why I don't suppose, now, one day with another, they spend a guinea: there is reason in every thing: they pay only eight-pence a-piece for the breakfast, a shilling a head for dinner, eight-pence for tea in the af­ternoon, a shilling for supper, and fourteen shil­lings for lodging; besides washing, coals, can­dles, and wines,— a mere nothing, a wet of the little finger, as I may say, for a watering-place. I presume, Sir, you would chuse to join them, and live in the same manner, I see you are a very [Page 18] worthy gentleman, and I will go mention you under the name of—of—pray, what name must I say, Sir?"—I look'd a mild negative to his question—Very true, very true, no matter, no matter; I will tell Mr. HOME­SPUN that a new lodger wishes to do as he does. Sir your servant; I will be with you again pre­sently. I see you are a worthy gentleman plain enough.

The fellow had it all his own way, THORN­TON. I interrupted him not, and am this very night to sup with Master Minister HOMESPUN. I have walked down to the Well, and drank a glass at this Helicon of health. I was to be, in this ramble, the man of fashion, just stept out of the chaise, and elegantly disordered in my dress. Exteriors, as they always should, corre­sponded. My hair was tied with negligence, my curls loose, in the ton of confusion, and my frock discovered a genteel shape, and the cut of a capital taylor.

A miscellaneous group were passing away the intermediate hours betwixt tea-time and supper: the lame and the lazy, the merry and the mor­tified, were all upon the saunter: HOMESPUN was fondly ruminating with his angelic consort in the shade; and something, that had the ap­pearance [Page 19] of a fop—I mean of the common kind—was saying smart things to a pretty Well-woman.

Nothing, however, could induce me to stay a moment at so dull a place, but the practice of precepts which will convert all places into pa­radise, and make even a watering place delici­ous.—The supper-bell summons me.—Mrs. HOMESPUN—Oh! what a name for such a creature!—Mrs. HOMESPUN is tripping it, towards the sound, and HOMESPUN himself seems to forget his primitive uprightness of back, and steps briskly forward.

Now for it,—art thou not all curiosity?

LETTER V. From the SAME to the SAME.

CHESTERFIELD is right: attention anni­hilates learning, and carries away all before it. I am in the road to rapture. Time allows only to give you the hint. Another opportu­nity of being assiduous offers itself; the mo­ment [Page 20] must not be lost: a moment decides, sometimes, the fate of a whole life.

LETTER VI. From the SAME to the SAME.

EVERY hour brings its improvement.—Oh! why did not the Earl sanctify the paths of dissimulation, that I might have lived to pleasure, many years ago! It is now, only now, that I begin to live. I have had, my dear THORNTON, in the course of a few hours, a conquest superior to ALEXANDER'S. I have made an ordinary coxcomb pleased with himself, and yet caus'd him to be discarded by his mis­tress. I have seen a learned husband detestible in the eyes of his wife, for the first time; and I find him enraptured with the very man by whom he is made ridiculous: and all this from the practice of a single precept—STUDY TO PLEASE.

I will go through every sentiment in the Earl's correspondence, before I quit BUXTON! All the books in all the languages are barren, [Page 21] and deserve to be burnt, but the epistles of STANHOPE. But stop—I hear Mrs. HOME­SPUN express her aversion to cheese; and (though I like it myself) I must hasten to order it may never appear again to offend her. No­thing is immaterial that pleases. If you would be pleased yourself, first please others. No matter in what the pleasure consists: the more contradictory to thy own satisfaction, the better—In all events, PLEASE.

LETTER VII. THORNTON to SEDLEY.

THOU mightst as well send folded to me a sheet of blank paper. Much is written, without any thing to the purpose being said—Thy heart is engaged in the ardour of some pursuit, and thy pen denotes bustle, and con­trivance, and agitation; but thou speakest, only generally. I prithee, SEDLEY, reduce thy ex­travagant genius into order, and let me under­stand, by the post, the meaning of sentiments I perceive not at present the drift of. If any thing starts that demands assistance, or if thou [Page 22] meetest more adventure than thou canst thyself manage, tell me so, and I will order my horse to the door, and go snacks in thy enterprizes.

LETTER VIII. From the Reverend HORACE HOMESPUN to Doctor DIGGORY.

YOU remember, I presume, the jaunt I took in the last year to SOUTHAMPTON, the particulars of which, at the request of some friends, I suffered to be printed in the WEST­MINSTER MAGAZINE, in two several letters addressed to the publisher, Mr. THOMAS WRIGHT, of Essex-street, in the Strand, Lon­don. I there told you, that I was not quite so highly interested in, or entertained by, the scenes in a hurry before me, as my then patron, the Baronet, would flatter my imagination with upon the road; and (as I find those letters from the Westminster Magazine were reprinted into various other monthly publications) I have rea­son to suppose my excursion afforded some amusement to a certain class of readers.

[Page 23] Albeit, having, since then, been yoked to a damsel who hath a passion for these watering places, and who (bringing along with her a decent dower) hath a right to indulge herself in such amusements as seem best unto her, I have now a second opportunity to survey the customs and manners of water-drinkers and duckers; and can give you, my friend, many curious particulars by way of supplement to the accounts I have already published.

As my present cure is situated about thirty­seven post miles and a quarter, more or less (one cannot be classically correct to a yard) from the waters of BUXTON, amidst the wonders of the Peake, Mrs. HOMESPUN chose to pass a week at that place, for the benefit of a pain in the ancle, which pain became grievous about six minutes before she suggested to me the necessity of such an excursion. Very sudden, to be sure. But humanity is frail; and women are whim­sical.

That the cure of her ancle might be perfect­ly compleated, I contrived it so, as to persuade the curate of a neighbouring parish, to do duty at home in my absence, and resolved to tarry a fortnight. Of this fortnight, only four days are yet expired; and though I never underwent the [Page 24] same degree of parade, of fatigue, and of imper­tinence, in any former fourteen years of my life,—not even when I preached thrice on the Sunday, and fairly footed it to two of the cures,—yet HARRIET seems so happy in doing as others do, and finds such real felicity in the dull­est spot I ever beheld, because, she says, it is the Ton, that I am in doubt whether even the long residue of the fortnight will satisfy her; or whether she will by that time have had Ton enough to return home to peace, privacy and the parsonage-house, without murmurings and repinings.

Oh! Doctor, see the outlines of my situation, and pity me. I am amongst a number of both sexes whose pleasures are my aversions, and whose amusements I cannot relish. Quietude and the shade of life emparadise me, and yet the house, wherein I lodge, is as public as an inn at a fair. I admire rural ornaments, and scenes of summer verdure beyond imagination; I rejoice to see the bud broaden, and the blos­soms expand before the sun, yet the mountains of Arabia Deserta exhibit not a prospect more barren and unblooming, than that by which this BUXTON is bounded. I love moreover to stroll into the shop of an intelligent bookseller, and there converse with him upon the topic of [Page 25] recent publications;—alas! the bookseller of BUXTON has nothing in his shop but the trash that circulates at a watering-place amongst the women. I ran my eye over his catalogue, and never did I see such a collection: Clelia, Cas­sandra, Pamela, the Adventures of Cleopatra, Amusements at the German Spa, and the His­tory of an Actress, were the best in this bad bundle. But though I saw folly, I made bold to ask for sense: at least, what passes as such.

I mentioned the Reviews—no-body called for them. It is not the Ton to be critical. I talked of the Magazines—none were ordered; Magazines are too multiplied, and too common to be the Ton. I rummaged every row for philosophy—no-body reads philosophy at a watering-place. The Philosophy of Fools might surely have found a place. I criticised the shelves for morals, but found them not. I ventured to ask, but with some little hesitation, for Secker's Lectures—I seemed to have taken away the bookseller's breath: he never heard of them. I took a turn round the shop, and (having forgot to bring any books with me, although very bookish) would have taken up with almost any thing approximating to the rational; but, in my progress, I had well-nigh [Page 26] overset a glass-case of toothpicks, gold hussies, embroidered pincushions, and embossed snuff­boxes.

And now it appeared, that this harlequin trader was rather a haberdasher, than a book­seller; or rather an ambiguous multiform mer­chant, who dealt in the apparatus both of the soul and the body.

On casting my eyes towards a person at the other end of the shop, I saw her bending wire, to form, what is, in this merry age, facetiously called, a cap; over this person's head in fair arrangement, was to be seen a goodly show of bandboxes; and across the window near which she sat, were ribbons variously and ridiculously twisted, with several specimens of her skill in decorating that part of the human body, which is now more preposterous than any other. See­ing such preparations for the outside of the head, I gave up the idea of finding any internal furniture; so walking out of the shop, I asked pardon for having so grossly mistaken a milli­ner's and toyman's for a vender of matters in the literary way.—Just as I got to the door, a party of mighty pretty women, and my wife amongst the rest (not the least amiable, and who, already knew every body) came rustling [Page 27] into the shop, and in a lisping accent (it is not tonish to speak plain, or do the vowels justice) attuned to the articulation of a watering-place, desired the haberdashery-millinery bookseller to look for JULIA MANDEVILLE—Julia Man­deville was not to be had, being, as said the dealer, very much run upon. Then let us have SIDNEY BIDDULPH, said the ladies—Sidney Biddulph was out, being likewise a lady in constant request. I'm for, THE MISTAKES OF THE HEART, cried a very grave-looking woman; who surely made a small mistake in the choice of her reading. I wish, my dear, (said my wife to me, with a very well-bred ci­vility, taking less notice of me than usual—it is quite out of the Ton to be tender, Doctor,) you had brought JOSEPH ANDREWS along with you—Oh la! Ma'am, replied another, how can you possibly read such low stuff—the ad­ventures of a footman, a kitchen-wench, and a strolling parson—Nay, Madam, said HAR­RIET, don't say any thing against the parsons, pray; remember I'm a clergyman's wife, and there he stands—an ABRAHAM ADAMS every inch of him—a'nt you, my dear?

This was too much; I attempted to go forth, but HARRIET caught me by the coat (it is [Page 28] precisely the Ton to tease a husband, Doctor.) The poor ladies were in great anxiety to find THESE MISTAKES OF THE HEART had been carried off last season, by a person who took the road to GRETNA GREEN—the Scotch mar­rying village—with her footman, in her way to London; though some (said the haberdasher archly) may think that was going a round-about way too. If we can't get THE MISTAKES, suppose, rejoined the ladies, we have a flight to the PARADISE OF FOOLS? or suppose we make a shift, till we can get something better, with TOM JONES?—Aye, TOM JONES is tolerable enough, (said a pale languid lady) if he would but say more about the seraphic SOPHIA, and give us less nonsense about the old vulgar fa­ther, the fusty aunt, and those unertertaining horrid creatures THWACKUM and SQUARE. He is shockingly tedious about those fellows. As to his Introductory Chapters, as he calls them, I always skip'em. Aye, Madam, said another, and if he was a little plainer in telling us what we were really to expect, at the top of his chapters, it would be as well; in which case I really think it would be a goodish, prettyish sort of a novel, to read once. Tom Jones, it seems, was now in reading by Lady Sallow's coachman.—The haberdasher recommended [Page 29] FILIAL PIETY—the ladies were satisfied that it was a dull, serious, sermonizing thing, from the title. FILIAL PIETY indeed!—send it to Miss Dorothy Desolate, who is come to dip for the dismals; or lady Bab Bluebutter, who wants to drink away her frog-freckled com­plexion.—Ha! ha! ha!—he! he! he!—he! he! he!—ha! ha! ha!

The laugh was now more violent than the wit was brilliant by which it was occasioned, and my dear HARRIET joined in it, most cor­dially.

They were about to depart without any books at all, when the haberdasher mentioned some old volumes of the Spectator. They asked what he meant by talking about such old things, which they had been obliged to read over and over again, when they were at their board­ing-schools. Lord! (cried one of the damsels) here's DELICATE EMBARRASSMENTS—Oh! the very thing—worth all the Spectators that ever were wrote. Aye, take it, and let us go read it directly—It don't end well, I think, objected another; I had rather read EACH SEX IN THEIR HUMOUR.—Here is Something New, ladies, said the haberdasher—As old as the poles, said the fair ones.—What say you [Page 30] to ELOISA?—Oh! by all means—Have you got ELOISA?—reach it this moment—Oh, the dear book!—there are three letters in the first volume of that book, worth all the world.—Come, it's a nasty evening, and not fit for walking, let us hurry away; and so send them, Mr. TRASHLEY, to The Hall this in­stant. Come, Mr. HOMESPUN (turning to me) come, you shall 'squire us—[It is perfectly the Ton, my dear Doctor, for ladies at a watering­place, to use a husband, by the way of walk­ing-stick.]

You shall 'squire us, said my wife, believing that she did me infinite honour.

They fluttered out, caught me by the arm, and carried me off, in high triumph, ten times faster than I should have walked, had I been permitted to do as I thought proper. Indeed I was forced into a kind of trot: but it is a matter by no means allowable, to please yourself at a watering-place. Even now I am summoned by a messenger, who says, the party (of which I never heard a syllable before) are waiting for me, to go into the walks. I dare not stay to finish my letter, lest I should become ridiculous; for nothing in the world is so tonish as to be ri­diculous: [Page 31] so you must wait till I can next steal a moment from folly for friendship.

LETTER IX. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

OH! for the genius of old HORATIUS FLAC­CUS, to compress a volume of facts within the foldings of a single sheet of paper!—Hear,—see,—be convinced,—congratulate me, and sing a Te Deum to thy friend, and to the immortal memory of STANHOPE.

The party, of which I was made one, con­sisted of master minister HOMESPUN, his lady, an animal who burlesqued the coxcomb, and a fourth person who departed before the entrance of supper, so that of him I shall say nothing at present.—HOMESPUN and his wife are oppo­sites, and therefore the better suited to the trial of skill. At first, I said no more than just to [Page 32] shew my breeding, and inclination to be happy in their society. I let them shew off themselves as much as possible, that I might accurately learn their tempers, before I ventured to attack them. This is one of the very first elementary principles of my system. HOMESPUN soon discovered himself to be a grubber in books, and his lady a grubber in the fashions; in her tem­per, gay, giddy, good-natured, unsuspicious and uninformed. The coxcomb was of the neutral kind, but wished to be flattered, for his taste in personal ornaments; and of course, was flatter­ed. Never was there a more curious trio. The conversation turned at first, as it usually does among the English, upon weather, then upon books, then upon dress, then upon the virtue of certain characters of the books, and last, upon the virtue of the BUXTON waters. I accom­modated myself to the several changes with to­lerable felicity. You must consider me, how­ever, but as a beginner;—note my progress.

And, first, to touch the tender part of our book-worm, I observed, that the public sustain­ed a great loss in the death of several literary or­naments of the age. I spoke critically, as to the satiric powers of CHARLES CHURCHIL; and poetically, as to the Pindaric flights of [Page 33] GRAY. I entered into the intricacies of the epic, and drew the line betwixt the original HOMER and the imitator VIRGIL. I spoke of ease, in the style of TILLOTSON, of grace in ADDISON, and of the pathetic, in the periods of YORICK. I affected even to discountenance the inuendo of TRISTRAM SHANDY, and I compared his licentious spirit with the voluptu­ous OVID. I pretended to discover an ostenta­tious display of talents in the Orations and Epistles of CICERO; and I took care to suit eve­ry opinion to the taste of the person I addressed, who had his share in the conversation too, and who (as I have since heard) mentions me to his friends as a paragon of learning. Take this, THORNTON, as a receipt to make a scholar a simpleton!

I must not forget to tell thee, that, when I was talking upon books, and mentioned the ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM Mrs. HOMESPUN (though no simpleton) asked me, with great simplicity, if that same criticism was a novel; to which the fop answered, Yes, it came out last year, and was written by an intimate friend of his; but that, though he pushed it with all his interest, it did not take, and was now totally buried in oblivion.

[Page 34] I contradicted this with all possible politeness— I imagined he might be mistaken; (never ap­pear assured, THORNTON) that work, I believed, was attributed to Lord KAIMES—a writer, with whom I did not doubt but he was ac­quainted, Possibly he might confound the title a little, with others similar to it; which might very easily be done. I had caught myself in such errors a thousand times. Mr. HOMESPUN chuckled at my candour. Mrs. HOMESPUN (I know by her eyes, I read every body's eyes) said something to her husband, in a low voice, in my favour; and the fop himself, with a smile of complacence, but without any confusion at detected ignorance,—he wants the taste to blush—(such, THORNTON, is the force of manner!)—said, it was very likely he might be misled by the title; that there were three or four elements, and he was most superlatively obliged to me for setting him right.

Upon the topic of dress, a fruitful theme, I took care to agree with Mrs. HOMESPUN in every particular; except that, now and then, I affected, in a gentle tone of voice, and submis­sive smile of countenance, to differ from her, on purpose to throw the triumph on her side, make her happy in an ideal superiority, the [Page 35] better to impress her with a proper notion of my good manners, in yielding to conviction.

About twelve o'clock, the fop hopped out, and took me by the hand in token of satisfac­tion. Honest HORACE (that is his right clas­sical and Christian name) considers me as his comforter, and declares, that, he hopes for some happiness now, even in a watering place; while Mrs. HOMESPUN, or, as I shall call her here­after, (to use as little as possible that vulgar name) HARRIET, makes no scruple of saying, I am the most chatty, agreeable man at the bath.

I caught her, THRONTON, twice measuring me from top to bottom, and then she gave HORACE a survey.—By the soft, half-sup­pressed sigh she gave at the end of it, it is easy to see—whose dimensions she likes best.

Oh! THORNTON, if I can once bring her to be discontented with her situation,—if she once begins to repent of her bargain, the day is my own! I never saw a pair of eyes more like­ly to fail in love than hers; they turn with a cast of concupiscence to the azure corners. The eyes of HORACE are grey, and without [Page 36] lustre. She hath the right lips of invitation: the vulgar HORACE smackt them at something she said, but methinks the impression he made, was only skin deep. She is in full health, and in the hey-day of female youth!

Oh! THORNTON! THORNTON! Pray ear­nestly, that she may be miserable, and that the despair of her heart may be removed, only by thy friend.

LETTER X. THORNTON to SEDLEY.

HORACE HOMESPUN will, I perceive, have, in due time, a horn upon his head; and yet, I feel a pang for the poor pedant.—Hang it, SEDLEY, why shouldst thou pluck the rose from the matrimonial pillow? Why plant a thorn in its stead?—But—but—I beg pardon: 'twas a tug of conscience. I am a­shamed of the sensation. I half blush at the impoliteness. Go on, and prosper. I am all expectation, till I hear of the downfal of the bewitching HARRIET.

LETTER XI. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

THE horrors of the gout, and the trem­blings of the palsy, seize thee, for throw­ing a thought across me, that had well nigh torn a leaf of CHESTERFIELD from my heart!—The matrimonial rose!—Oh, thou bar­barian! Wouldst thou ruin my principles, and have me act in repugnance to my Preceptor already!—Infidel, avaunt! My creed is esta­blished. Dare not, on thy life, THORNTON, dare not again attempt to make me an apostate to PLEASURE. Half-bred man, be silent and attentive. I have a scene to paint to thee that might shaw the frigid feelings of an Anchorite.

About one o'clock in the morning, the eyes of HORACE began to twinkle—what was be­fore dull became duller, till at last the four eye­lashes met together, and covered the balls of sight. HARRIET continued loquacious and lively, and resolved not to go to bed till it was a more modish hour, insisting, that I should keep her company. I humoured her vivacity till HORACE began to snore, and then shifted the conversation to something less spirited, but to something more attaching.

[Page 38] Sentiment, THORNTON, when enforced at a proper crisis, is a better weapon for a man of pleasure, than downright licentiousness. I began to sing forth the happiness of Mr. HOMESPUN; said many things in praise of his learning, ho­nesty, and hospitable turn of thinking—then shifted again, told a tale of disappointed passion—descanted on the difficulties often attending reciprocal attractions—placed two young peo­ple in several affecting situations. I altered the tone of my voice, and suited it to the stillness of the night—sighed in whisper—corrected myself—hem'd—hesitated—called a tear into my eye—assumed a softened felxibility of feature—and, now and then, took my eye from viewing her, as if sensibly struck with my danger.

Part of the flowers with which she had been some time playing, fell on the floor—I took them up with a trembling hand, and put them into hers, with a pressure scarcely perceptible. A sudden blush came over her face in a mo­ment. I took no notice of it; but, catching up a myrtle sprig, kept it, sportingly, as if to conceal a new sigh—presented it to her as the freshest on the table, and rose to take my leave.

It was the exact moment of departure. She [Page 39] was visibly agitated, and I would not see it. She took the sprig, and the leaves shook. I went softly to the door—left with her the compliments of the night, in a gentleness of the tones perfectly pathetic—lingered at the door a moment—complained that I could not open it hastily for fear of disturbing her husband—at last, I almost shut it—half opened it again—played with the handle—stood the third of a minute, in a finely-dissembled state of em­barrassment—once more bade her farewel, and indeed departed.

LETTER XII. From the SAME to the SAME.

A POST-CHAISE and four this instant stopt at the door of mine host, in which were three new visitants. The fore-glass was let down by a female hand, so exquisitely white, and so full of promise, that I was induced to examine the other parts of the person to which it belonged.

[Page 40] THORNTON, she is a cherubim! a mixture of beauty and breeding!

As she stept from the chaise, she discovered an ancle formed by harmony, and polished by the Graces. Her shape is admirable. I only scribble this to announce her arrival at the bath. Thou knowest the rest.

LETTER XIII. THORNTON to SEDLEY.

THE letter is just brought by the postman. A cursed circumstance, that requires my attendance in town till next Wednesday, pre­vents my present happiness. But my horse shall be at the door of Thursday's dawn, and I will order relays, by which means I shall reach BUXTON at dinner. Take care of the Cheru­bim for thy friend.

LETTER XIV. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

ORDER not thy horse to be bitted—put not thy presumptuous foot in the stirrup. Invade not the sacred prospects of a friend's felicity. There are only two forms in BUXTON worth undoing—HARRIET HOMESPUN, and the Cherubim! Sit quiet, and saddle not thy steed, if thou wishest the continued affection of thy▪

LETTER XV. Miss DELIA DELMORE to Lady LUCY SAXBY.

THIS journey has already had a good effect, my dear LUCY, upon poor FANNY. We travelled by easy stages, and I hope much from the alteration of air, even if the waters should want virtue to restore her. The poor thing has been to all the baths in the kingdom, you know, except those of BUXTON. Alas! I fear her disorder has got too near her heart for me­dicine; the God that afflicts, can only, I believe, remove the affliction. Never was known so gradual a decline, and yet no application could [Page 42] stop its progress—What a pity, Lucy, that such a form should be daily decaying, before the eyes of the most tender relations! Company, conversation, the simplicity of her diet, the wholesomeness of the situation, are all that can be expected from a short residence here, as the waters of BUXTON are not strongly recom­mended in consumptive complaints. She is always best in society, and I am happy to tell you, the place is tolerably full. Her poor fond husband hangs over her fading form, with more tenderness than when it was in its bloom. Pray Heaven these assiduities may prove successful! I will write again soon.

LETTER XVI. Miss DELIA DELMORE, in Continuation.

SOFTNESS to the sick, is better than a cor­dial! FANNY ventured yesterday to break­fast in public: her delicate form, beautiful in dress, instantly attracted, and claimed, what it received,—the attention of the whole com­pany. She was dressed with her usual simpli­city, and suited her ornaments to her situation. In my life, I never saw any body, in the luxu­riancy of health, half so interesting. After the [Page 43] first dish of tea, the flush, which was formerly a constant resident, revisited her cheek,—the disorder has not, in any degree, tinged her com­plexion—her forehead is, as it ever was, ala­baster white; and the veins, that meander round the temples, are so transparently blue, and the circulation seems to be performed so parcifically, one might almost envy the delicacy, which a cruel disorder hath bestowed upon her. In the eyes of several young ladies, who, by their florid appearance, came hither merely for a­musement, I saw the glistening drop of sympa­thy—and the men, who were laughing at our entrance, soon softened their voices, and spoke almost in a whisper, in compliment to the lovely invalid, who appeared to want such attention.

FANNY was sensible to their indulgence, and smiled acknowledgment. At last, in came a stranger, elegant and easy beyond description— How, my LUCY, shall I proceed?—FANNY sunk upon my arm, complained that she was worse on a sudden, and rose to go out—the stranger assisted, with a gentleness not to be described, and she tottered down stairs, under these supports, to her apartment.

I am so affected at present, that I can write no more.

LETTER XVII. Mrs. MORTIMER to Miss SIDNEY.

HEAVEN scarce allows me strength to tell you that I am come to a place, of all o­thers, in the habitable world, the most misera­ble to me.—The only person open earth that I would have avoided, is at the bath. God protect me, what am I to do! Pity and pray for, the dying

LETTER XVIII. From the Reverend HORACE HOMESPUN to Doctor DIGGORY.

I REALLY begin to think, I shall find some satisfaction at BUXTON bath, amidst a clus­ter of insignificant characters, one gentleman has distinguished himself so much above the rest, that I have at once gratified my pride, and curiosity, in obtaining his acquaintance.

He is intimately skilled in polite and elegant learning; perfectly well mannered, and not a­bove conversing upon subjects of divinity, and ethics, even at a watering-place. My wife [Page 45] says, he understands to a nicety, what, some of the waterers call, the ETIQUETTE of dress; so that, with the arts of a scholar, he has, it seems, the invention and taste of a courtier, without any thing of courtly insincerity.

In truth, I am apt to think very favourably of him, especially, as his exterior does not seem more frank and open, than his interior is inge­nuous and undisguised. One such character will atone for the stupidity of the rest. As I am fond of, now and then, what I call a wood­walk, or a ramble by myself, I can now take this without a breach of good manners; for I can leave this accomplished gentleman with HARRIET, who is fond enough of his com­pany to accept of him in my absence.

I am half inclined to forgive watering-places, because they have, in the end, after much prior disappointment, produced a companion, whose sentiments, of life, and maxims of moral con­duct, do credit to himself, and honour to the species.

LETTER XIX. Mrs. HOMESPUN to Mrs. LA MOTTE.

OH! that I could live to BUXTON for ever!—We have, since I last wrote to you, got acquainted with the handsomest man in the world; and though he is as good a scholar as HORACE, yet he understands as well as I do, all the prettinesses of dress, of which, you know, HORACE is entirely ignorant. Then he is so polite, so unaffected, he contradicts with such gentleness—he is so open to conviction!—You know my aversion to filthy cheese. I happened only to hint this, and he ordered it never to be brought again to the table, while I was at the bath; though Mr. HOMESPUN said, I ought to suffer what was offensive to myself, out of good manners to the company.

'Tis hardly worth attending to, and perhaps you'll laugh at my noticing such a trifle, but he sits in a chair, eats his victuals, cuts it into slices, and holds his knife and fork as different from HORACE as possible, who, you know, some­times seems so over head and years in thought, that he forgets the dinner is before him, picks his teeth, and sits silent, till the cloth is ready to be taken away. Then again, as to carving, [Page 47] HORACE can no more do the honours of the table than a baby: he misses the joint, and some­times scatters the sauce in ones face;—where­as this gentleman hits the mark as dexterously as a surgeon, helps the ladies to the gratest de­licacies, with such a gentle manner, and with a countenance so smiling, that it is impossible to refuse what he offers.

At supper last night, HORACE was in one of his thoughtful moods, and disgusted me hor­ridly.

There was a roasted fowl; and HORACE, perceiving my plate empty, must needs fill it with one of the wings, which he made shift to mangle off with the knife with which he had been eating, though another for the purpose was lying on the other side the dish. Then he must needs make my wing swim with the gravy, and, in awkwardly tilting the dish, several drops flew upon the gentleman's waistcoat. Mr. SEDLEY—that is his name—said, it was no matter; it was not easy to help such accidents; and begged he would consider it as of no sort of consequence.—Sweet fellow!—Oh, that HORACE would imitate him! He is now walking towards our lodgings, and HO­RACE slouching by the side of him. HORACE [Page 48] is, to be sure, upright enough, but then he looks as stiff and uncomfortable as an over-starched shirt.—SEDLEY moves as if he was quite happy: Mr. HOMESPUN struts as if he was in misery. They are both at the door.

LETTER XX. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

THE proverb is verified: It cannot rain, but it pours!—Pardon the vulgarity of a proverb, which is too a-propos to omit—The Cheribim I mentioned to thee in my last, is a cherub of an inferior order, when compared with the SERAPH who came with her. She was at that time, muffled up and close hooded; but when, on the next day, the veil was with­drawn, judge of my surprize, on beholding the very She, the charming She, whom last season I met with her father, Sir HENRY DELM [...]RE, at SCARBOROUGH, at the period when the letters of my divine Earl became popular, and I had just bought a copy of them. We lodged in the same house, and I became agreeable to Sir [Page 49] HENRY. The very first trial I made to reduce my favourite precepts to practice, was upon the heart of this very girl, then glowing with all the graces of health, and endowed with all the enchantments of a pathetic temper. I soon pretended to lose my vivacity, and became the softest son of sentiment that ever was born. The net of silk, which I had diligently woven, became successful; and I had certainly caught in it the fairest prize in the creation, had not a cruel necessity called me from the bath.

Several transient tete-a-tetes I had with her there, gave me the opportunities I wished. Her passion was imaginary, but pleasing—she fixed high the standard of domestic felicity, and un­reasonably loved to refine.

To accommodate myself to this, was, at first, not easy; but before I quitted SCARBOROUGH, I was so distinguished for the penseroso, that even Sir HENRY himself began to think I was falling into a hypochondriac disorder, and used every effort to divert me.

Though I was then but a novice in the the­ory of joy, I had read enough of CHESTER­FIELD to know the potency of dissimulation; and, had it been in my power to have staid another week, should have, even then, added an il­lustrious [Page 50] example, to corroborate that glorious precept, which advises, "to adopt the charac­ter and conversation to the company."

Since these transactions, she is altered, THORNTON,—altered in every part of her situation: she is married, and in a consumption; and yet, like certain fruits, she is delicious in decay. I was pleased to see her disordered at the first interview; the little blood that painted her cheek, disappeared, her knees shook, and her hands trembled, at the recollection. And this, too, was in a public breakfasting room. Judge how her agitation must alarm the com­pany, and operate amongst the women in my favour. Who knows, THORNTON, but the beautiful invalid may have brought herself to this state, upon my account? If so, ought not I to pity her?—and ought not she to thank the gods, that I again "am come to comfort her?" At all events, you ought to congratulate me, and once again sing Io Paeon, to the canonized bones of CHESTERFIELD.

LETTER XXI. From the SAME to the SAME.

THE HOMESPUNS are secured; I have them by the heart, and enjoy, in an equal de­gree, the confidence of the wife and husband.

HORACE has many oddities, of which his wife is lately become sensible; and it has been my business to excuse them to her. He is ad­dicted to catch hold of the button, and, in the ardour of philosophical and systematic conver­sation, tugs at it most immoderately. Last night, in supporting a favourite opinion, which was opposed stoutly by the fopling, he seized the wrought button, and tore his fingers against the raised work on the surface, till the blood fairly gushed cut in a stream, and spotted his sables. The fop swore,—I checked him with temper: the parson cooled in his argument,—and I applied an handkerchief to the wound, and thus saved them both from looking silly.

HORACE'S nails are not quite so accurately clean as they might be; and, as I observed Mrs. HOMESPUN comparing them with mine, I sud­denly closed my hand, as if out of tenderness, lest the comparison should turn to HORACE'S disadvantage; yet this very tenderness, so mana­ged, [Page 52] answered the design compleatly; and I can see plainly, HARRIET thinks hardly of HORACE for neglecting to pick the dirt from under his nails: while, on the other hand, when he and I are together, we laugh at the sopperies of the times, and seem mutually to despise all its DELICATESSE.

LETTER XXI. THORNTON to SEDLEY.

CORMORANT in pleasure! insatiate con­queror! What, is not one object sufficient at a time? Must thy bow have seven strings to it? and canst thou not be satisfied with the vic­tory thou wilt soon gain over the buxom HAR­RIET, but thou must plot captivity for the Cherubim, and hope to carry all before thee? This is illustrating thy favourite Lord's maxims with a witness! And wilt thou not bestow a single beauty to thy friend? Be this as it may, spare—I conjure thee, spare, the delicate dis­tressed—harm not the gentle FANNY; but suffer her to live the short remainder of her days in the purity of conjugal caresses—spot not the [Page 53] ermine of expiring chastity, but let her spirit ascend, immaculate, to heaven.

Do this, if thou art a man! The high in health may admit, and return thy revels; but pity the sick sister, and let not the maxims of the Preceptor be made subservient to sanctify barbarity. If thou triest to ensnare the sinking soul of FANNY MORTIMER, thou art a fiend, and unworthy the friendship of thy

Is it not said, in the volume of thine Oracle, "A man is fit neither for business or pleasure who either does not, or cannot command and direct his attention to the present object, and in some degree banish for that time, all other objects from his thoughts."

How is this admonition consistent with the scheme of three at a time? Study to be consist­ent, or all is over.

LETTER XXII. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

THE very worst reasoner in the dominions of GEORGE, is JAMES THORNTON, Esq.

And so, because I have an eye upon three, thou supposest I must needs be inconsistent and irregular! Dost thou not know, that the same Oracle advises, a quickness of attention, an un­observed observation, the art of seeing all the people in the room without appearing to look critically? Is there not, according to that Ora­cle, pretty nearly the same degree of deception in every character; and are we not to turn all this hypocrisy to our advantage, even while we seem to think every body honest?

The great nicety, in my present situation, thou dost not see; nor will I be at the pains to develop it to so awkward an arguer.

What a conclusion hast thou drawn, indeed, from my having three objects in view! not con­sidering, that I am as cool and collected as if I had but one; and that I have a capacity, equal to the conquest of thirty times three.

Learn to know me better.

I am too well disciplined in my system, to be [Page 55] precipitate, or to hazard the mortification of be­ing disappointed, by rashly seizing that which I perceive can only be obtained gradually, by the successful efforts of resistless insinuation

The Master of my art says, very truly,— ‘Little minds are in a hurry, when the object proves too big for them: they run, they puz­zle, confound, and perplex themselves; they want to do every thing at once, and never do it at all. But a man of sense takes the time for doing the thing he is about, well; and his haste to dispatch a business, only appears by the continuity of his application to it: he pursues it with a cool steadiness, and finishes it before he begins any other.’

This last sentence, THORNTON, thou mayst think, clashes with my present attack upon the three beauties of BUXTON.

Thou art again mistaken.

I am not in a hurry to be happy, as to the ultimatum of female favours. Like a man of resolution, I can watch the progress of a favour­ite pursuit, and see it prosper under my eye, without seizing the final recompence of my labour, till it is the proper crisis of fruition.

To bring these arguments home to the points [Page 56] in question, thou must understand, that, had only HARRIET HOMESPUN been at the bath, I should have been contented till her finishing; but, as the Fates have thrown two sisters in my way, of which one happens to be an old ac­quaintance, but whom accident permitted to slip through my fingers unconquered, or, at least, without bestowing upon her victor the rewards of conquest, I must suit myself to the triple tie, that chance hath laid upon me, with as much adroitness as I am able. And this is the deli­cacy in my situation, to which, in the begin­ning of this letter, I alluded.

One great part of my system is, to make peo­ple, who are to give me happiness, happy in themselves. I must, to this end, take care to avoid making any of these dear creatures rivals to each other:—to boast of amours, thou knowest, is utterly repugnant to the STANHO­PEAN principle. Press for the favour, read the eyes, six the heart, and revel over the yielded per­son, ad eternitatem; but keep the joy to thyself; nor ever, with rascal loquacity, betray the in­firmity of her, whose indulgence has given thee the first of felicities.

To one friend I have ventured to disclose my­self in the very confidence of my soul. If thou [Page 57] betrayest me, though but in the hour of ebriety—it does not admit of an if,—thou art a guarded, honourable character.

No more, I pr'ythee, as to plurality of ob­jects.

The CHESTERFIELD system admits not the fearful and filthy intercourse of venal women. He could not allow the horrid and vulgar ha­zards of c—s and p—s. "Avoid," saith he, (in his caelestial chapter on pleasures) ‘the fate of the promiscuous fornicator: what a wretch is a rake with half a nose, crippled by coarse and infamous debauches!’

Hence, THORNTON, it is evident, that a man is justified (provided he keeps the secret) to search the circle of the earth for those favours, and elevated connexions, that bring along with them the honey without the sting. It is be­neath a gentleman to beat round the bagnios, or criticise the brothel. Leave such to the appe­tites of apprentices, whose vulgar palates can digest any thing. Be it the business of those who are governed by the laws of good breeding, to enlist themselves under the white banner of apparent modesty, and envite embraces unallayed by terrors and suspicions.

[Page 58] The constitution of a man of fashion, de­mands, in these cases, the utmost circumspec­tion: the wife, the virgin, and the FRIEND, only, promise this blissful security. To them, then, let us direct ourselves in self-defence, and thus procure the personal paradise, in which the roses of beauty bloom without a thorn.

I have said thus much to silence thee, once for all, as to the nature of my favourite prin­ciple; which thou now perceivest to be, not more pleasing than rational. No more, then, of thy whining passages about pity, and virtue, and all the etcaetera of parsonly cant.

The man of taste and fashion moves above it.

LETTER XXIII. The Reverend HORACE HOMESPUN to Doctor DIGGORY.

WE are all wrong again!—The head of poor HARRIET is certainly turned; and, instead of a cure being performed, she is cer­tainly distracted, by these same waters of BUX­TON. This day we drank tea in private, and [Page 59] never heard I such a train of conversation as she fell into. Why, Doctor, she is gone—her intellects I mean—past redemption.

For the first time in her life, she found fault with every thing I did. She insisted upon it, I drank my tea too hot, which was not only, she said, injurious to the coat of the stomach, but shockingly indelicate.

The tea-spoon was not managed to her satis­faction. I sipped too loud from the saucer, when it would, I find, have been genteeler to apply a silent lip to the cup. Nay, what is worse than all this, I had the misfortune to fold the bread and butter inelegantly; and it would have been better there too, if I had put the end, rather than the side of it, to my mouth first.

But that which most astonished me, was her objection to the good old custom of turning down my cup, which she said was out of the TON, and that it would give her great pleasure, if, in fu­ture, I would lay the spoon across the cup.

I was perfectly petrified, and yet ‘held my tongue, and spake nothing.’—She proposed walking, and, as I really thought the air might do the poor creature's head good, I drew on my gloves, and attended her towards the well-walk. [Page 60] —Alas! Doctor, nothing, I fear, can bring her about; for she grew ten times worse than ever, and if I was astonished before, I was now al­most struck dead with the hugeness of my a­mazement.

I had not the happiness to hit her fancy even in my walk, which she very fairly told me, was ridiculous; and that I held up my head too high, turned in my toes too much, and wanted the Graces in my arms.

She actually made an objection to the manner in which my wig was powdered, said it was all patches, and had not the regular sprinkling of a man of fashion.

Upon this, I ventured gently to tell her, that I was but a country curate, that I had no pre­tensions to fashion—that I had, for my own part, nothing to do at a watering-place, but to oblige her—that I was very sorry for the lof­tiness of my head, which, for the time to come, should be carried with more humility—that, if it would give her any pleasure, I would take care to stoop till I bent neck and shoulders to­gether—that, as to inversion of the toes, I would learn to dance, late in the day as it was for me, and inconsistent as such a part might [Page 61] be thought to the clerical character—in re­gard to my arms, that I had hitherto only used them in the ordinary offices of life, and found they performed very well for a plain man; but that, if she had any favourite attitudes, or wish­ed me to exhibit in any postures to which she was particularly partial, I would practice vigi­lantly at the looking-glass, and, rather than want the Graces she spoke of, would absolutely learn the exercise, and go through all the forms and ceremonies of legs, arms, head, and hands, like a young recruit. At the same time I beg­ged her to consider that, as we had, sicne the day of our union, lived harmoniously, I warmly hoped we should not be put of tune by trifles, which are in themselves insignificant, even if we admitted them to be essential to the etiquette of a watering-place. I, moreover, told her to remember, that I was at least a faithful husband, and made her happiness the study, practice, and contrivance, of my whole life; and that, surely, where the cardinal duties were observed, it mattered little, whether the toes were the breadth of a barley corn too much in or out, or the head half an inch too lofty, or half an inch too low. I would have proceeded in my de­fence, but that my good friend Mr. SEDLEY at that instant came to my relief, told us, as he [Page 62] advanced with warmth, vivacity, and a chearful countenance, that, ‘ if we did justice to his at­tachment to us, we might judge of the joy he felt in seeing us so frequently choose a private path, which was to him a certain indication of matrimonial felicity.’

There was something so pretty in his speech, that it made an impression on my memory, and I have copied it verbatim. In less than half an hour Mrs. HOMESPUN recovered her reason; her late lunacy was never hinted at, and hope­ing to continue her good-nature, I invited this most agreeable gentleman to take another bit of supper with us.

The manner in which he accepted the invi­tation trebled the sense of the favour he did me by his company. What a gratification it is to have so sensible and entertaining a friend at a watering-place!

LETTER XXIV. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

A MAN, THORNTON, who is true to the re­lish of pleasure, can extract extacy even from disappointment. The bliss of blisses alone could have made me happier than I was an hour ago.

Hear the story.

Since the first moment I cast my eye upon the bewitching HARRIET, I marked her for my own; and she hath since been the grand point of all my insinuation and ingenuity. Not a single article hath been neglected that could touch her imagination, move her heart, and catch her favourite weaknesses. I paid court to her fancy, to her feelings, to her foibles. Con­stant attendance hath done the business I ex­pected it would, and I have but one effort more, to be master of all that the finest woman in the world has to bestow.

Last night, my THORNTON, was the con­scious period that yielded up every transport but the one. HORACE was requested to perform the funeral-service over the corpse of a fellow who died by a dropsy; (as the parson of the [Page 64] parish was indisposed;) and, it seems, he was to be buried at a town a mile distant from our lodgings.

He went.—The opportunity was not to be omitted. I exerted myself. I sparkled in the lustre of STANHOPEAN sentiments—I became eloquent, and soon communicated a part of my ardour to the troubled bosom of HARRIET. I hit her, soft upon the heart. Our eyes met— they confirmed our sentiments—our voices grew soft as the summer breezes—there was no intruder—I laid my cheek close to hers—they were both upon the glow—for the first time in my life, I kissed her lips—I repeated the pressure—she repulsed me—I dropped upon my knee, and in that attitude repeated the offence—Nature was stirred to the utter­most—I continued to suck the delicious poi­son, and unawares she returned the salutation. The dalliance was no longer to be borne; she begged me, for God's sake, to desist. The flush of desire and modesty were at war in her cheek—her bosom palpitated—I plied her with my precious maxims in a whisper, that gave them additional graces—I laid my hand upon her heart: the throb was violent; and, as I caught her eagerly in my arms, her head sunk [Page 65] in unresisting softness on my shoulder, and, worked to the extreme betwixt sentiment and sensation, she burst into tears.

I composed her cheek—drew her handker­chief gently over her eye, fixed her again without offering to distress her, in her chair; and to this moment she thinks I sacrificed, to love, respect, delicacy, and friendship, a passion that is tearing me to pieces.

In a few minutes HOMESPUN returned; he is no reader of looks, and I took my leave for the night with that easy intrepid assurance, which belongs to the great character I have adopted.

And now, THORNTON, am I not a tolerable proficient in the science of dissimulation? Does any-thing come amiss to me? Can I not assume with ease, and wear with chearfulness, every shape? Are not heat, cold, luxury, abstinence, gravity, gaiety, ceremony, easiness, learning, trifling, business, and pleasure, modes which, according to my Preceptor's advice, I am able to take, lay aside, or change occasionally, with as much ease as I would take and lay aside my hat.—But you may expect nobler illustrations of this hereafter. I am yet in the outset of my adventures—sporting (by way of trial) with [Page 66] jejune experiments. The next time I can send THEE out of the way, HORACE HOMESPUN, beware! Thou hast just escaped a fore evil. A little while ago, thou wert within an inch of cuckoldom.

LETTER XXV. The Reverend HORACE HOMESPUN to Doctor DIGGORY.

SUCH a night as the last, I never passed. My poor wife has had a relapse, Doctor. It returned at midnight upon her, and raged with the most frightful violence for above two hours. She is absolutely delirious, and I am the most wretched of men.

About an hour after we were in bed, she complained that there was no bearing the heat; though, in truth, this is one of the coldest places in England, and it had rained all the preceding evening. I felt her pulse, and it was immoderately full, tumultuous, and rapid. I kissed her with all the tenderness of a sympa­thising [Page 67] husband;—she asked me, how I could possibly be so cruel? I offered to lay her dear head upon my bosom, as upon the pillow of affection, judging that she would be pleased with my assiduities. Her eyes were streaming in tears—her face was on fire—the sighs came from her, palpably against her consent. I pressed to know the cause of this; at least, to what she attributed it; and offered to throw on my cloaths, and procure a Doctor. Her cure, she told me, was out of the reach of a Doctor; but that, if I would not suffer her to be quiet without fretting her by my officiousness, she should be under the necessity of getting out of bed, and sit till the morning in a chair. A little time after this, she changed her manner, and with a kinder tone of the voice, asked me, if I would consent to return home as soon as it was light. She caught my hand, begged my pardon, wetted it with her tears, and begged I would excuse her infirmity. I drew her, fond and close to my heart; and I felt hers, at that moment, leap with agony. In the next mo­ment she requested me to leave her, covered herself hastily head over ears with the bed­cloaths, and, saying that she wished I was wrapping her in the shroud, sunk sobbing upon her pillow. Oh! Doctor, what shall I do? [Page 68] What can be the matter? I am really uncon­scious of offence. She is now in bed—per­haps, sleep may alleviate her disorder. The worst of it is, she will not allow me to speak to any third person; and, as I myself know no­thing of either maladies, or their proper medi­cines, I am dreadfully alarmed, and tremble for the consequence.

LETTER XXVI. From the SAME to the SAME.

CERTAINLY, Mr. SEDLEY is the best young man in England. When he came to pay me the compliments of the morning, he found me in a very dejected situation; and though he was far from inquisitive, yet I could not conceal from his asking eye the nature of my calamity. Poor young Gentleman! it was evident that he felt for me: his countenance lost, in a moment, all that fine glow that is natural to it; and, if my fancy does not de­ceive [Page 69] me, he had some difficulty to prevent a tear from starting. He assured me, that words were never made to do justice to the feelings of wounded friendship; that he was more interest­ed in every-thing that concerned me and my wife, than he could express; and that, if I would suggest some little pretence, either of business or of invitation, to leave him with Mrs. HOMESPUN in the evening, he would certainly either comfort her by every ministra­tion of the sincerest friendship, or, at worst, he would find out the reasons for her anxiety, and the nature of her complaint; after which, he very well observed, the remedy would be easy; At this generous proposal, in which his worthy disposition was manifest, I was ready to weep; and, as we embraced each other at parting, our voices became of no use to us, and we could only shew, by our sympathising enfold­ings, that we had a sincere and Christian regard for each other.

LETTER XXVII. Mrs. HOMESPUN to Mrs. LA MOTTE.

OH, CHARLOTTE! CHARLOTTE! what a perplexity am I thrown into, by this scheme of pleasure! Accursed be the hour in which I set my soot upon the confines of BUX­TON! Unconscious of any violent partialities, I was contented while I was ignorant. In the dreary village, where our parsonage is a palace, I was sufficiently happy, because I saw nobody superior to Mr. HOMESPUN. I was the Mini­ster's lady, and the wives and daughters of the neighbourhood paid me the compliment of their best curtsey. My HORACE really looked handsome in his Sunday canonicals, and I viewed him in the pulpit with pleasure.

But, alas! my CHARLOTTE, the scene is changed. I have been several days in a place of politeness, where HORACE is the most awkward of the circle. My eyes are now opened to his imperfections—I see them, I feel them, I detest them. He is a lump of learning, without ductility, without softness, without—what Mr. SEDLEY calls, the Graces. I am sometimes obliged to ask several times before I can obtain an answer to the most or­dinary [Page 71] question, and then, at last, he bursts from his reverie, and pretends not to have heard me speak to him. Can any thing be so disgusting? His conversation is unlike that of the rest of the company; and, instead of bearing a part, in little, social, and endearing chit-chat, he talks eternally about Locke, and Livy, and Cicero, the Elements of Criticism, the Prob­lems of Euclid, and such fellows—and many a time, when I have wanted him to put a pin in my handkerchief, or such little offices of endearment, he has been wrapt up in medita­tion, and then stared me full in the face with­out knowing I was in the room.

Then, he actually has a strange shy manner of treating me as a wife. There is no delicacy in his air, when he takes my hand: he shakes it indeed HEARTILY, but then he has the fat fist of a grasier, even, though in other respects he is disagreeably thin. He kisses, with a ce­remony perfectly classical, as Mr. SEDLEY calls it. There is a pretty method, methinks, even in the management of the lips. By accident, Mr. SEDLEY stole a kiss the other day, and he placed it, so directly, so gently, and so patheti­cally in the center, that I never felt such a sen­sation! I protest, CHARLOTTE, it ran thrilling [Page 72] through every vein of me, warmed my very heart, and almost took away my breath.

We were, I remember, playing at questions and commands, the day being showery, so that we could not stir out. The forfeit came round at last to HORACE, and he smackt me, as usu­al, in his round-about manner. Heaven par­don me, CHARLOTTE, but I was obliged to draw my pocket-handkerchief across my mouth, and had some difficulty to avoid making a wry face. If you was once in the company of Mr. SEDLEY—he is called the handsome SEDLEY here—you would never forget—gentle, graceful, elegant, soft, genteel, and eloquent.—Heigho!—Why, CHARLOTTE, why did I marry, before I had seen something of the world? Or, rather, Why, after I was married, why did I ever stray from carts and cottages, to the delightful dangers of a watering place?—But I must hide my letter; Mr. HOME­SPUN is coming towards the house, as erect as a walking-stick.

LETTER XXVIII. Miss DELIA DELMORE to Lady LUCY SAXBY.

FANNY is much disordered, my dear LUCY; the fainting with which she was seized at the breakfast-rooms, has preyed on her ever since. Her spirits are greatly agitated. Her husband attends her, with the diligence of a nurse, and cannot be persuaded to leave her chamber. The poor girl often drops the tear of gratitude, but speaks less than usual, as, she says, talking exhausts her. She has twice hint­ed her wishes to be removed from hence, either to my father's, or to SCARBOROUGH, as we thought proper: and begs her removal may be pretty late at night, for company, she says, ra­ther disturbs her, sicne her last accident. Poor MORTIMER, her husband, sees her dying by inches before his face, and his unavailing offi­ciousness appears now and then, to go too near the heart of the sinking FANNY. She is too indisposed to remove at present: for my part, I have not been able to set my foot yet in the street: I love my sister too tenderly, to leave her with a strange woman, in a strange place, especially with one, who is merely paid for her attention, and who, consequently, can have none of those charming thoughts that enter in­to [Page 74] to the heart of a tender relation. Sometimes, my dear, the changing a posture, sometimes he shifting a pillow, or fixing a chair, does more by the method of doing it, than all the e­laborate efforts of an avowed nurse. A Mr. SEDLEY—who is said to be the beauty of the bath, and was the person that handed FANNY down stairs, and was very obliging during her illness,—sends every day, very respectfully, to know how the sick lady improves in her health. As many of both sexes were witness to poor FANNY's distress, and as people should have a fellow-feeling, in places of general re­sort for cures, as well as fashions, I wonder others have not paid this sweet girl the same compliment.

The manner in which this gentleman makes the enquiry, is pretty: he does not presume upon the privilege of a public place, and send a blundering foot-boy with a message, nor does he come, intruding, himself, but he usually writes a little billet, (every day varied, and con­taining a new turn,) in which his expressions discover at once accomplishment and high­breeding; and, what puts it out of any body's power to misconstrue it into design, he always addresses his cards to Mr. MORTIMER.—As my brother was reading one of these this [Page 75] morning to his wife, she desired to look at the hand, but had scarce held it to her eye, before she dropt the paper, and, letting her arm fall languidly on the pillow, said, very softly, that she could not manage it, and was weaker than she imagined.

She is now in a gentle dose, and I took the opportunity it gave, to inform my dear LUCY of our present melancholy situation. Sir HEN­RY, and my mother are expected hourly. If FANNY really dies, my mother will certainly go distracted. Heaven bless you, and yours.

LETTER XXIX. Mrs. LA MOTTE to Mrs. HOMESPUN.

IN the name of Heaven, HARRIET, what are you about? Your letters alarm me beyond imagination. You are in the road to ruin: I see you upon the very verge of perpetual in­famy. You can now mark the little imper­fections of a husband: you are blind to his many virtues. You have cast your eye on a man, whose person and manners you like bet­ter: with this man, you have been already left alone; you may by left alone again. The next [Page 76] step is too apparent to be mentioned; you are very gay, very young, very inexperienced: there is but one way left to prevent your de­struction, and that is, to return home directly, and make any excuse to HORACE for the ab­ruptness of your departure. I know nothing of the SEDLEY you mention, nor do I wish to know him. Better had it been, on all hands, if you were as ignorant of him as I am. It is plain he hath pleased you too well; since the pleasure is bought at the dear price of hatred to the best of husbands. Yes, HARRIET, your HORACE is the best of husbands. He is an honest man, if he is not a brilliant man; and, if he does not shine in society, he hath an excel­lent heart, and a simplicity of manners, truly amiable. The little points of objection you have made, are, when weighed against his va­rious virtues, light, and of no account; while, on the other hand SEDLEY has, very probably, nothing but an elegance in trifling to set him off.

Waving, however, these points, my dear, let us come to others more startling. You are a wife, you are pregnant, you are advanced far in that pregnancy, you have a clear character, you have the love of an innocent neighbour­hood—Away!—Away: Order your chaise [Page 77] this instant to the door. The matter does not admit of a moment's debate. I hasten to seal up my letter, and I beg, for God's sake, for your own sake, and for that of all that love you, or that you love, that you will delvier your an­swer by word of mouth.

I shall catch you to my breast, as a dear friend, just escaped from a precipice,—as a treasure I have luckily rescued, in the minute of despair, from the surrounding flames. Adieu: Adieu. I enjoin you to be expeditious!

LETTER XXX. Mrs. HOMESPUN to Mrs. LA MOTTE.
(Before the receipt of the above.)

YOUR HARRIET is something happier than when she last sat down to address you. Mr. SEDLEY has pleaded the cause of poor HORACE so persuasively, and that behind his back, (there's a generous man for you!) that I have been induced to ask his pardon, and I am resolved to treat him with more politeness, which I find is indispensible in the conduct of a married woman to her husband, even though he were indifferent to her.

[Page 78] We have passed together a very happy after­noon; and though I do not find any greater degree of tenderness for HORACE, yet, as I know how to make him happy, by merely suppressing those sentiments in his disfavour, which can do me no service to discover, I feel the sweets of disguising the truth upon some occasions. I have restored HORACE to perfect serenity, and I as sincerely thank Mr. SEDLEY, for taking me to task. Adieu.

LETTER XXXI. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

THE first blow is not yet finally given. Opportunity hath not sufficiently favoured temptation. My system, not only demands that I should preserve the charming fact, pri­vate, but the reputation of both the man and the woman, unsuspected. I am not to be a harum-scarum rake, who, brutishly as boyishly, boasts of his successes, but a polished man of [Page 79] pleasure; one, who is to bathe the senses in bliss, and revel in the richest luxuries of enjoy­ment, with consenting elegance under the rose, while (in public) he is to sustain a fair character, and pass upon men (who only look upon the surface) as a pattern of purity, and a model for morals.

HARRIET is a bewitching, illiterate, sweet piece of unpractised Nature. Her passions are ardent, and I have sufficiently set them afloat; but I must take care to guard against working up my own passions. All the power of con­quering dissimulation is over, when once DE­SIRE seizes the helm from the cautious hand of cool and deliberate REASON. "Vigour and spirit" are mere madnesses, without versatility and complacence. Upon this principle, I must walk without deviation, like a faithful pupil, in the path that is chalkt out for me. It is my business to ‘lead right reason in the trium­phant fetters and shackles of the heart and the passions.’ In order to accomplish this, THORNTON, I must keep myself collected, and never strike, till I have fully thrown every body about me off their guard, and till I can, then, gratify, conquer, triumph, and enjoy in full security. My blood, THORNTON, shall [Page 80] seem more cool and complacent than a tur­tle's. HARRIET'S, I see, is upon the boil: yet she has beauty enough to stir me; and when the secure moment offers itself, fear not her disappointment. Her wishes, however warm, shall not be vain.

LETTER XXXII. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

I HAVE appeared in public. I dined this day at the ordinary. Ordinary indeed! such a room full of emptiness I never beheld: citizens apeing the men of mode, women of fallow countenances, and frippery fops, who would be thought witty and elegant, when they are merely saucy, dull, and affected. Alas! THORNTON, what a pity, what a mortification! I have not a single competitor,—I mean not in point of gallantry, for that militates against my system of pleasure,—but, horrid to tell, there is no one of my sex from whom I can gain any real honour in the comparison. How­ever, as even blockheads are worth gaining, and their hearts worth misleading; as they have all foibles to flatter, and weaknesses that may [Page 81] be for our interest to work upon; I began to shew off, and brought the whole company over, as my admirers. I practised all the charming conversation rules of DORMER, with as much facility as if I had been their authors and, indeed, they are so suited to my own na­tural sentiments, that I only consider him as having written, what I long ago thought, and what, indeed, I will hence forward invariably practise, till I am incapable of further enjoy­ment. I had the happiness to sit parallel to the very fop, already recorded in my correspon­dence; and he was over-dressed to all the extra­vagance of the Ton; while I, had the advan­tage, of not in any sort, invading the modesty of Nature. The fool lookt as if he piqued himself upon his gaudiness; he stroked his ruf­fles, displayed the baubles of his watch, perkt up his head to gaze in the pier-glasses, pulled his decorated watch in and out of his fob seve­ral times, eyed himself askance, and figited up and down in his chair, with all the insignificant whiffling agility of the monkey in the fable, who had seen the world.

Close to the side of this powdered popinjay, sat an unwieldly animal, who, to the ill man­ners of a bear, united the uncouthness of an [Page 82] elephant, without half its sagacity; and who, in feeding, scattered his offals around, to the utter dismay of the coxcomb, who, fearful of complaining, and alarmed at the size of the an­tagonist, took shelter at a small table, or rather side-board, and fluttered himself clean, while the monster enjoyed his embarrassment. I am happy to tell thee, that, though this piece of pleasantry set the unpolished table in a roar, I commanded my features, and did not give way to ridicule. Hitherto I have never laught out since I came to BUXTON, and I solemnly hope (with the grace of THE Lord before my eyes) I shall never be boorish, or boisterous enough to laugh out again, while I have being.

Know, moreover, THORNTON, that I ate elegantly, and drank discreetly. I smiled at a thousand dull stories, and only told one myself, and that inconceivably a-propos. I heard long talkers, without appearing to be tired, and I looked every person whom I addressed full in the face. I dressed my countenance in softness, and gave the douceur to all my motions. I in­terrupted no man, contradicted cautiously, pal­liated tenderly, decided a dispute betwixt the fop and the glutton with a good-humoured plea­santry, caught the habits of the company, [Page 83] swore not at all, and adapted my conversation to every speaker. The consequence was, THORNTON, that I was immediately known to be somebody, and rose in my consequence till I was the admiration of every body: my company was cherished, my absence was regretted, and at my going out of the room, a buz of universal approbation—Oh the exquisite murmur!—followed me down stairs. In a word, THORN­TON, the fops were annihilated, the prattlers silenced; every crest was fallen; and I went off in the compleatest triumph of uncontested ele­gance. SEDLEY—only SEDLEY was the burden of the song.

And thus, having settled my reputation, and established myself PUBLICLY, it only remains that I enjoy my popularity by appearing to de­serve it; and then I may bid defiance to cen­sure, and then—WELCOME VOLUPTUOUSNESS!

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

RECEIVE, TIMOTHY, the greeting of THOMAS.

I, and my master—we never dispute the point of precedence—arrived on the evening of the day we set out, at this execrable place, where I have, as yet, done little more than stick a pin in SEDLEY'S hair, and peruse a page of his CHESTERFIELD after dinner.

Of these books we are, both, excessively fond, and, as he always leaves them in the chamber­window—a little careless that,—I take them up when he lays them down; by which means, we make pretty nearly the same progress. If anything, I believe, I am half a volume before hand with him, and, in the opinion of the ju­dicious, am the finer gentleman of the two. But, you know, all men are not born with na­tural genius alike.

Not that my master, like your common cox­combs, ever mentions his amours, or his stu­dies, to his servant, any more than I discover mine to him; we are both better bred; but I [Page 85] have heard too much of the charming CHES­TERFIELD, at table, at tea, and every where else, not to have had, long ago, a relish for his writings; and I scruple not to tell thee, TIMO­THY, that I have formed myself, what you now know me to be, entirely on his Lordship's model.

He had, beyond comparison, the prettiest pen, at an epistle, in Europe, and is at once so neat, so polished, and so plain, that it is impos­sible to misunderstand him. I once—with shame be it spoken,—was as vulgar a dog my choice of books and beauties, as any in the kingdom;—I had no more taste, TIMOTHY, than thyself; no more Ton than a teacher of the table of multiplication. I thought—sim­pleton that I was—the luscious love- [...] of ROCHESTER delicious, and had a mighty han­kering after the memoirs of CLELAND; but heaven defend me from such barefaced trash. The bawdry brutes!—Shut—shut the book.

No, TIM. Stanhope has brought me round; he teaches, that "the very shoe has power to "wound;" and I am by God's grace, and his Lordship's graces, as gracefully graceless a ras­cal, and as pretty a fellow, as any in Britain.

[Page 86] I expect, by the Earl's assistance, to do an infinite deal of mischief at this watering-place;—my eye (though no settler) points at a bath-maid, who attracted me in the handing a tum­bler of Spa water. Nauseous, as all minerals are, I took it, and tost it off, without skrewing up a muscle, because, I find, to refuse is ungen­teel. I shall subdue this damsel, at my leisure, having, for my more serious simulations, as his Lordship calls them, a nobler object in view; of whom you will hear more explicitly in my next.

SEDLEY is upon some project, but as I scorn to be guilty of impertinent curiosity, so he is as much above making either a confident or a pimp of his servant (I should with more pro­priety have said his gentleman) as his gentle­man is of wearing a livery of worsted lace. God and the Graces speed him in all his under­takings! Every man has a right in this world to follow the bent of his fancy, to ‘strew the way over with flowers,’ as the song says; aye, and to be as happy, both up and a-bed, as he possibly can.

P. S. I expect soon to have all the lan­guages, living and dead, under my thumb.

LETTER XXXIV. Mrs. HOMESPUN to Mrs. LA MOTTE. (After receiving Mrs. LA MOTTE'S letter.)

YOUR letter came too late.—The hour of circumspection is past, and I am in utter despair.

LETTER XXXV. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

ADD to the list of my conquests, or rather place at the top of the CHESTERFIELD catalogue, the ruin of HARRIET HOMESPUN. Ruin, THORNTON, and why ruin? In my sys­tem, the name should be softened. The fame of the she who grants the favour, is pure and inviolate as ever. Where then the ruin? HO­RACE will sleep as sound this night as he slept the last—

Well said WILL. SHAKESPEARE! By the some rule, master minister HOMESPUN, thou, being ignorant, art not robbed at all. However, robbed, or not robbed, I must pay another visit or two, to thy treasure, before I take my leave of it for ever: for thy HARRIET is a most vo­luptuous banquet, and increases the appetite while she indulges it.—By the next post, THORNTON, I shall dispatch another letter; mean time, I am,

LETTER XXXVI. Mrs. LA MOTTE to Mrs. HOMESPUN.

AND so the dreadful prophecy in my last is fulfilled! As an unhappy woman, I pity you; as an unchaste one, I can only keep your secret, pray for your repentance, and take my everlasting leave of you.

LETTER XXXVII. Mrs. HOMESPUN to Mrs. LA MOTTE.

PUNCTILIOUS, prudish CHARLOTTE! that mistakest a slip of the heart, for an er­ror in principle. Two days ago I entertained sentiments like yours. Novels and vulgar no­tions ruin half our sex: I have begun, and am still privately engaged in reading a BOOK, that sets all to rights in my own heart, and reconciles my conduct to my own conscience. As to matrimonial shackles, I say with ELOISA, "Curse on all laws but those which Love hath made!" Had I read the dear BOOK, now in my box under lock and key, a few months ago, take my word for it, CHARLOTTE, I had never been a HOMESPUN, and would have died, ra­ther than have given my hand to a looby of a bookworm, unacquainted with the Beau Monde, and unfavoured by the Graces. My mind is perfectly at rest; and the only mad thing that flies in my face, is, having thrown away my charms upon a country curate, that does not know how to behave in company—who is unable to carve a chicken, or lead his wife into a ball-room, without hanging down his head, and biting his nails.

LETTER XXXVIII. Mrs. LA MOTTE to Mrs. HOMESPUN.

UPON my word!—Oh brave!—Why, you have made a rapid progress, and are an apt scholar, that's certain. A young crea­ture scarce two-and-twenty, bred upon a barren mountain, little read in the ways of any part of the world, but the ways of a circumscribed village—a farmer to your father, and an honest wholesome dairy-woman for your mother—a little modicum of money to the tune of five hundred pounds, the savings of twenty pains­taking years of your poor grandam—and, and—to turn fine lady all of sudden!—to trip to BUXTON bath, in the height of the season, forget all your country friends, and country feelings—all in a week—a little week! Upon my honour, you are no common character, and I congratulate you on reconciling all this, to your capacious conscience. Down to the very earth, I drop my curtesey, fashionable Mrs. HOMESPUN!

But, gracious God! can it be possible? Is not the last letter, marked with your name, a for­gery? Can the character be Mrs. HOMESPUN'S? Can it be written by her, whom I have so often [Page 91] distinguished for innocence in the midst of gaiety, and modesty in the very bosom of a­musement?

Is it practicable, in so short a space of time, to lose all that's valuable, all that's feminine, all that's truly endearing; and to substitute the most despicable, detested contraries? Ah! HARRIET, HARRIET, how art thou fallen! Thoughtless, ingrateful creature! Poor HO­RACE, what is become of him? If he is yet in ignorance, in mercy to his merit, keep him so: At least, have the generosity—the humanity, to keep from his knowledge, that, which would cut his honest heart to atoms.

But what is the BOOK you allude to, as the panacea, of a person polluted, and a heart set against the venerable maxims of morality? A­las! Madam, be not every way deluded: nor books, nor tongues, nor casuistry, nor all the chicane of eloquence misapplied, can possibly overturn the sober single system of unentangled innocency. I yet hope you are not in that wretched state, which, despairing of forgive­ness, hunts about for apology, nor, rather than seem destitute, condescend to take up with one, that, in effect, plunges you deeper in crimina­lity. A drowning creature catches at the slight­est [Page 92] twig: and a guilty woman is fain to support herself from falling in her own esteem, against a tottering pillar.

Books, HARRIET!—find a refuge from the keenness of your own reflections in BOOKS! Perish the volume, and may the name of its author descend ignominiously to posterity, in which the error that you have, under your pa­thetic circumstances, been guilty of, is not pal­pably discountenanced!

Mention, however, the name of that book from which you receive comfort, and, woman as I am, I will undertake to baffle its boasted system, and shew, that the only way to genu­ine pleasure, is through the paths of purity, integrity, and singleness. I am, and have continued a widow five years upon principle: the man I have lost, was even less splendid than Mr. HOMESPUN, nor had his person any peculiar attractions. What of that? He was good, he was great, and he was tender as Hea­ven. I wanted not temptation, while he was living, to indulge indelicacies, but I valued both his honour and my own; and though I pretend to no gifts of preternatural continency, I defy either books or men to make me act in diametrical opposition to common sense and Christianity.

[Page 93] But, just at the present crisis, you are, of all women in the world, the most inexcuseable! Oh, heavens! HARRIET, reflect a moment, More than three parts gone with child— that child your first-born—the father an honour to his profession—his profession the Church!—I will say no more, for if you had my heart, enough has been said already to move you to add to your present errors, the crime of suicide.

LETTER XXXIX. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

ALL goes on to the utmost content of my heart. Oh, THORNTON! STANHOPE is infallible. His maxims are perfect anodynes against disappointment, and I shall (I do really think) render him more celebrated than ever, by practically illustration every precept in every period!—I have played the second part of the same tune with HARRIET, and I half believe I shall make her a proselyte; for she hath got volume the first, and I have taken care to pencil the places at which I would have her stop: a mark in the margin always attracts. HORACE and I, too, are hand and glove, and a very [Page 94] worthy priest he is, for an HOMESPUN, I'll assure thee.

I will give thee, however, an instance or two of my proficiency in the arts of pleasing. When all was over, I paid my respects to HARRIET and her Lord, at the accustomed hour, without the least visible embarrassment, or alteration of countenance. The poor wo­man, indeed, made but a bungling piece of work of it, blushed, stammered, and stopt shrot; while I took care to preserve every muscle and lineament steady and unmoved. I see the effi­cacy of this most materially, for, had I not practised this presence of mind, I do verily be­lieve even the unsagacious HOMESPUN would have suspected what had happened. I took him by the hand, with the usual cordiality, and we walked to FAIRFIELD, a neighbouring vil­lage, (whither by the bye he was walking while the deed was doing) like inseparable friends. So that there is, as thou perceivest, fresh reason for thy congratulation.

But I have other business in hand, and must leave thee, THORNTON.

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

CURSE upon it, TIMOTHY! SEDLEY hath caught me in the fact—the very fact of consulting his oracle. He came home acci­dentally, when I thought him safe for at least an hour, and I was just enjoying the sweet sen­timent, and had delv'd into the pith and mar­row of the dear Earl's epistle upon dress; when this indiscreet master of mine, absolutely for­getting his good-breeding, kicked me on the breech, took the book out of my hand, and led me down stairs by the nose: for which, if I forgive him,

No matter: I know my cue, "smile at present, and strike hereafter."

Since this affair, the cruel youth keeps the Earl all to himself: but I see, by the news-pa­pers which come down here, his Lordship's good things are all collected together, in a little snug volume, that a man, upon any exigences, may pop either into his pocket, his bosom, his breeches, or elsewhere, as occasion requires [Page 96] This little essence of the Earl I desire you will procure me, TIMOTHY, forthwith, and send it down by the Fly: I shall not rest till I get it, for I comprehend every syllable he says, and I have as great a right to do roguish things with a good grace as my master. So no more at pre­sent from thy friend,

The book will be bought under the title of "Lord CHESTERFIELD'S Advice to his Son," printed, as the papers say, for RICHARDSON and URQUHART, under the Royal Exchange.

LETTER XLI. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

I BLUSH as I put my hand to the paper: I feel the severity of self-reproach: I have deviated from the maxims of my Preceptor, by making a man feel his inferiority. In a word, THORNTON, I have struck my servant. I caught the fellow reading in the sacred page of my religion, even in the page of the divine DORMER, never meant to be polluted by the eye of a footman, and I condescended to give him a blow. This is amongst the list of un­pardonable crimes, and I must make it up with [Page 97] the lad before I sleep, or I shall scorn myself too heartily. A man of fashion us his fist, and against his footman!—Shame—Shame—SHAME!—I have a thought to bring all even again.

LETTER XLII. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

I COULD sing—I could dance; for aliena­tion is no more. THORNTON, I have a­toned for my meanness; ask me now what I have given, what I have said, what I have done! Whatever it was, be assured there was manner in it, and ‘manner is every thing every where, and to every body.’

LETTER XLIII. The Reverend HORACE HOMESPUN to Doctor DIGGORY.

THINGS are so pleasingly altered, that I have been over-ruled as to my design of [Page 98] going away even at the end of the fortnight, and I have contrived to procure another week's recess, in order to extend my HARRIET'S hap­piness, and enjoy myself the spirited, yet moral and engaging conduct of Mr. SEDLEY, who, every day, becomes more agreeable, and who, I do truly believe, has been not a little instru­mental in bringing about my poor wife to a proper sense of her duty and right reason. If any-thing, she is more cordial to me than be­fore my departure from the curacy, and is at once lively and obliging.

I take it for granted, the strange conduct I transmitted you an account of in my late letters, was only a transient giddiness, not very infre­quent, as I have observed. Doctor, to the fair sex, about HARRIET'S age, which is very well called, in one of Shakespeare's tragedies that I read formerly, the "heyday of youthful blood." We grave folks, you know, my dear DIGGORY, ought to allow for all this. Poor thing, I pity her, and am half angry with myself that I should have treated the overflowing, efferves­cent emanations, as I may stile them, of a juve­nile mind, as a serious delirium.

But, thank God, it is not gone abroad to any person who is capable of circulating the whis­per [Page 99] of the day to the detriment of a fellow­creature. Mr. SEDLEY, who, I can easily see, is to be trusted with every thing, and my old friend, and brother-collegian, Doctor DIGGO­RY, are the only persons informed of the mat­ter, and so all is well. But do not, I charge you think too hardly of her for what hath been said. It was all a misrepresentation, and you should admire your heavenly HARRIET, as you used to call her, the more for having been injured. I can assure you, I am at pre­sent more satisfied with her than I am with myself: and, indeed, she has the advantage of me; for she appears in the light of a person calumniated, and I am only one in a state of conscious error, and probation.

However, a short time will, I do not doubt, set us all as happy again as our hearts can wish.—But why, my worthy DIGGORY, do you not write: how is it that so scrupulous a man in point of equity is so unexact a correspondent? You are deep in my debt, and though I am now rich in the inestimable treasures of recon­ciliation, yet a line from you would add mate­rially to my fortune, and I should have to thank Heaven for as full a measure of felicity, as it [Page 100] is, perhaps, either proper or possible to taste on this side of it.

LETTER XLIV. Mrs. HOMESPUN to Mrs. LA MOTTE.

THE severity and rudeness in your letter I can pardon, because they find an apology in your want of breeding; but the liberty you take with me and my character cannot so rea­dily be past over.

LETTER XLV. From the Same to the Same.

I WOULD give ten thousand worlds to stop the postman, and take out my last mad and [Page 101] ingrateful letter, even though I were to incur the punishment of robbing the mail.

Excuse me, I beseech you—excuse the rashness of an enraged woman, cut to the quick by just reproaches! Instead of resenting, I beg of you to compassionate me. My penitence is sincere, and you must—you will, unite your prayers to mine, that it may be at the same time perfect and efficient.

LETTER XLVI. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

HA! ha! ha! Three is no law against laugh­ing in a letter, as there is neither a vulgar noise nor a ghastly gain attending it: take, then, the silent written mirth of my soul, and let me pour out on paper some part of the ex­ultation that at this moment swells upon my heart!

What a superficial animal is man! "as easily led by the nose as asses are!" the dupe of the senses, the idiot of mere exterior, and the very fool of a well-managed set of muscles!—Is [Page 102] this the heir of immortality?—this [...]—this booby—this butterfly—Ha! ha! ha!

It is usual with women, when the affair is over, THORNTON, to whimper, lament the loss of reputation, the destruction of their eternal peace of mind, and grow stubbornly refractory, or else sullenly repining. This was, formerly, a most vile piece of business, and was a sore drawback upon the felicity of fruition; but the converts of CHESTERFIELD have no trouble of this sort to apprehend. As the confessor can make the consent of a good-natured nun not more a point of piety and religion than of plea­sure; so a man of manner, dress, address, and dissimulation, may, manifestly prove, to ei­ther maid, wife, or widow, that the shortest, as well as the softest conveyance to heaven, is upon a feather bed.

Without any sort of hum, haugh, stammer, or hesitation, I have convinced HORACE that he has been notoriously in the wrong; in con­sequence of which, he is to kneel oftener than his professional bendings require—I have firm­ly persuaded HARRIET, too, that all our fu­ture pleasure depends on her behaving ten times better than ever to HORACE, and lastly, I have prevailed on the curate to indulge his wife a [Page 103] few days longer at the bath, as a first instance of his repentance. In the rashness of her heart, however, she hath told all to a Mrs. LA MOTTE, who hath written a chiding epistle in the old scolding puritanical way; and to this I find, she (HARRIET) hath replied (in the old way also) in justification of herself. Here I was obliged to set her right, and have taken care to see her dispatch a penitential piece of paper policy, which will bring all round again. This same Mrs. LA MOTTE is, I find, in a state of widowhood, and much in love with her weeds—a great beauty—and, I see by one of her letters, (which I dissimulated out of HARRIET) a great boaster. I furthermore un­derstand, that she is a constant church-goer, has a deliciously demure set of muscles, very proper for a chapel—a sort of cathedral coun­tenance—a pair of elevated eyes—folds the fair palm, and holds long conversations betwixt GOD and her conscience. Humph—

NOW THORNTON, if, by setting all my master-maxims in motion—if, by the aids either of genius, stratagem, and every exort­ed OMNIPOTENCY of the head, heart, hand, and voice, I could but lower the loftiness of this proud-hearted, psalm-chaunting cottager, [Page 104] my soul would be satisfied, and I should sacri­fice to the shade of the invincible DORMER, such a victim as might sooth his spirit, and ele­vate his extacy in elysium.—At present, this is only in embryo, unformed, uningendered.—In all events, I am determined, as King Lear says,

Genius of STANHOPE, god of my actions, whose paths are pleasantness, assist me!—breathe, oh breathe into thy Pupil instant inspiration!—exalt my thought!—animate me!—list me to the summit of successful dissimulation, and give me to bend the imperious heart of the confident LA MOTTE!

LETTER XLVII. From the Same to the Same.

I HAVE only a minute to spare, and that is to tell thee, I am the dullest dolt that na­ture ever produced.

[Page 105] That nobody might perceive my agitation of mind, by my countenance, and its treacherous changings, I have rambled amongst the rocks, and over the heathy hills of this execrable country, to meditate upon the means of bring­ing LA MOTTE within the reach of my ma­chinations.—It is not to be done, and in the perfect stupidity, in the very shame of my soul, I am compelled to suspend the pursuit.

LETTER XLVIII. Mrs. HOMESPUN to Mrs. LA MOTTE.

WRITE to me, my dear LA MOTTE, though it be but to say—HARRIET, I do not hate you: you have my pity, and my prayers.

LETTER XLIX. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

THE matter of LA MOTTE must rest: I cannot hit it off; and have, indeed, other affairs to mind. This HARRIET answers all my joyous purposes most delightfully while I [Page 106] am heating the fire for the tender FANNY; who, I understand, is much better, and is to be seen (if the sun is not afraid of being out­shone to-morrow) to examine the bath. Ac­cident will, no doubt, contrive, for me to be in view, about the moment of her first appearance. Her husband—but of him hereafter.

HARRIET HOMESPUN wants capacity; I am obliged to dictate her letters to this Mrs. LA MOTTE, who must be kept in with, now she is in the secret.

LETTER L. From the Same to the Same.

THERE is nothing, saith my creed, ‘so delicate as a man's moral character, and nothing which it is so much his interest to preserve pure.’—I have been at church, THORNTON, where HOMESPUN officiated as teacher. He hath a snuffle in his nose; his voice is destitute of that harmonious variety, essential to all sorts of eloquence; and his or­gans of articulation appear considerably ob­structed.

[Page 107] However, like a true Pupil of Pleasure, I took him by the hand, upon his descending from the pulpit; returned him my sincere thanks, in a well invented compliment, for the elegance of his discourse; applauded his delivery; lamented that I had not often been made so happy; and almost brought the tears of virtuous vanity, into the good man's eyes, at the pathos of my conclusion.

"A little flattery sometimes does well."

"There is no living in the world," you know, THORNTON, ‘without a complaisant indulgence for peoples weaknesses.’ In a short time, I expect to reach the summit; for, after only an hour's practice, I found myself able to call out a palpable tear, only by placing a chair before my face, and, by the force of imagination, representing it, poor thing! as a certain person in distress, which I had an in­terest in relieving. Yes—THORNTON—I am to be complimented on the faculty of weeping at will.

And now I am talking upon the subject of sym­pathy, I must tell thee, that I have made myself still more popular than ever, in this little place, by several acts of unostentatious ostentation—I [Page 108] have given occasional small sums to people, who make it utterly unnecessary for me to be my own trumpeter. There are, luckily, a set of characters, that will raise a benefactor's re­putation, without any drudgery on his side: these people have tongue enough, however poor they may be in other respects; and all the good you do, though silent and secret as the noon of night, shall shine like ‘the light that shineth unto the perfect day,’ by means of those same grateful gossips.

LETTER LI. From the Same to the Same.

ONCE more, receive an account of a tender transaction, which I cannot conceal from thee. Relating upon paper, to the friend of one's heart, (for such thou art to me) any busi­ness, or event, that hath afforded transport, is an office of a pleasing kind.

HARRIET is as richly formed by Nature for rapture, as ever was woman; and will, I am in hopes, soon be an adept in the science of pleasing. Her person is voluptuous, beyond [Page 109] painting, and the joys it yields are only to be felt; and yet, I am almost reduced again to childishness, and am almost ready to fall again into my leading-string notions by a very puerile accident—even, THORNTON, by the love-tale of a green, uninformed girl, whose whole his­tory I purchased for a single six-pence. She hath been ruined and undone, as she terms it, by the basest of men.—And who dost thou think that man is, THORNTON!—Neither more nor less than my fellow THOMAS, who is, I'll assure thee, a would-be STANHOPEAN: but, trusting merely to picked-up precepts—the very crumbs that have fallen from his mas­ter's table—he stumbles in the effort, and dis­covers his livery, his dependency, and his edu­cation, even in his amours. All this, I enjoy, thou knowest.—The forsaken nymph came to complain of my Mr. THOMAS. She is very pretty, and very loquacious; but hear the story in her own words.

And so—you did not refuse him, hey?—Is that it?

Here the poor girl drew out her handker­chief, and had sincerely a very great occasion for it.

She told me, in a tone, THORNTON, that touched me, that if, notwithstanding what THOMAS said, she had been wicked, she was a ruined woman, that was all—that it might do very well for gentlefolks to play false with one [Page 113] another, because they had got wherewithal to wash all white again; but that a black spot in a poor woman, who pended on her water—was never to be rubbed out:—that, moreover, the news had some-how got air, and she was point­ed at by all the ill-natured fingers in the place. She said, with astonishing simplicity, that the man fairly overset her with his new-fangled gibberish—but that she found 'twas all over with her. She added, that, for her own part, she did not so much mind it, as she could turn her hand to any thing, and would leave the town in a twinkle; but that she had an old mother that had been bedridden these eight months, who lived at FAIRFIELD, and who must now want bread as well as herself. Nay, for that matter, said the girl, she'll soon be provided for, if she hears of my slip, without troubling the parish; for I shall soon break her heart: I shall soon send my poor old mother out of the world; for she is a good woman, Sir, and would sooner bury me than see me what I am now. DOUSIT will turn up his nose at me now; and without your Honour makes Mr. THOMAS do me justis, so as that I may become honest again, and do it in the lawful way,—God only knows what course I must take?

[Page 114] She now dropt her tears, THORNTON, as fast, to use the language of Shakespeare,

At this very moment THOMAS came in with a message on which he had been dispatched.

What is it, THORNTON, what cursed trouble­some thing is it, at once invisible, and auda­cious, that lodges in our bosoms beyond reach of our revenge, to make the stoutest of us children and cowards?

Never did GARRICK exhibit, or SHAKE­SPEARE describe, such a look and attitude, as that of poor TOM at his entrance, on observing so unexpected an object.

He stammered, he staggered, he turned white, and attempted to retreat.

I commanded him to stay; and, taking my sword from the hook, gave him his choice, and one that might have puzzled a much wiser man—either to die or marry. Fear operated even so strong as to make him chuse the latter.

He fell on his knees, and would have entered into explanations. I would not hear them.—The ceremony that HAMLET uses with his [Page 115] quondam friends now passed between us, and I made them both swear upon my sword.

I promised them a dower—the woman was in extacy, and paid me by such a look of gra­titude, that, had REYNOLDS been there, he would have made the water-wench immortal by drawing it.

I am above altercation: of this THOMAS is aware. Nay, I believe he likes the girl.—They shall be united as soon as possible: and what the devil can be the reason that I am more happy in putting these two people toge­ther, than all the joys I ever tasted with the exquisite and yielding HARRIET, I cannot tell.

Were it not that I have contrived, as usual, to get HORACE out of the way, and that I never break an assignation, I should certainly avoid seeing her, or any body else, this evening.—Is not this unaccountable? But so it is.

LETTER LII. THORNTON to SEDLEY.

THE story of thy bath-maid, though dashed with double meanings, interested me strangely; and I have felt the more pleasure in giving it a tear, because, I perceive, it hath penetrated even the almost invulnerable PHILIP SEDLEY.

But how thou art able to stand the shock of so many radiant eyes, and yielded charms,—wrapt round and round as thou art in the ely­sium of voluntary and voluptuous embraces—a young fellow of spirit too—is, to me, most unaccountably mysterious.—In defiance of all the cautionary precepts of thy divine DORMER—in defiance of all empiricism in gallantry, I should certainly break out, and even at the risque of overturning the whole well-woven web of intrigue, dwindle into a downright inamorato, and sigh away subtle distinction be­twixt simulation and laudable insincerity. But thou art not a perfect Pupil of Pleasure—Thou art but half converted.—Hadst thou not the supreme of transport, in uniting the faithless footman to the beautiful bath-maid!

[Page 117] I'll tell thee what, SEDLEY,—thou art—(if thou wilt allow me for once the coinage of a new word)—thou art but half CHESTER­FIELDIZ'D—The impression made upon thee by the pale face of the conscious THOMAS—the pleasure thou hast at wiping away the drops of penitence and perturbation from the cherry cheek of simplicity—and thy wishing to so­liloquise, and be excused, even from the arms of the tempting and married HARRIET—are all symptoms totally unstanhopean, (there's ano­ther word for thee.)

Take care, SEDLEY: thou art upon the eve of a relapse—a relapse in favour, not of DOR­MER, but of a down-right DOUSIT'S single­dealing.

And yet, my friend, shall I once again con­fess to you my infirmity—my unestablishment in the maxims of thy preceptor?—I cannot blame thy weaknesses, nor can I—however destructive they may be to thy system—avoid wishing thou mayst continue thy present ten­dencies, especially as, by thy own honest con­fession, thou hast found more gratification in them, than in supporting the toilsome task of disingenuity.

Nor ought I, indeed, to call this a weakness. [Page 118] If to be happy is the ultimatum of all earthly pursuits—if it is equally the effort of every different order of men, it assuredly follows, that that conduct is the most rational by which the greatest share of felicity is procured. The closest application of human wit and wisdom can do no more than point out to thee the most solid degree of joy, and it matters not whether the joy is obtained by the practice of one system or another.

The last action thou hast recorded (I allude to the promised nuptials of thy bath-maid) was evidently agreeable to the sentiments of SE­NECA, SOCRATES, and all the wise and good men both of the East and West; and since the precepts of STANHOPE have been unable to give thee a superior, or even an equal felicity, how proper and consistent with right reason is it in me, to advise thee to walk in that path wherein thou hast found the most pleasure? Laugh not—ridicule not, I beseech thee; thou art not, I hope, so much a tool to the taste of the times—so much a dupe to prejudiced opinions—as to dislike even the balance of bliss which is now in thy favour, merely be­cause the scale hath been turned by a worthy action—that would be insanity.

[Page 119] To love duplicity, and certain sophistical di­stinctions, merely for the sake of double-deal­ing, and when plain, clear, clean, uncrooked honesty will answer thy purpose much better, is at once ridiculous and diabolical.

On the whole, therefore, I advise thee, in the deliberation of my heart, to substitute the aforesaid SENECA, or some other systematical moralist, instead of STANHOPE; and to lay him quickly aside in a corner of thy trunk, as un­qualified to confer the comfort he professes to administer.

And, indeed, SEDLEY, to open thy whole soul to thee, I must own to thee, that I very much suspect his Lordship's sentiments. Even in my occasional dealings here in town, since thy departure, I have not been able to make them bear the test quite to my satisfaction; such, especially, as relate to the seduction of the tender sex. I made a slight experiment, no longer ago than last night, of his most favourite maxim, namely, to taste the joys of security, mingled in embraces; and yet, though I do not think I conducted myself unadroitly, it did not altogether answer the satisfaction he predicted to result from it.

Thou art not a stranger to the elegancies of [Page 120] SOPHIA VERNON, the new-married wife of the man whose promotion from ensign to lieute­nant it was our joint endeavour, some time ago, to effect it: his gratitude is still— ‘trem­bling alive all o'er;’ and, by a natural con­sequence, he is without the least tincture of suspicion, and esteems every instance of parti­cular enquiry after his wife, or friend, as a mark of generosity in his benefactor.

This leaves the way to an intimacy with his SOPHIA fair and unobstructed; and she has al­ready caught so much of the Lieutenant's en­thusiasm, that she pays me the tribute of a ro­sy-red blush of acknowledgment as often as I approach her. They have lately purchased a pretty cottage, amidst the vernal beauties of SURRY: it is surrounded by gardens, not cittish, but genteel; there are no nudities, no mon­strous urns, no fantastical fountains, no chubby cherubims, no tip-toed Mercuries, smirking Venusses, nor spruce holly-hedges; 'tis all "true Nature to advantage dressed;" the ver­dure is voluptuous, the flower-beds well weed­ed, the shrubbery gratefully shaded, and the alcove smiles upon the Thames.

Within this alcove I yesterday took the tea that was prepared by the hand of SOPHIA, [Page 121] whose husband had invited me pressingly; to make the solitude of his lady more social by my company, as he was himself under the ne­cessity of taking a journey into SUSSEX.

As you love brooks and books, hills and rills, my dear Mr. THORNTON, said he, smilingly, you and SOPHY will be able to pass away your time to your mutual satisfaction, till the return of your friend.

Poor unsuspicious pair!

They united their entreaties, and prevailed: Lieutenant VERNON set out, and left to thy friend (in trust) the most beautiful property upon the Thames. In a word, he began his journey in the fragrant coolness of yesterday's evening, and I was left at full liberty to abuse the confidence he placed in my integrity, and, in return for his hospitality, do my utmost to destroy the chastity of her, whom he doats upon with the sincerest tenderness.

The tear which she dropt upon his hand as she kissed it, at parting, drew from him another, accompanied by such a look, as defies either tongue, pen, or pencil, and went at the time so close to my heart, that I could not but imagine the passion betwixt two, was more exquisite [Page 122] than if it were divided betwixt two-and-twen­ty. One man and one woman, thought I, may certainly be happier than a Sultan; and I had rather possess the real, undissimulated love of a SOPHIA VERNON, than command the keys of the seraglio.

SOPHIA remained pensive, and sighed after the travelling Lieutenant.

I examined the little library for a book to entertain her. CHESTERFIELD was there, but I did not think it a proper book to read, as I would wish to keep the maxims as far out of the sight of a female as possible: for when a woman is told the secret of her seduction, she will naturally be upon her guard against the se­ducer; and, really, STANHOPE unfolds the art with such perspicuity, that she who runs may read; nay, even thy footman comprehends the whole system, and hath, according to account, ruined his woman with a very tolerable address.

By the bye, SEDLEY, I have to accuse thee of two weak pieces of conduct. The first is, thy rashness in trusting the epistles of thy pre­ceptor to the flighty HARRIET, who might have heedlessly shewn them to HORACE, by which means (as thou art a very striking com­mentary upon the chapters of CHESTERFIELD) [Page 123] he would have had a clue to the original sources of thy present conduct; and a detection of this kind would have been totally insupportable. Thy other fault is, thy carelessness, and, I might say, want of policy, in exposing the vo­lumes which thou so pretendest to venerate, to the plebeian eyes of thy valet. Lock them up, I pray thee, for the time to come; and if thou art resolved to proceed in reducing them to practice, do it privately.

In regard to SOPHIA, my endeavours to di­vert her thoughts from the beloved subject of their contemplation, were in vain: the Lieute­nant mingled in every idea, and she had pas­sions, sighs, sentiments, and sensations, only for Mr. VERNON. I recited to her an elegy from HAMMOND, and she wept, in the sincerity of her heart, over images so amiable, and so simi­lar to those now suggested by her own situation. I wished to divert her, by reading to her the oddities of corporal Trim, and uncle Toby; but she was in no disposition to be delighted with the whimsical strokes of a fine but irregular wit. I even adverted to the irresistible sallies of HARRY FIELDING, and displayed to her the master-piece of narrative, in the laughable scene of Parson ADAMS pursued by the hounds and hunters. She was proof even against this, and [Page 124] afforded it only a faint smile. She then tried what a walk in the garden would do: she cri­ticised the colours of the tulips, and descanted with moral delicacy on the pleasing progress of vegetable Nature; but, alas! even here a sigh would break in upon her remark, and very e­vidently convince me, that Pope was not so ro­mantic in the pastoral sentiment, which ob­serves, ‘Absence is surely death to those who love.’ In short, SEDLEY, whatever might be the temptation before me, and however as­siduous I was to gratify it, it was not now the moment to begin the attack; and every thing I said, only served to shew me more plainly, that, if I would wish to please her, it must be by warmly talking of a man, whom it was my in­terest to wean from her affections. Perceiving this, I gave way to sympathy, and most cordi­ally united my tears to hers, and joined in the most animated encomiums on her happy Lieu­tenant. These tears, however, SEDLEY, and those praises, gave me a soothing softness not to be described, and made me feel a thousand times more agreeable than while I repressed them, in the hope of turning my thoughts to the husband's dishonour, and the wife's destruc­tion. Is not this, SEDLEY, a parallel case to that of thine? If thou wert more happy at [Page 125] doing a just action to thy bath-maid, than an unjust one, by undoing the lively HARRIET; I am more happy at having conquered an incli­nation, which would have tormented my own fancy, tortured a "generous, trusting friend," and agonized the bosom of a woman, whose reputation is at present unsuspected, and un­polluted.

Hence then, my dear SEDLEY, it appears, that we are now both exulting in the triumph of a similar sensation—a sensation created by the social virtues, and derived purely from the felicity of others. Upon this subject I have but one point to observe: it is, to continue the tri­umph. Let us even cherish a transport, which is superior to any that dissimulation can give: let us throw away the perplexing mask of the casuistical CHESTERFIELD: let us walk in the right way: and, since it hath already rewarded us so well, let us prefer truth to falshood, and honesty to hypocrisy: for, believe me, my dear, dear SEDLEY, under whatever name we may distinguish vice and virtue, they remain eter­nally the same; and neither sophistry, nor sub­tlety, nor fashion, nor the sanctified follies of the mode, can possibly palliate the atrociousness of the one, or detract from the native excellence of the other. PENMEN may puzzle, PHILOSO­PHERS [Page 126] may refine, POETS may colour, and visionaries may suggest as they please, but, while the traces of Nature remain, virtue will be fair, and vice deformed; and, in my opinion, that man's maxims are extremely contradictory and fallible, who, in the same volume, nay, sometimes in the same epistle, inculcates a deli­cate regard to moral character, and an attack upon those human weaknesses, from the hu­mouring of which (assisted by a proper mix­ture of well applied flattery) we are to prey upon each other, to prepare ourselves for deceit, and, if the system were general, introduce, by these means, even while we sanctify the most dangerous delusions. For my part, SEDLEY, I tell thee again, and again, that I find a flaw in thy STANPHOPE, and shall read him, for the future, with the eye of a severe critic, and not an idolater—not a PHILIP SEDLEY.

LETTER LIII. SEDLEY to THORNTON.
(Prior to his Receipt of the last Letter.)

THE ceremony has been performed. I in­sisted on its being done in the face of the congregation: I gave THOMAS a purse for his wedding dinner, and so the poor wench is again made a mighty honest woman.

Never heard I panegyrics more warm, or bet­ter circulated than those reverberated from lip to lip upon this occasion; and I could almost bless the fellow for a debauch, that hath added such lustre to my character. I am the very heroic ballad of the bath; and the negligence, which I seem to pay to the praises, only serves to encrease, and make me appear more deserv­ing of them. But what a simpleton I was, to yield to the baby sensation which seized me, unawares, in my last. To do good is, indeed pleasing, and I will on that principle continue to do it, as occasion invites; but is there not an higher motive, thou wilt say, than this? Is there not religion? Pshaw!—

Yes, pious THORNTON, there is a higher motive. I am determined to do as much good [Page 128] as is necessary. It flatters the senses, it gratifies vanity, it procures eclat, it promotes conquest, it extends our triumph over a sex that was born for our amusement.—The trifling action just recorded, backed by a few more that I have not patience to recite, hath made me so popular amongst all ranks of people in this village, from my Lady in her bathing-shift, to her tawdry attendants of the towel, that defy any-thing but my own folly, to mark me down an object of suspicion.

I have established my reputation, THORN­TON, upon the solid basis of virtuous actions; I have decorated the superstructure, with the graces of conduct; and now, no man will dare to imagine this goodly edifice is but a whitened sepulchre. If he doth, men, women, and children, shall defend me. Possibly thou mayst imagine, that I have earned my pleasures by difficult adoption of the STANHOPEAN system. No, THORNTON, I have a taste for them. I do not ‘inflict excesses upon myself, because I think them genteel,’ but I find these pur­suits "guard me against frivolousness," and prevent me ‘from throwing away upon tri­fles, that time, which only important things, deserve.’ In a word, I tell thee once more, [Page 129] I view the Lord of my idolatry only as a man earlier skilled than myself, in the arts of being truly and triumphantly happy: and in this light he deserves my everlasting gratitude; for he hath taught me ‘to make every place I go to, the scene of quick and lively transports; to let every company I frequent, gratify my passions; to know the true value of time; and to snatch, to seize, and to enjoy, every moment.’

Of this enough: the remainder of my letter shall be dedicated to the delicious purpose of recording several events, which have fallen out, by the joint effort of destiny and contri­vance, since my last.

I have had a second glance at the delicate but decaying features of FANNY. Tempted by the chearfulness of the morning, she ven­tured, under the supporting arms of a husband, and sister,—fair, fragile creature,—to walk from her lodgings to the bathing-house. She saw me, but drew away her eye, and never di­rected it towards me again. Her husband bowed to me, as to the polite stranger, who had interested himself so in the welfare of his be­loved: the sister inclined her head, and curt­sey'd more than civilly—it was the bend, ra­ther [Page 130] of attention, than ceremony. It was, altogether, a short, soft, silent scene, fit for a Deity to behold. But it was interrupted; for at this moment, many a lank-haired swain, yet humid with the bath, and a cluster of wo­men, still glowing from the immersion, ap­peared in view. They were instantly attracted by the passing meteor, gazed, envied, and went on. Well, indeed, might they gaze—well might they envy, THORNTON: the rose again emulates the lilly, in her cheek: the blue is like the blue of the elements: her arm, is ani­mated alabaster; and the hand, to which it be­longs, is shaped, by the Divinity of woman, to inspire, by its appearance, and ENFEVER by its touch.

[I defy Dictionaries, and will create words when I think proper—I say again— enfever.]

After this, as she was preparing to return, a servant came hastily to inform Mr. MORTI­MER, that Sir HENRY DELMORE was arrived. They quickened their pace a little; the nerves of surprise were shaken; FANNY attempted to step briskly; but failed in the effort. The good Baronet, impatient, and eager to behold his children, came forward in his boots to meet them. They met. My heart bounded—I know not the reason.

[Page 131] Oh, THORNTON, what a figure is the Knight! how noble!—how venerable!—how fa­shionable!—But, alas! all surprizes, even those of the most pleasing kind, are too much for the feeble situation of FANNY. Her fa­ther soon saw her confusion, softened it by a paternal kiss, and assisted in conducting her gently to her lodgings. In something less than an hour, I received the inclosed; which is the luckiest incident in the world to me, and which, by the time this reaches you, I hope to improve to some pleasurable purpose.

Listen, now, to ill-luck—HARRIET HOMESPUN is fonder of me, and better bred to Horace than ever. She has a wonderful apti­tude to learn, and will in time be, no doubt, a female STANHOPE. Yet she must not be too fond—Passion, over-much, is treacherous. But what a lucky thing it is for us, that Ho­race hath so great an appetite for a long walk by himself after dinner! and how infinitely is he, and indeed ought he to be, obliged to me, for administering so much consolation to his wife in his absence! But—I am determined to do all the good I possibly can.

Surely, THORNTON, there is nothing so [Page 132] grateful as serving a friend. You see, I am uncommonly serious to-day.

LETTER LIV. Sir HENRY DELMORE to PHILIP SEDLEY, Esq (Inclosed in the above)

I AM made truly happy, at least as much so as the present situation of my family will admit, to hear that I am again likely to be ho­noured by the company of a gentleman, to whose society I am already indebted for so much pleasure. It is no small addition, Sir, to this pleasing expectation, to find that the many friendly enquiries that have from time to time been made, concerning the health of my poor FANNY, proceeded from the very man to whom the father of that beautiful invalid owed so many agreeable hours at SCARBOROUGH.

But how ceremonious was it, Mr. SEDLEY, that you should all this while have estranged yourself, and appeared only in the light of a person interested in the fate of the sick, but not [Page 133] allied to the parent of that dear unfortunate, by any closer or warmer reciprocations of a former friendship?

I know, for my part, of but one way to ex­cuse this punctilious behaviour, and that is, your embracing the first hour of your leisure to join your hand with that of, Sir,

LETTER LV. The Reverend HORACE HOMESPUN to Doctor DIGGORY.

WHAT can possibly be the reason of your so long silence? I now want your advice on a momentous subject.

The time of my sojourning at thi [...] watering­place is expired, my curacy can no longer be deserted, and I must return to it at all events on Saturday, or the duty of the Sabbath must be neglected.

Notwithstanding this, Mrs. HOMESPUN a­gain [Page 134] complains of her ankle, and says the an­guish of it is now got higher than her knee; and she is, therefore, resolved to undergo the operation of pumping upon the part affected, by which means I shall be obliged to leave her behind, or else bring her away much against her own choice; which, notwithstanding my want of faith as to the knee and ankle, I do not think myself entitled to do, seeing that she hath demeaned herself most cordially.—The fact is, she is quite in love with the frivolous pleasures of this puerile place, in which, were it not for the instructive and entertaining con­versations of my friend SEDLEY, I should not be able to support its customs. As my wife, however, seems resolved, I have thought of an expedient to supply my absence for a few days longer. HARRIET hath a friend in our neigh­bourhood—a Mrs. LA MOTTE—who is a very discreet, sensible, and judicious widow-woman, and who, I am persuaded, will not only do me the service of passing a few days at the bath, but likewise urge all the arguments of which she is mistress, to wean the affections of her friend from this circle of vanity, and reduce her once more to the standard of common­sense, and the serene pleasures of a country­village.

[Page 135] I want your council, my dear Doctor, on the following subject. Mr. SEDLEY has applied in my favour to the Bishop of—, respecting the living of—, which is worth neat 2001. Per annum. Mr. SEDLEY is in hourly ex­pectation of a reply to this, and I am already so overwhelmed with the kindnesses of this worthy gentleman, (who hath done them in a manner peculiar to his character) that I am in doubt whether I ought to increase a debt it will be ever beyond my ability to discharge. HAR­RIET'S little fortunes, united to the profits of my curacy, are sufficient to the purposes of a contented mind. My parsonage, you know, Doctor, is in the very bosom of a beautiful wood, through which I have been accustomed to ramble with a social classic in my hand; my parishioners love me; the little garden is of my own cultivation; I turned the arch, and twisted the woodbines around my bower with my own fingers; the birds are protected, and nest with me in perfect security; and if I could but once make HARRIET in love with it again, I believe I should not quit it without a sigh. But one circumstance weighs with me. I have the dear prospect of a successor: to it I owe an interest I should not feel for myself. HARRIET is very far advanced in her pregnancy. A child, my [Page 136] dear friend, enlarges the wishes of a father; a tear is ready to fall on my letter, as I think upon the increase of my family. To his off­spring a man owes every thing.—Tell me, then, dear DIGGORY, what I must do.

LETTER LVI. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

THE plot begins to thicken, and the cata­strophe only demands good contrivance to be made delightful. HORACE HOMESPUN goes away from the bath to-day, in order to mount the rostrum, and preach up the good old cause to-morrow; HARRIET will be all this evening with me alone, left wholly to my kindness; and, to crown the whole, the scheme is at last laid to bring the haughty-hearted LA MOTTE within the reach of my machinations. If there needs any further addition to these fe­licities, know, THORNTON, that I am hand and glove with Sir HENRY DELMORE, and hand and heart, I shall soon be, with FANNY MOR­TIMER; the enchanting DELIA looks not with [Page 137] eye inverted, and MORTIMER himself hath made advances to intimacy. Under these cir­cumstances thou wilt not expect that I can at­tend to thy long epistolary sermon, which I herewith re-inclose thee for thee for a present to the parson of thy parish, against the death of Mrs. ARABELLA, thy grandam, when it will afford many admirable hints for the funeral oration of that pious and puritanical old lady.

Whenever thou sendest such a string of common-place proverbs, depend upon receiv­ing them again, and always with the charge of double postage. So take the hint, and thank me for the warning.

LETTER LVII. Miss DELIA DELMORE, to Lady LUCY SAXB [...].

WHAT an additional degree of happiness do I feel, since I last wrote to my be­loved Lady LUCY! My father is arrived, my sister is recovering, and we are become ac­quainted with a man whose company is at once pleasing, instructive, and various. The very gentleman, my dear LUCY, who hath so fre­quently [Page 138] sent his polite cards of enquiry con­cerning FANNY, proves to be a man of birth, rank, and character, and well known both to Sir HENRY, and Mr. MORTIMER, when they were last season at the bath of SCARBOROUGH. He is the most well bred and complaisant cha­racter in the world, and has, at the first inter­view, all the ease, firmness, and unembarrassed air of an old acquaintance. The assured, yet modest manner with which he presents himself to a company, shews plainly that he has been long accustomed to fashionable societies, and would charm you. If FANNY continues to recover, we shall be once more a joyful family—my mother is also down with us.

We have taken part of a very elegant house, only a short ride from the company, about three miles distant from BUXTON, and it stands upon a spot infinitely less bleak and barren than the uncomfortable looking mountains that surround the bath. I received the welcome epistle, dear LUCY, in which you enjoin me to fill up the interval of absence, in a correspondence of wis­dom, wit, sentiment, and affection; but does not my fair friend forget that the requisites to form and to continue such an intercourse, are not at the command of every scribbler, though the partiality of nature, and the polish of high­breeding, [Page 139] may confer them on herself? How­ever, since you are so earnest with me, I will pour out my soul imperfectly upon paper; and though I may be wanting in point of elegance or accuracy, the deficiencies will be compen­sated by a frankness of mind, and an undisguise of sentiment, that will pay a better compliment to my LUCY'S candour, than all that could possibly be bestowed by the flowers of rhetoric, or colourings of the imagination.

I the more readily yield to your urgencies, my LUCY, as my pen, at this period, can only be the intelligencer of a felicity at once virtu­ous and endearing.

It is said, indeed, that mankind have always some fantastical and visionary scheme in view. I declare to you, Lady SAXBY, that the perfect restoration of FANNY'S health is the only drop that could now be added to the cup of our do­mestic joy. Judge yourself! for the visible al­teration of Mrs. MORTIMER for the better, hath put me into such spirits, that I cannot restrain my gratitude to the dear personage by which those spirits are inspired. Take then, my beloved LUCY, the sketch of a family­picture, drawn (and yet not partially) by the pencil of a relation.

[Page 140] The first, and principal figure in this group is, a father, whose mind is the repository of e­very virtue—a repository in which he has been, from hour to hour in the career of almost threescore years, laying up something valuable, till he hath at length stored it with every ex­cellence; with all, LUCY, that can give worth to the husband, softness to the parent, solidity to the friend, benevolence to the neighbour, and humanity to the man: to which is added, a universal attention to the wants and com­plaints, the fortunes, and morals of that prodi­gious body of men to which he is related only by sameness of [...] and the conscious ties of the christian and fellow-creature.

The second leading object in the piece is a mother, the model of her husband; and differ­ing only, by adapting the manly virtues to a de­licacy more consistent with the refinement and gentleness of the female character, and nature.

The third figure, to which I would direct your observation, is, the still lovely FANNY MORTI­MER,—a woman whom even the depredations of four lingering months, passed in the lan­guors of sickness, have not rendered unat­tracting. To a spirit at once wise and worthy, she superadds the finest politeness, gentleness uncommon, and meekness peculiar to her: and [Page 141] to these, again, are joined a taste elegant and simple—an understanding enlarged and culti­vated,—and a face, in defiance of distemper, in which Heaven seems to have painted an at­tribute in every feature: her eyes sparkles be­nignity, her lips are the temples of truth, her cheeks are the emblems of modesty veiled in roses, and her hands were formed by the Graces to the best of purposes—to charm, by their liberality, the wretched into peace, and to be (consistently with their colour) the pure and beautiful stewards of a heart tender as a tur­tle's, yet solid as a sage's.

The husband of this enchanting creature, is the brother of Lady SAXBY, the very counter­part of his sister, and the very youth whom Sir HENRY DELMORE adopted as the child of his affection, undertook for several years the di­rection of his education, supplied the loss of a father, trained him up for his own, and at last gave him, all-accomplished, to the only wo­man that could deserve him—his daughter. His character is recorded in most of the Euro­pean courts; and it is but a mere reverberation of a familiar echo for me to say, that he has been every where distinguished, for bravery without rashness, honour without ancestral [Page 142] pride, elegance without vanity, affection with­out interestedness, and generosity without o­stentation.

Such, LUCY, are the outlines of a picture now under the eye of your friend. Your ab­sence, however, and FANNY's uncertain state of health, are the two dark clouds that overcast my otherwise radiant horizon.

In some measure, however, to atone for these indispensible draw backs, I can now promise an often-repeated intercourse, in which, through the kind medium of the post, our pleasures, with those of our families, shall be reciprocated—But—in the name of extravagance, where am I a rambling—and what a metaphorical rhapsody am I going to send? Let me hasten then to assure you, that, in all dispositions of mind,. I am, with a tenderness, peculiar to the truth of my attachment,

LETTER LVIII. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

THE fates, surely, are busied in contriving matters precisely as I would have them.

[Page 143] The DELMORES are removed at some dis­tance from BUXTON, by which means, I shall be able to prevent opposite interests from clashing with each other.

I prithee, THORNTON, mark my policy, to which I have, even at the age of thirty, sacri­ficed my passion—passion which is equally de­structive of pleasure and business—I have put myself in training, and am as temperate as a saint—You shall judge. Knowing the little fugitive scandals and whispers of a watering­place, I practised upon myself the STAN­HOPEAN self-denial, and have not been a single minute alone with HARRIET since the de­parture of HORACE. To prevent this I con­trive to call in, either the loquacious landlord, or chattering landlady; and have only conversed in their own way, upon topics, which, though important at the moment, are yet too trivial to send thee one hundred and sixty miles: they answered very well my purpose—I say well: for strange as it may seem to thee, I hold it not good policy, or right reason, nor consonant to CHESTERFIELDISM, to have tete-a-tetes with a wife, when the husband is known to have left the town; nor am I—mark the stroke—very well pleased with the incautious HAR­RIET, [Page 144] for suffering herself to be deserted, and exposed to the report, and murder of the mo­ment. In these places detraction is a necessary filler-up of the vacuum;

The death of reputation is the death of my sort of gallantry. I would not be thought a libertine, either in thought, word, or deed, for the universe. 'Tis expressly, and flagrantly a­gainst my SYSTEM, which places, thou know­est, the very perfection of human nature, and the height of human abilities, in "being upon our own guard, and yet, by a seeming natural openness, to put people off theirs." Oh, exqui­site, exquisite arguer!—"A second DANIEL, THORNTON; a second DANIEL!"

Now, in cases of amour, it is, in conformity to this principle, absolutely necessary, that, a husband should be upon the premises, though not upon the spot; otherwise there is no possi­bility of avoiding mystery; beware of that: mystery occasions suspicion, suspicion opens a door to detection, and detection ruins me for­ever. The ordinary rake, indeed, piques him­self upon this, nay, circulates it at the expence of truth: that's villainous.

But the pupils of CHESTERFIELD are not such "rude, vain-glorious, boasters." They are to preserve their moral sanctity, even in the midst of (what gownsmen call) violation: they are to be, not only of good report, but, like the pu­rity of Caesar's wife, unsuspected. He who designs to be the worst man in the world, must seem to be the best▪ Probatum est. I am considered as an apostle.

Oh! may this ingenuity and well-acted dis­simulation ever keep me, THORNTON, from being blown upon; and, to this end, may I never withdraw the deep and dear veil that keeps me apparently pure, one moment from my heart! May I ever possess the ingenuous exterior, with the reserved interior; may I ne­ver reject, as troublesome, or useless, the mas­tery of my temper; and, above all other things, may I always possess myself enough to hear, and see, every thing, however anxious, how­ever agonizing, without any visible, change of countenance! (The countenance is often the forest enemy a man has.) May no man living ever be able to decypher the hieroglyphics of my heart; and yet, may I keep the key of every [Page 146] other heart in the universe, and, to conclude my prayer, which I here fervently address to the spirit of STANHOPE, let hypocrisy place before me her shield, of beautiful deception, under which I may fight my foolish antagonist, for ever guarded, and for ever victorious!

These little effusions that burst spontaneous­ly from the soul, thou must pardon, THORN­TON: they are the fiats of the God—But I de­scend again to the mortal correspondent.

I perceive the adroitest practice of the several points suggested by the matchless DORMER, will be shortly necessary; for never did I enter so sagacious, or so uniformly amiable a family as that of the DELMORES. I must muster all my forces. The whole family is a fortification against a Pupil of Pleasure.

The principal of it (Sir HENRY) is so acute, so adorned, so read, and so experienced, that he must, I perceive, be deceived with a delicacy beyond the deceptions of Belial: and much wonder I opened not myself to his penetrating discovery when at SCARBOROUGH; at a time too, when I was a novice in the ways of STANHOPE, and could not be supposed to copy him liberally. But, my good genius preserved [Page 147] me, and I engaged, even in the nonage of my experiments, the hand of the father, while I struck hard upon the tender heart of his daughter!

Lay down the paper a moment to bow in reverence to my greatness! Dost thou not shrink in the comparison? To proceed—There's a formidable husband too in my way—no HORACE HOMESPUN—but a man of travel, experience, taste,—a second sister too—the lively DELIA—a wit, a corresponder, a perfect pen-woman; ready, rapid, an asker of whys and wherefores: and to close the list, a venerable matron—wise—virtuous—sedato—penetrating—the lady president of this bewitching association.

All these are in battle array against me—my single self—formidable PHALANX! Give me joy! If they are not versed (as I believe they are not) in my maxims, I may be a match for all them; pass like a meteor, through this difficult hemisphere—kindle as I go—and dread no radiant competitor. But if thou fallest, SED­LEY? Insolent interrupter!— If I fall—What of that? Admitting the possibility—it will be like a fall from Heaven. I shall be glorious in ruins; and CHESTERFIELD—for I will not [Page 148] survive detection—should not blush to ac­knowledge me in elysium. Oblivion to your Ifs, for ever!

As to HARRIET—the affair is over: no­thing is left even for the exercise of my talents: the precept by which I obtained her, has been successful in practice: all that remains, is ITE­RATION. Passion hath not a single provoca­tive, to keep the pulse a-beating. Her fond­ness grows luxuriant, and she may betray me. She must be checked. To confess the truth, THORNTON—I am indifferent to her, and I wish HORACE had her, locked in his arms to eternity, with all my soul.

Am not I the most generous man existing?

At all events, she must not entertain such ardent expectations—for—I am summoned elsewhere—a scene of greater difficulty, great­er delicacy, and, therefore, of greater delight, expands itself before me.—The half-con­quered—half-expiring FANNY MORTIMER, who must not descend, unenjoyed by SEDLEY, to the earth—The worm, THORNTON, must not be suffered to riot in her beauties: 'twould be a pity—a profanation! The exquisite and vivacious DELIA, also, attracts my notice. I [Page 149] am called to the combat—a combat, where the laurels will be trebly precious, since I per­ceive they must be earned with all the artillery of manner, address, assurance, and CHESTER­FIELDISM.

Every nerve must be exerted!

In pursuance of these objects, however, I shall probably, be often so animated as to wish enjoyments, that, it may be impolitic, to push too far: every thing is ripe for the coup de grace.

In such exigencies, it is difficult to keep the tight rein in my hand: the warmth of imagina­tion,—that enemy to all political decorum,—and an acquaintance with objects, and situa­tions, calculated to set it on fire, seem inconsist­ent with the necessary coolness, collection, and command of one's temper. To provide, there­fore, against these moments of ardour, I shall, if LA MOTTE comes down, retain the ena­moured HARRIET in my suit, as the agreeable resource from agitations into which, it is likely, I shall be thrown by the charms, delays, or delicious impediments, of the DELMORES.

Possibly, too, something may fall out to re­duce LA MOTTE, which, be her personal en­dowments what they may, is desirable; because [Page 150] she is prepared to suspect my principles, and, therefore, will engage my more serious atten­tion, till she shall have little reason to ridicule; or laugh at her friend. That woman is worth subduing, THORNTON, though she were a JE­ZEBEL. Thy friend is an admirable leveller. I hate pride.

But, on the other hand, if this LA MOTTE does not move, at the injunction of HORACE, nor at the pretended penitence of the letter­loving HARRIET; and, by those means, HAR­RIET should be left to herself, she must abso­lutely return to the bosom of the poor pedant, and I will assuredly sacrifice the possession of her person, to the unblemished security of my character, which, I am aware, must inevitably suffer, by being avowedly the cicisbeo of a wife, little distinguished amongst the bathers and bibbers of fashion. Yes, my friend, she must be, in that case, turned over to the priest, tho', I were to famish for the blessings of beauty.

If, indeed, she had been blessed with a fallow damsel for a sister, or pale-faced prudent gen­tlewoman for her aunt, it might have been a­nother matter: but I again repeat it to you, that in a place like this, in such a sneaking, inquisitive country as that of Britain, it is, to [Page 151] all intents and purposes, requisite, for the secu­rity of my SYSTEM, that there should be some third person in a family, by the way of screen; and rather than have our mistresses alone, that is, unprotected by some ostensible he, or she, that may be, or appear to be, answerable for them in the parish where they visit, or where they reside, it is better for our plan of action, that we be sheltered, under the withered wing of a maiden cousin of a century's standing, or even of the great grandmother herself.

And now, THORNTON, for a word or two on thy own affairs. If thou hast not, by this time, surmounted the ticklings of thy con­science, and taken possession of that tender te­nement, which thy friend the Lieutenant left to thee, then deservest thou to be for ever dis­carded. A coward in love!—Oh, abomin­able!—Retrieve thyself, I charge thee!

What! Hast thou an angel in "earth's mould?" Is she in a wilderness of sweets? Art thou invited by a bed of roses? Art thou neither in fear of being blasted by detection, nor of in­curring the prattle of a single gossip of either sex, (seeing that thou art in a retirement per­fectly shaded by a shrubbery of persumes, and apart from a second house) and is the good [Page 152] man of the house gone a long journey into a far country?—Is all this in the way of propi­tiating thy advances, masked, as I presume they would, or at least as they ought to be, in the fine veil of modesty, manner, and firmness, each (like co-partners, whose interest it is, to pro­mote common right in the same business) as­sisting the other? and dost thou, after all, boggle at a shadow—a maukin—at conscience?

Admitting even all thy wishes crowned with success?—where's the mischief? Thou dost not despoil her: the Lieutenant is ignorant of what is granted, as of what was never attempt­ed. The STANHOPE scheme of fruition suf­fers us not to do any real injury to individuals singly, or to the community collectively; (note me nicely, for I am about to argue) we are nei­ther to betray the wife, nor brand the husband as the cuckold we have had the pleasure to make him; we are not to breathe an accent that may lead to the remotest suspicion. In some cases, THORNTON, this system is of the utmost service (under the STANHOPEAN re­strictions, I mean) both to our King and coun­try. Dost thou start? Oh, short of sight! Pur­blind, pusillanimous JAMES!—Proceed to the proof—'Tis at the end of my pen.

[Page 153] How many puny striplings are there who cannot do the common rights of nuptial justice to the unhappy creatures whom either interest, or folly, or both, have chained them to, for life? In those instances, it is ours to bestow as a favour, what the husbands cannot discharge as a duty. There is one illustration.

On the other hand, how many miserable pairs are there, sighing for an heir to an un­wieldy estate, which estate must, in default of issue, devolve to the next fool or driveller in descent? There, again, we are patriots of the first order: We provide a successor, and create a being to inherit all the luxuries of life. It is beyond dispute, CHESTERFIELDISM makes a man not more an ornamental, than a supporting pillar to his country.

Nay, even supposing the husband enabled to provide for himself: while our system dictates so inviolable a secrecy, while the joys of it are not invaded by distemper (and they can never be granted without the prior consent of the wife—mark that—and such consent implies such variety necessary to her happiness)—no injury can, in effect, be incurred. His own offspring we cannot destroy; and ours will be considered as legitimate; he will have the cre­dit, [Page 154] we shall have the pleasure, and they, pretty souls, will not be exposed, like the by blows of the rake, to the scorn, desertion and ill-fortunes of bastardy. So that, view the system of our exquisite Earl on which side soever you will, it is a system of policy, prudence, pleasure, good-fellowship, and right reason.

Art thou either poor-spirited or obstinate e­nough to cavil, or hesitate, another moment?

Great length of paper, and much time, have I stolen from more agreeable pursuits, to illus­trate this to thee—and if it move thee not, thou art altogether impenetrable, and not de­serving so sublime a friend as the immaculate

LETTER LIX. Mrs. La Motte to Mrs. Homespun.

I AM sorry to refuse the worthy Mr. Home­spun (who hath, I perceive, been obliged to return without his wife) a request, which I very plainly see was made to me in the tender­ness of his heart.

You do me but justice in supposing that I will keep your unhappy secret, as you very properly call it; for it is no small infelicity to make a secret of any sort necessary to the fame of a woman, and the peace of a whole family, whose connections would all be dishonoured by a disclosure.

[Page 4] As far, therefore, as my silence can contri­bute to your domestic tranquillity, you may depend upon me; though I cannot but think, she who hath confidence enough to abuse her husband, should have policy enough to conceal the particulars of her crime from a confidant; and I know not whether the very knowledge of such circumstances, is not an insult to her virtue.

Your poor husband gave us, yesterday, as usual, an admirable discourse. There was in it some softening sentiments relating to the pure pleasures of married felicity, which I could not but imagine were suggested by his own situation: he loves you, Harriet, most fondly, and I could not avoid giving to senti­ments, which I connected with certain others, the tribute of a tender tear. All the parishion­ers, and especially the talkative part of them, express their astonishment, some by whispers, others by winks, and all by looks, or other ex­pressive gestures, that Mrs. Homespun should continue where she has neither relations nor acquaintances. It is easy to see that Mr. Home­spun is the only unsuspicious person in the vil­lage; while he, wrapt up in the integrity of his soul, and guarded by his good opinion of [Page 5] you, supposes you will soon regret his absence, and return to him.

After service he drank tea with me, and with tears in his eyes, first urged my going to Bux­ton; then, (finding my refusal established) beg­ged I should, at least, try the effect of my in­treaties to invite you back: he even went so far as to hint, with all a father's glow upon his cheek, at the little necessary preparations against the day in which you are expected to present him with a testimoy of your truth and tenderness. There are various maternal cau­tions, said he, you know, my dear Mrs. La Motte, to be taken in such interesting situations; and, perhaps, the constant bustles of that wa­tering place, may for a while, lull to sleep, or rather agitate her into forgetfulness of those cares that generally alarm the provident appre­hension of her, who is in a very few weeks to be a mother.

The painting was too powerful. I rose to conceal my sympathy, he pressed me by the hand, in visible disorder, and protesting that he left his fate to my management, saluted me, in his honest way, and went to perform the last offices to a poor woman, (Alice Weldon) who [Page 6] died last Wednesday in child-bed of the babe, whose father is not yet acknowledged. I told your husband, Harriet, I would exert my pow­er, without telling him that I had long lost my influence.

As you were not touched by my former let­ters, particularly one of them, I despair of mov­ing you by the present, having no new argu­ments to offer: nor should I, indeed, have troubled you at all, but that I did it, in com­pliance to your much injured, and my ever esteemed friend, Mr. Homespun, whom I ad­mire, chiefly, for the very simplicity, to which you made an objection. By the ardour with which he speaks of that Mr. Sedley, upon all occasions, I perceive you have not been se­duced by a novice, and yet, I cannot possibly imagine how he has contrived to make the husband his friend, at the very time that he has betrayed the wife into the thorny paths of personal impurity. Be this at it may, he must be a very artful creature, and, exclusive of my not going into the same lodging with the polluted Harriet, I do not choose to lay myself liable to the insult of being even the ri­dicule of a man, who, doubtless, asperses, even more than he destroys.

[Page 7] It may not, however, be amiss to observe, in conclusion, that, if your return to this place is not speedy, it will probably be attended with consequences, for which no after-penitence can possibly atone.

LETTER LX. From the Same to the Same.

MR. Homespun is extremely ill, and much distressed by your refusal to return. I have turned the affair in my mind, and I see, if you come on receipt of this letter, very pro­bably excuses may yet be made, and all may be again happy.

You are still dear to me, Harriet; I wish for nothing so warmly as to embrace you, and to go with you to our accustomed walk in the meadow, opposite your paradise of a cottage. I miss you more and more every day, every hour. Come then, my dear, name the time, [Page 8] Mr. Homespun and I will both meet you at the half-way hut, where we were so happy in a party last summer; he desires you will take a chaise (after you have acquainted us) to that place.

I can no longer be without you; I want you to sit by my side, near your favourite window, round which the jessamine clambers. It is now in full blow; I want you to work with me, while Horace reads, as he used to do, some agreeable author. We have made alterations in my garden: there is a new summer-house, actually surrounded with roses, sweet-briar, and eglantine; I want you to approve. In short, I wish for you, on all accounts, moral and entertaining. Hasten then, dear Harriet, to your

LETTER LXI. From the Same to the Same.

YOUR husband is in his bed; brought thither by the evident indifference of a wife, on whom he doats. What course this [Page 9] illness may take, or where it may end, I know not: the people, however, do not scruple to attribute it to the absence and strange conduct of Mrs. Homespun. Since his sickness, which I do assure you is real, I have considered well the part I am to take in this affair; and, in the hope of restoring a worthy member to the com­munity, by opening his eyes to the demerit of the object for which he sighs, I am not certain, whether I shall not be justified in disclosing to him that which will induce him to change his anxiety into contempt.

I beg you will think of this, and (as I shall wait your answer before I resolve) allow your­self to prevent what must make your infamy public. As to your equivocations, they have now eight with me, and are really too transpa­rent to cheat a child. It is evident you doat on your seducer.

LETTER LXII. Miss Delia Delmore to Lady Lucy Saxby.

FANNY is not worse, and therefore my spirits, which always rise and fall with the pains and pleasures of my friends, are equal to the delightful task of corresponding with my dear Lady Lucy.

In my last I only slightly, and in general terms, mentioned the patrons of my happiness: let me now be more particular. My father has formed himself by such a standard, that his excellencies have a dignity peculiar to the dignity of his manners. He hath ever thought proper to include the friendly in the paternal character; and he inculcates, even to the low­est domestics, a certain sense of independency; a principle, he says, necessary to be maintain­ed even amongst the lowest, and from which branches forth a thousand virtues. In society, says Sir Henry, subordination is certainly indis­pensible, according to the present system; but then, it should be considered, that the balance, of human affairs is oftener, if not always, much more level than we imagine. If we feed the poor, their labour accommodates us: if we [Page 11] pay them for their toil, to that very toil we are indebted for all the softnesses of prosperity: if we provide them with a defence against the severity of seasons, and a chamber so the con­venience of repose, (after they have wearied out their vigour in our service,) let it be re­membered, that, in gratitude for our attention, to them we owe every thing which distinguish­es riches from poverty: under their hands pros­per the delicacies of the garden, and the trea­sures of the field, the decorations of the mansi­on, and the table of plenty, the robe of luxury, and the bed of down.

Actuated by motives so singularly noble, Sir Henry, at a proper crisis, makes each of his children, in some sort, independent, that is, my dear, he allots to each of us such a share of for­tune in our own hands as is sufficient to the display and shew-off of the natural disposition. He esteems it necessary to know the operation of the temper, when it has power to play; this, says he, is not to be known by the common mode of contracting, but of extending; it is impossible to discover any natural propensity, until opportunity gives liberty to all the little passions of the stripling, and indulgence gives way to unshackled inclination.

[Page 12] Educated under such advantages, and the fi­ner polishes of the school given by a father so venerable and superior; the youthful indepen­dant will not turn to his honours, and the pre­cious deposit entrusted to him, to abuse; and, if he does, even then there are many ways which Sir Henry has discovered to turn his de­viating conduct into the proper channel. From kindness like this, Lady Lucy, we are enabled to do nameless occasional little services for the unfortunate; and by such means learn, early, to form ourselves into habits of sympathy and tenderness of heart. I do not, said he, put gold into your purses, children, like some parents, who promise to double the sum, if you shew it unbroken and undiminished, at a future period: I do not give it you to board up like misers, nor to dissipate like little spendthrifts; but I give it you on purpose to change into small silver; it is my desire that you should taste ear­ly the first of pleasures: look about you: it is a world of misery, as well as imposition: mark your object to the best of your abilities, be de­ceived as little as possible, and double your trea­sure by decreasing it; six-penny worth of silver may gain sixty moments of fair reflection: for the banquet at so cheap a rate, provided to a­nother, the bread and water of gratitude, take [Page 13] in exchange the richer feast of a kind heart: and in this case, my dear children, which is the greatest gainer? If you must be usurers, put your money out to such interest; be ambitious of laying it wisely out in the purchase of virtue, and I will supply you chearfully with the means.

We were all walking, Lucy, the other morn­ing, by the side of the bath, when a short, bold, sturdy fellow accosted us for charity. We looked at Sir Henry for our cue: Come along, children, said he, that man is both impudent and able. As we passed by, the fellow drew up his mouth, and shaking a little dirty bag that he drew from his pouch, gingled it over his head, and triumphantly snapt his fingers. When we were at some distance: Take care, dea children, of such impostors: bestow not the moment you are supplicated: try the tem­per of the petitioner: he whom indigence, and the strokes of ill fortune, have not at least ha­miliated, is not yet an object of your generosity. As we were going to our carriage, a decayed veteran, in tattered regimentals, reduced to the knees by the perils of his profession, was en­deavouring to sweep our way with his hat: little Charles ran, without the least hesitation, [Page 14] and gave his bounty. Yes, said Sir Henry, there, my dear lad, you could not be deceived: by whatever means brought about, such a poor wretch must be the mark of liberality.

Opposite, Lucy, to the maxims of the pre­sent age, thus do our parents encourage us in proportion, as we have conduced to the hap­piness of others; and for every trifle well be­stowed, we are rewarded with a present four­fold its value, and that, again, enriched by a smile, that shews how strongly the goodness of the child vibrates on the sensibility of the re­lation.

It is another happiness peculiar to the re­treat of Sir Henry Delmore, that none of its re­sidents are fired by the envy of opposition, or the meannesses of jealousy: so far the reverse of this, that one is studious to compliment the other on some excellence fresh acquired, or more perfected: some display of the heart, newly dis­covered, or some additional grace of the per­son that blooms in the blush, sparkles in the eye, or dimples in the smile.

What, my dear Lucy, can we say to those whose hearts, repugnant to such principles, turn a deaf ear to the music of domestic con­cord? [Page 15] Earthly, groveling creatures, how I pity them! Warm, however, and alive to this sweetest harmony, is my elegant Lady Saxby; she feels the soft impression that is made in every finer bosom by the hand of a divinity. Long, very long, may this charming sensation continue! As long may we remain, in serious principle, the friends, the admirers, the im­provers of one another!

LETTER LXIII. Lady Lucy Saxby to Miss Delia Delmore.

I SHOULD ill deserve the kindnesses you have been pleased to confer upon me, did I refuse the earliest acknowledgment. I am truly glad to hear Mrs. Mortimer is likely to recover, and that you have found such a re­treat as is agreeable to your family, contigu­ous to the bath.

Ah! Miss Delmore, what pictures have you drawn, happy friend, enviable Delia! and yet, [Page 16] still, methinks, is there wanting one article, one principal figure, to compleat your fine and high-coloured family-piece. Why, my dear girl, so forgetful of yourself? Great, as are your present felicities, I am persuaded they admit addition. There is a passion, my Delia, that gives the last fine finish to the bliss of an inno­cent life: it is the animator of every other hap­piness; and I am surprized that a heart so gen­tle as Miss Delmore's should so long remain un­possessed of it. The pleasures of a pure and mutual passion would not be unworthy her attention.

Amongst the various characters in your train of slaves, Delia, is there not one can attract you? Hard-hearted girl, how shall we contrive to captivate you? Surely, you terrify the tribe of humble servants! A modern lover, who has studied only his rotine of rhapsody, and who depends on the repetition and arrangement of a certain number of warm words, his flames and fires, hearts and darts, thrills and hills, groves and loves, Cupids and stupids, had no sort of chance; but when he has run the changes and chimes, till he can do nothing but ring them over again, he is quite at a stand, can go no further, and is lost in his own absurdity, feels [Page 17] feels his own insignificance, and makes his ri­diculous exit. Will you, however, never be caught?

If the rocks of Buxton are too barren, pray hasten to your Worcestershire paradise: your gar­dens there, the ancient seat of the Delmores, contain everything auspicious to the belle passion. You have thickets of roses, which may furnish your sighers with similies, and abundance of bowers, where Cupid may repose on violets: you have beds of primroses to entertain the Silphids, velvet verdure for the dancing fairies, and lucid water, wherein Venus may bathe herself in brooks. But I am mistaken, if you now need this poetical Arcadia. Buxton rocks have their beauties, pray, my dear, let me hear more of this gentleman of birth, rank and cha­racter, this distinguished he, whose conversati­on is so pleasing, instructive, and various: who, at first sight, hath all the ease, firmness, and unembarrassed air of an old acquaintance, and who presents himself so engaging to a compa­ny! Ah! Delia, Delia! my prophecy will yet come to pass; and, if he proves as valuable as you wish to find him, I know you wish it, and so don't deny it, Delia; the most animated prayer of my heart is, that it may be speedily [Page 18] necessary to alter my superscription, whenever I address my fair, and at present, unestablished correspondent. I am a very happy wife my­self, and therefore have the better right and reason to desire you may be in the same situa­tion. However, be this as it may, in all states, changes, and transitions,

LETTER LXIV. Mrs. La Motte to Mrs. Homespun

YOUR attachment to Mr. Sedley, is only an aggravation. Your declaring that you love him, and could sooner die than leave him, is really the cant of a runaway romp of fifteen, who deserves for her naughtiness to be whipped. I have done both writing and arguing you, and have only to give you notice, that, as Mr. Homespun is now really incapable of his duty, through actual, undissembled grief, I have come to a resolution (since neither intreaties, [Page 19] nor any humanity can weigh with you) to ac­quaint him with every circumstance, nay, to make him a present of all your letters to me, if you do not arrive at the Parsonage by Thurs­day next, which is four days from the date of this. I have hitherto fondly attempted to soothe your husband's impatience, by making apologies; he desires me to put a letter, writ­ten with his own weak hand, into the post: he gave it to me sealed, and I inclose it.

LETTER LXV. The Reverend Horace Homespun to Mrs. Homespun. (Inclosed in the above.)

BY some means or other, I have caught, as I think it is, a cold, and that has produced a fever; so that I am obliged (and that must [Page 20] excuse the badness of it) to write this as I sit up in my bed, that bed, my dear, of which an equal part is your property. Though I am not, God be thanked, ill enough to alarm you, yet I cannot but believe your valuable society would materially accelerate my return to health and contribute to my re-establishment. Mrs. La Motte, who always speaks of you with in­conceivable tenderness, has been prevented, as she says, on account of a sore throat, from being with you; and therefore as your company here would be quite a cordial, and as Buxton is not, perhaps, the proper place to be in, without a relation, (even though that tie is almost sup­plied by the civilities of Mr. Sedley, to which worthy gentleman pray tender my hearty re­spects) I could wish you would set off as ear­ly after your receipt of this, as can be made con­venient. But I conjure you, nevertheless, not to put yourself into any hurries, and by all means come in a post-chaise, and by easy stages; and charge the driver to go easily, and pray reward him for his care. Never mind the cost of the journey: consider your present delicate situation, and all the charming hopes, (part of which now bring the water into my eyes) depending upon it. Therefore come leisurely, and it is very likely, as I don't in­dulge [Page 21] fretting under every slight affliction, you may find me considerably amended on your ar­rival at our little retreat, which, though I am just at present, not able to enjoy it, is, me thinks, prettier this summer than I imagined it would be: for all the woodbines I have planted have thriven wonderfully; the laylocks, particularly the purple ones, are leafy and blossomed most luxuriantly; and, what I esteem an addition, an innocent little wren has, even in this, the first season of my residence, built her nest in the very center of my arbour, between two honeysuckles. I declare I would protect the poor thing, and preserve to it all the rights of hospitality and good faith, even at the hazard of my life.

But where am I wandering? You will smile, when I tell you, that though I began in great pain, I now feel little or nothing, except a wea­riness from the uncouthness of my posture. Surely the very reflection upon a beloved ob­ject is a charm against misery! What then, and how powerful, must be the reality? I need not pursue the hint: my best Harriet is not destitute of sensibility.

P. S. I have a melancholy postscript for my dear Harriet. Poor Doctor Diggory has been long confined to his bed, and employed by the last post an amanuensis, to acquaint me that he is incapable of using a pen. Poor, good man, how I love and pity him!

LETTER LXVI. Sedley to Thornton.

OH! Thorton, I wished for difficulties, and they are come pouring upon me with a vengeance. I am absolutely hemmed in by embarrassments: at this moment I am between a Scylla and a Charybdis, and uncommonly skil­ful must be my pilotism, or I must split upon the rocks, and be wrecked for ever. Never was I, since I set out a knight-errant to fight the world behind my more than seven-folded shield of dissimulation, so truly in danger of being discovered; and thou knowest it is with me, as with what the world calls a much bet­ter man.

[Page 23] But, to come to the point, Thornton, I am al­most at the end of my wits. Horace Homespun pines for his absent mate. Mrs. La Motte re­fuses to come down: and urges Harriet to re­turn, upon peril of instant discovery. This very hour did I see such a packet as astonished even me, who am not startled at trifles. La Motte has written with the pen of a Sappho, dipt in the ink of Juvenal. Such asperity, such acumen, such a sting in the tail of every sentence! Horace, too, hath written; written, Thornton, though bed-ridden, full of endear­ment, full of care, full of the husband. I call­ed in upon Harriet, in the very crisis of my fate; she had the whole packet spread upon the table before her, and had just put the fi­nishing to an epistle that would have com­pletely ruined me for ever, had it been sent. I caught it from her with the eagerness of a lion, and I enclose it for thy inspection, that thou may'st judge of my situation, which is not at all amended by Harriet's violent declaration of ungovernable passion and wish to live with me for ever. Oh! that women could learn like me, to gratify the passion of the hour, and think no more of it: but there is no seducing a woman into pleasure, but she is so cursedly ungrateful, as to hug the seducer for ever after, [Page 24] without any regard to time or to place. I have dined too at Delmore's, and thrice caught the eye of Fanny. By my soul, the old fire is yet alive in her. I see it will only be necessary to nurse the embers, and add fresh fuel. How the duce came she to marry? and how is it, that being married, she does not admire her husband, who is one of the finest figures in the creation! As for Harriet, she must be sent home to the pedant: there is no enduring ei­ther her fondness, or the perils arising from it. That damned La Motte, forgive my ill-breed­ing, Thornton; but that confounded woman will be my destruction. Adieu! Adieu! I must cast about for an expedient.

LETTER LXVII. Mrs. Homespun to Mrs. La Motte. (Inclosed by Sedley in the above.)

BY all the agonies and injuries of a desperate woman, driven to extreme by the pangs of conscience and the violences of love, if you dare to betray me, I will make you rue the [Page 25] consequence, though I were to expire in the moment succeeding my revenge. You know my spirit, then fear it, dread it, tremble before it. I will not be discovered, without making the discoverer pay for her treachery, even with the blood of her heart. I have not closed my eyes since the beginning of the week: am in a fever: I twice fell against the wainscot this af­ternoon. Sedley looks colder than he did, but I love him better than either same, fortune, food, or existence: his manner, his address, his figure, his obligingness, even yet charm me. I pity Horace, I love you, indeed I do, I could do any thing for either of you, but leave the sight of Mr. Sedley: I own it. Take care then, do not sport with me: do not abuse the trust I have put in you: for once again, I do most solemnly vow a resentment that shall exchange your life for the loss of my fame.

LETTER LXVIII. Thornton to Sedley.

CHESTERFIELD is a cheat; I am now sure of it, Mr. Sedley. His system is not productive of bosom felicity: it cannot [Page 26] procure the best of all applauses, or the appro­bation that results from a congratulating con­science, however it may deceive the world in­to encomium. Alas! Sir, what are the suc­cesses of hypocrisy or policy, or whatever else you please to call it, when, after all, the in­cense and enjoyment you receive from the pub­lic is paid to our conduct not as it really is, but as it appears to be; and when even after the luckiest efforts of our delusions; when we have put the happiest of his precepts in practice, we are condemned to that reflecting hour, which, at some time or another, will seize us, and which, in despite of manner and pretence, will have it's full measure of recriminating as­perity. In the shame of my heart, Sedley, let me own to thee, that I have been labouring to throw even the guarded virtue of Mrs. Vernon, off its bias. I startled her for the moment, but she recollected herself time enough to pre­vent her misfortune, and I have had address enough to turn the accident to my advantage: she believes me honest, and she shall find me so. I have not now time to relate the particu­lars of this; nor is it, perhaps, necessary, but I seriously wish I could inspire you with any degree of those feelings, I at this moment en­joy, [Page 27] from having totally discarded Stanhope, and listened to the voice of Virtue.

LETTER LXIX.

YOUR eternal reverberation of musty max­ims becomes troublesome. I did not a­dopt the plan of Dormer Stanhope, without suf­ficiently considering every part of it; and if you can find no other subject than the old, rag­ged, thread-bare, common-place topics of Vice and Virtue, I must beg that our correspon­dence be brought to a period. As to what is past, if I did not know your sense of friend­ship, it would be necessary to cut your throat; as it is, I wish you happy in your pursuits.

LETTER LXX. Mrs. Homespun to Mrs. La Motte.

I WILL at all events be with you to-mor­row: the torment that sat brooding over my pillow last night, the horrors of my dream, [Page 28] the situation and trembling that seizes me as I write this, the poor little wretch that seems troubled within me; all, all conjoin to draw me home; I can stay no longer here: Tell Horace of my design, and depend on its being put in execution, by

LETTER LXXI. Philip Sedley, Esquire, to the Reverend Horace Homespun.

I HAVE with infinite pleasure obeyed the injunctions suggested by Mrs. La Motte, in hinting to Mrs. Homespun your anxiety for her return. She heard me with great patience, and very readily consented to go to a husband, whom she so tenderly esteems. I design to see her properly provided with a chaise, and every thing necessary to the delicacy of her situation; and I most heartily pray for your returning health. I hope you will forgive my having sent your lady, my fair, charge, home, with­out my attending her; but you will reflect on [Page 29] the world's aptitude to asperse and censure, and on that account, forgive: for the same rea­son, I have advised Mrs. Homespun to go in the middle of the day, that even a colour might not be given to the ready tongue of detraction. Though Mrs. Homespun will be with you in a few hours after this, I could not forbear antici­pating your felicity, though it should even be but for a moment.

LETTER LXXII. The Reverend Horace Homespun to Philip Sed­ley, Esquire.

THOUGH I am every minute looking out for Harriet, and have sent my ser­vant to the corner of the town to welcome her, and tell her, I am made better by the expecta­tion, yet I cannot, in duty, refuse dispatching to you my thanks for your most generous and affectionate arguments and care. No words are equal to such subjects. I can only say to [Page 30] you, that you have made a sick man well, and a husband happy, and that I pay you the ac­knowledgment of a tear. As to your reward, that, Sir, is placed far beyond me: it is above, and must be given to you only by the Father of all recompence.

LETTER LXXIII. Thornton to Sedley.

CRUEL Sedley, how could'st thou treat me so harshly? But I will neither quit urging to thee the subject of Virtue, nor paint­ing to thee the horrors of Vice; nor will I bring my epistolary correspondence to a period. What! have I myself escaped from the snare, and shall I see the foot of a friend ready to be entrapped, yet not endeavour to rescue him! Forbid it, fidelity; forbid it, honour! Yes, Sedley, I must continue to love, and will perse­vere in admonishing thee; for, in earnest repe­tition, I declare to thee, that Chesterfield is un­able [Page 31] to purchase the delightful and soothing pleasures resulting from my present and new­adopted system, which I am not ashamed to tell thee, (although it is repugnant to thine) is borrowed from the Scriptures: it runs thus, Sedley: ‘Do, as thou would'st wish others should do unto thee,’ This is most palpa­bly the sentiment of true policy as well as true honesty; and I am every day more and more persuaded, that nothing but this will, in the end, prevail. There is a moment, my dear, dissipated Sedley, in which, though thou wert to wear the mask of a forty years success, thou must per force lay it aside, and appear in all the nakedness of Nature. And can there, I ask thee, can there possibly be a more hideous sight than a hypocrite unveiled, where every defor­mity can no longer hide itself from observati­on, when fraud shall be traversed through all its meandering intricacies, even to its soul and polluted source, and when the very heart shall be displayed, without subterfuge, without con­cealments, and without a possibility of either being on its own guard, or throwing others off theirs. By the bye, Sedley, that sentiment, borrowed (as I perceive many of thine are) from the pernicious volumes of thy darling [Page 32] theorist, is subversive of all fair dealing in busi­ness, true affection in a connection with the other sex, and ingenuousness of manners in all human situations.

The Lieutenant is not yet returned, but he hath sent two letters, of which, for certain reasons, I have procured the favour of copies, to inclose you. If thou hast a single minute to spare from the prosecution of thy ruinous sys­tem, read them; and if after that, thou art not made better, if they want efficiency to check thee in the pursuit of pleasure, through the bounds both of law and humanity, farewel to every hope of feeling, farewel to all that orna­ments the real gentleman, farewel to manhood. The first is addressed to me, the second to Mrs. Vernon. On the receipt of mine, which was the very day of my trial to ruin the fair subject of it, judge what I felt: you know my sensibi­lity, and can imagine thy Thornton's situation, when it is poignantly wounded.

LETTER LXXIV. Lieutenant Vernon to Mr. Thornton.

GUESS how easily your former favour sat upon my heart, by my readiness to re­ceive from you another! I had more reasons than you yet know of for inviting you to my villa, and it was those reasons that prevented me from inviting my Sophia to partake of the excursion. To tell you the plain truth, my friend, I have more policy than business in this excursion. I have lately had offers of prefer­ment: To speak openly, I can have the com­mand of a company, upon joining General—, in America. The half-pay of a Lieu­tenant, you know, Sir, is not sufficient to, even a man of moderation: my wife's private for­tune I have very strickly settled upon her­self, as a sort of comfortable security against unfortunate contingencies: I think myself no more intitled to touch the interest of this, than I would touch upon a property in trust, which, after my decease, was to be the only certain resource of the person under my guardianship. Another point is my own thirst of glory. I was trained very early to the exercise of arms, [Page 34] and although I continued to starve upon my ensigncy near twenty years, (I weep with joy, Sir, when I think upon the generous means by which I became a Lieutenant) yet the ardours of military ambition are by no means extin­guished. I declare to you, Mr. Thornton, even blest as I now am in a competent income, pre­sented to me with the hand of Sophia, in the full possession too, of Sophia herself, I cannot, even at this time, hear the beat of a drum, without feeling my heart bound at the alarm. In a word, I design to go to the field, and ac­cept the promotion. I am one of those who side with that party which considers the dig­nity of Britain insulted by America. I was bred a soldier, and taught even from my cra­dle (for my father had won his laurels) to feel all the delicacies of martial majesty. In my opinion, Sir, the Sovereign of these realms is in­jured: his injuries are mine: it is enough for a soldier, to believe his cause is just. I perceive many of my old comrades have voluntarily drawn the sword, while mine is gathering rust in its sheath. I drew it, Mr. Thornton, last night, out of the scabbard, and upon examin­ing the blade I saw a spot, a lazy spot of inac­tivity, destroying the keenness of its edge. By [Page 35] my soul, I felt myself blush at it; nor can I be ever easy, ever forgive myself, till I have at once wiped away the shame, and the spot, as it be­comes my station. Now then, Mr. Thornton, we are come to the point, a point of all others in the world the most delicate. Sophia, my poor Sophia, must, must—Excuse me, dear Thornton—excuse a blot, which my weakness has, I see, made upon the paper: a tender wo­man will, at any time, unsoldier the boldest of us. But, fie upon it! fie upon it! it was the infirmity but of a moment: "I am a man a­gain." In short, Sir, my wife knows nothing of my intention, and I do not know how to break the matter with her. She has peculiar gentleness of heart, and will, I am convinced, feel the severest pangs at parting. This is the first time since our marriage that I have slept from her side, and I wish much to know how she has supported it: if tolerably well, she may, perhaps, be brought to bear the thoughts of a longer absence; and, in that case, I would have you gradually open the design to her, of which, indeed, I distantly hint in my letter to her. The worst of it is, Mr. Thornton, women are so apt to associate with the duty of a sol­dier, such horrid ideas of death, broken bones, [Page 36] groans, and cannon balls, that they give a man over the moment he marches from their em­braces to front the enemies of their country: however, let us not blame the softness that was designed to soothe us, to soften us, to polish our ruggedness, and harmonize our natures. The drift of my letter is evident to you, Sophia must know it: the summer is advancing: ma­ny of our troops are midway betwixt the con­tending countries: some of them are arrived at the theatre of the war. I have but a few days to spare. Dalliances must in no wise be in­dulged: they are too effeminating: I dare not trust myself with them. My absence is pro­pitious to the disclosure. You are not unskil­led in argument: you want not the advantages of persuasive eloquence: to you, therefore, I trust the tranquillity of a wife's bosom. In­spire her, if possible, my worthy Mr. Thornton with the duty she owes to my character, which longer idleness would utterly obliviate. A­wake in her those sparks which I hope even a female nature sometimes experiences; the sparks of patriotism. But if you find this impracti­cable, at least obtain her consent to my de­parture, and support her sinking spirits with the hopes of my return, and with the expectation of the honours, rewards, and various distincti­ons [Page 37] which will then attend me. These are the points I leave to my good Thornton, and I am his

LETTER LXXV. Lieutenant Vernon to Mrs. Vernon.

I FIND business will engage me from plea­sure (that is, from your society) longer than I at first believed: but you are I know, too well established in the moral duties, to re­pine at what is necessary to be done, even tho' your acquiescence is to be attended with some inconveniencies. Nay, I am not sure, whether, if at any time my country should require me in the way of my profession, you are not he­roine enough to lend those arms to your King, which, were they in such an exigence reluc­tant, would be wholly unworthy to incircle yours. I shall never forget the glorious week we passed together soon after our union, when we made a purchase of Mr. Pope's version of Homer, and employed our long delightful even­ings [Page 38] in reading him through. Do you recol­lect with what earnestness we attended every hero in his progress? How we joined in the re­sentment of Achilles, detested the injustice of Agamemnon, and pleaded the cause of the good old father of the fair Chrissis? Pray call to mind, with how much ardour we followed Hector to the field; how he despised the pusil­lanimous, hare-hearted Paris; and though we pitied the drooping Andromache, though we wept over her woes, yet we should have felt for her still more, had she not endea­voured to detain the warrior from his du­ty. Nor can you help recollecting with how much pleasure, a pleasure that was radiant in your dear eyes, Sophia, you heard of the vari­ous victories atchieved and related by the nar­rative Nestor: of his triumphant returns to his native country after the laurels of conquest were waving in his helmet, while the patriotic virgins were scattering in his path the incense of the Spring, and the emulous youths bowed to the victor, and sang the song of success before him. Before we had reached the twelfth book, you was half a hero, and with the shield and buckler of Minerva (her wisdom is already in your possession) you would now be sit to take [Page 39] the field, arrange the file, and inspirit at once, by your courage and beauty, the soldiers of your own Caesar. Do you know, Sophia, that I am child enough to be vain of the name that was given me by my godfathers and godmo­thers. There is conquest in the sound, and I have a soul that pants, I must confess, to be ranked amongst the Roman Caesars. But ah! Sophia, I am only a disbanded, unemployed Lieutenant, and the little glory I gained in the field in the days of my youth, is now entirely faded: and, without one mark of the sword, without one apologizing scar, by which might be seen the necessity of retreat, I am withering in the eye of my King and country, and shall, after a few years, fall into an inglorious grave, and be no more remembered.

At a villa in Sussex, through which I pass­ed, and where I stopped to dine, I was told of a mansion, which strangers usually went to survey, the property of a veteran officer, whom I fought with, side by side, in the first battle that fleshed my arm: I have a thousand times mentioned him to you, under the well known name of Fraser. The old man hath left two of his limbs in different parts of the globe; France hath the honour of his arm, and his [Page 40] right leg adorns the plains of Minden: but the trunk is whole, and seems to have acquired fresh vigour from lopping the branches. Har­dihood hath settled the rose of high health in his cheek; the sun hath seasoned his complex­ion to the heat of the Torrid Zone; and the hair of his head is like the whiteness of a her­mit's beard, that spreads itself beyond the gir­dle. He knew me at the first sight, and pres­sed my hand with an honest roughness that denoted sincerity: but on seeing me still able, and in the force of youth, at least of middle age, he contracted his brow, and seemed to ask me, by his look, what I did basking here at home? In the enthusiasm of his martial ve­neration, which rises to every thing but idola­try, he hath at his own expence, erected in his garden little monumental ornaments to the memory of his favourite heroes. Britannia was on one side, weeping over Wolfe; and on the other, the figure of Public Tranquillity of­fering the olive-branch to Cumberland. Not a warrior of any celebrity, but had at least a bust, a pedestal, or an inscription. And upon my taking notice of a vacant nich in the centre of the garden, the Major struck it with his cane, and exclaimed, "In the name of honour, Ver­non, why wilt thou not give an old friend an [Page 41] opportunity to fill this gap of glory with ano­ther of the Caesars?" I felt at this instant, So­phy, a flush in my cheeks, and, as we returned together into his house (which is in the taste of fortifications) to drink his Majesty's health, I perceived the tear of repressed ambition de­scending, and my old friend pronounced it a drop of promise.

Mr. Thornton, in Continuation.

I WILL now suppose, Sedley, that thou hast read these letters. Are they not indications of a mind busied in schemes superior to thine? While Mr. Vernon is anxious to serve his coun­try, thou art exerting thyself to disgrace it: while he is desirous to obtain the consent of a beloved and beautiful wife, to suffer his ab­sence, in consideration of his glory, thou art Chesterfielding it, how thou may'st dishonour beauty, without admitting the very ideas of love. What measures are taken, in conse­quence of these epistles, thou shalt know in my next. In the interim, may Caesar's exam­ple [Page 42] fire thy imitation; and, if thou wilt copy, may'st thou copy so worthy an original, at least in the nobleness of his sentiments.

Farewel.

LETTER LXXVI. Sedley to Thornton. (Before the Receipt of the above.)

I FIND it impossible to conquer the habits of loving, and communicating to thee my sen­timents. There is a philtre in an old friend­ship that cannot easily be destroyed. Pardon my rash sayings, therefore. Preach till thou art weary, and only allow me the liberty of reposing with thee all my enterprizes.

What course I am to take in the present cri­sis, Heaven only can tell. Such an accident has happened as totally confounds me. In conformity to my promise, I dispatched Har­riet to the languishing pedant; but she had scarce got, as I understand, five miles on her way, when the cursed postillion, willing to shew his dexterity, (according to their villainous custom) by driving like a devil through the village, at a short turn, or rather angle in the [Page 43] road, overturned the chaise, fell himself from the saddle, and set the horses a-going, while the poor Harriet was dragged along the earth, with her body half out of the chaise-window, till a countryman caught the off-horse by the bridle, and put a stop to the career. She was carried into a little dirty-looking inn, almost speechless; and, as she informs me, with an arm torn by the glass, which was unfortunately drawn up, scribbled an almost unintelligible line to request I would hasten to see her before she died. The post-boy brought me the note, and, trembling like a leaf, and white as a shirt, protesting most fervently that he could not help the accident. I knew not what to do: I hesitated, dreaded the consequence; wrote a hurried line to poor Horace, without feeling either pen or paper; called for a taper, without thinking that I wanted wax; sent it to the post by the boy; and then ordered my horses. The cursed landlord, who is ever alarmed at the sound of a hoof, in the expectation of fresh prey, now detected my disorder, and set every wheel at work to find out the cause: "He was sorely sorry to see me uneasy; would do any thing in his power; hoped nothing material was the matter. Could he do any thing? he was concerned to see me in such confusion; [Page 44] would do a great deal to serve so worthy a gen­tleman, mayhap I was taken ill; mayhap my friends was taken sick in London; my wife, my aunt, my uncle. Some law-suit, may be, had gone wrong, or sommut or other was most far­tinly the matter." My servant came with my horses to the door, and the persecutor began again: "Good lack, good lack, what can be the 'casion of this! Was I going away? Was I obliged to leave Buxton? Martha, where's the gentleman's little account? How sorry he was again!"

In short, Thornton, I was obliged to escape him and my rising rage, by rushing into a little slip of ground behind his house, where, under pretence of picking a few pinks that straggled, poverty-struck, about the beds, I cast about what was to be done. In this manner I argued with myself: If I go to Harriet, the affair will certainly be suspected: for how came I so in­terested in this lady's misfortune! If I do not go, it will be barbarous; but then I have sent to her husband, and home is the best and fittest place for a sick woman. Upon the whole, I thought it not proper or political to go; and, as to writing, I dare not give way to my senti­ments, for a discovered letter is irrecoverable [Page 45] perdition. Upon my return into the house, I found the rascally landlord tampering for intel­ligence with the postboy, who had come upon the saddle-horse with the tangled traces still about his back: I had well nigh broke out a­gain. Thomas, who stays with me, although married, till I can suit myself, looked as if he suspected the matter. The landlord muttered forth a million pities, and talked of our being all mortal, and liable to accidents; the postboy said his horses were cut, as I saw, all to pieces, and his chaise shattered in the pannels.

I could Stanhope it no longer: Curse your horses, chaise and pannels, all together, said I: get out of my sight, and leave me to myself: a lady is dying, and you are prating about your damn'd pannels. Tom, take away the horses. You postboy, stop till I write a note to the lady, to let her know that I have written to her husband.

I would have gone in to write.

The landlord again struck up: "Had not the lady better come back to my house, Sir? The journey to Mr. Homespun's will be too far in her present condition." Pray, Mr. Wyngood, said I, suffer me to do as I please. The man [Page 46] was piqued at the slight, ^* and I verily believe will never forgive me. However, I wrote a note to Harriet to the following purport, and ordered the postboy to carry it as fast as possible.

I had two reasons, Thornton, for shewing this, prior to my sending it, to the landlord: in the first place, I wanted to regain his friend­ship, [Page 47] that is, you know, according to my system his good word, by an act of confidence; and, in the next, as this was, upon the whole, a my­sterious affair, and I could not tell the issue of it, such a letter (written, as thou perceivest it is, even in the midst of hurry, with a pen of poli­cy,) might do me good, should the matter be hereafter canvassed at the bath; WYNGOOD be­ing, as I before told thee, the greatest gossip of the country.

By this time, I conjecture, my messenger has delivered the note. Unluckily I have to sup this evening at the Delmores, Sir Henry being ne­ver happy without me. Very, very unfit am I, at present, to figure or sustain myself in company; for, not to disguise matters with you, I am not insensible to this misfortune of poor Harriet, nor could I see the injury done to her bewitching form without sigh. But, however, I am equal to all events, and must carry on with vigour what I have begun with spirit: otherwise, I should retreat with disgrace, and for aught I can tell, take refuge from the horrors of despair by the aid of a trigger. Pray, my dear Thornton, against these horrible re­sources.

LETTER LXXVII. Sedley to Thornton.

IF thou wert surprized at the contents of my last, prepare, ere thou perusest the present, for fresh wonder. I was just set down to the card-table at the Delmores, to pass the interval betwixt the tea and the supper, when Tho­mas, upon the full gallop, and with tokens of terror in his countenance, delivered me the in­closed billet, which, had it been delivered in the presence of the company, would have be­trayed me for ever to the eyes of this piercing family: but luckily the footman came to say that my servant waited my orders. Pray read the billet, before thou goest any farther.

It was with a difficulty equal to the strug­gles betwixt life and death, that I supported myself from sinking under this intelligence: I had, however, sufficient presence of mind to return to the company, and make excuses with some degree of coherence; after which I mounted the reeking horse, and ordering Tom to follow me, went upon the full stretch to my lodgings. At my entrance into the parlour I found Harriet in a strong hysteric: and upon her recovery, we had her put into a warm bed. She is pefectly mangled, Thornton: her fine face is gashed with wounds; and the landlady tells me, that other parts of her person have sus­tained their share of bruises. To mend the matter, I have received a long epistle from Fanny Mortimer, which was delivered with as much peculiarity as thou wilt find in the sen­timents. After dinner, the whole family ram­bled into the garden, and as I was passing near [Page 50] Mrs. Mortimer, along the shade of a small shrubbery, that affected to serpentine, she, with her own hand, bade me look at that paper: I folded it in my bosom, and bowed; and, just as she desired, no one perceived it. I have not attempted to answer it, nor can I shew myself decently till I have the reply in my pocket. This cursed affair of Harriet unfits me for ad­venture: however, I send you the letter, and must think what is to be done. Harriet is, I find by the landlady, in a doze. I rather think agony closes the eye, and that she is un­able to speak: The Doctor is preparing his plaisters, and a physician who attends the bath is sent for. What measure can I possibly take with respect to Horace? and I am not with­out fears for myself. 'Sdeath, Thornton, is there never a case in point? I must consult my AUTHOR. Adieu!

LETTER LXXVIII. Mrs. Mortimer to Mr. Sedley.

AN address from me, under my peculiar situation, will no doubt alarm you: but forms and ceremonies must all yield to irresist­able [Page 51] exigencies. I find it necessary to the peace of my mind to write to you. The acci­dent, Sir, that brought us together at Scarbo­rough, when your visits to me were very fre­quent, and, as a single woman, I confess not disagreeable, is recollected with some anxiety. You were then at some pains to convince me I had made an impression on your sensibility, and certain sentiments were interchanged, which it would be, at this period, highly im­proper to repeat. It may not be amiss, how­ever, to observe that, prior to your quitting Scarborough, you did not omit exerting your utmost talents (and they are not inconsidera­ble Mr. Sedley) to engage my heart. How far you succeeded, it is not now material to en­quire. Be that as it may, my health hath been gradually upon the decline from that hour to this. It is now some months since I gave my hand to Mr. Mortimer, than whom their ne­ver lived a better character, or a tenderer hus­band. He was educated under the eye of my father, who seemed so wrapt up in the ideas of making him still nearer to his family, that as he thought proper to address me, I could not deny to duty, what possibly I should have re­fused to every thing else. In a word, Sir, my [Page 52] worthy father's heart was in the match, and it is impossible for a child to disappoint the wish­es of such a parent. The softness, delicacy, and gentleness of Mr. Mortimer's behaviour has ever been uniform and exact: and al­though it has pleased Heaven to continue my indisposition, and indeed rather to increase than abate it, yet he has not suffered my languor to relax his animated assiduities, but has acted, both by day and by night, the double part of nurse and husband. Peculiarly unlucky do I account the destiny by which you and I, Sir, meet again: not that I have the least traces of affection for your person, being really attached to Mr. Mortimer by duty, and upon principle. At the same time, Sir, I cannot but own your presence gives me uneasiness, and uneasiness of any kind I am not now equal to. You have, I see, recommended yourself to my father more warmly than ever; my sister thinks very high­ly of you: Mr. Mortimer is loud in your praises; and even my mother, who is not easi­ly attracted, speaks of you with ardour. As my situation is sufficiently sacred to exclude every possible hope, nay, as I dare presume your own connections have, by this time, led your inclinations into a more proper channel, I will venture to talk to you with the freedom [Page 53] of a friend. To speak plainly, then, Mr. Sed­ley, there is a point in which you may still oblige me, it is this: that you would enter as seldom into this house as is consistent with a resolution, which I earnestly beg you will take, of withdrawing yourself from this family. Do it leisurely: but at all events, let it be done. Ah! Mr. Sedley, pity the perturbation of an un­easy mind. Before you came, I could at least conceal agitation, and submit to the silent de­predations of my distemper. Every tear I then shed, every sigh that then stole from me, was attributed to the unavoidable risings and sinkings of a comsumptive habit. But within these few days I have had some conflicts, and every one of them adds to my weakness, to hide—a something that preys upon my heart. To account to you for this is needless. If you have the least suggestion that it is occasioned by your appearance, let it interest your humanity, your honour, your compassion, in my cause; and do not, Mr. Sedley, render more exqui­sitely wretched the last hours of a fate at the best unenviable, and not sustained without a sorrow that is hastening its object to the tomb. Go then, I conjure you. Leave me to the protection of a generous family, of a dear sister, [Page 54] of a fond husband. It is not, I feel it is not possible, that I should long live amongst them. Let me not shew Mr. Mortimer that I gave myself to him as to the friend and darling youth of my father. Let not—Alas! Mr. Sedley, what have I said! Pardon me, pity me, oblige me, leave me. As your stay at the bath cannot be of consequence: as the floridness of your complexion, the lustre of your eyes, the ease of your air, all assure me, your pursuit is mere amusement; I intreat you to change your route, fix it at Scarborough, Bath, Margate, any where, so as you will but leave this place. I look at you with anguish, I know your rap at the door, I distinguish your step, and, tho' I feel the impropriety, the crime, the shame, of being disturbed, I cannot bear it. Contrive, therefore, and that instantly, to begin your task of dissolving the connection here. Permit me to enjoy the little serenity that a wasting sick­ness admits. The poor pittance of ease, which that allows, do not you destroy. As I saw the intimacy betwixt you and my family daily in­creasing, nay, as you have been almost con­stantly at this house for the last week, I could contrive no other way of addressing you, but by writing an honest explicit letter, which I [Page 55] have now done, with many interruptions both from pain, fatigue, and the fear of being seen, but chance has favoured me, and I have un­bosomed the secret of my soul undiscovered. Think not, however, that I mean to enter in­to a correspondence. Take a week to with­draw with the elegance becoming your cha­racter: during which time I will, as hitherto, endeavour to support myself as an acquaint­ance, although it is sufficiently shocking that I should be reduced, even to a moment's disguise. If you are not disengaged from us by that pe­riod, I have no other refuge than a constant retreat to my sick chamber, whenever you visit us: and, if this should, in the end, occasion suspicion, and the cruel, unconquerable pre­possession I entertain be ever discovered, you will remember that, to your injustice must be imputed the consequences, even though the best of parents should be made miserable, the worthiest sister partake their anxiety, and the kindest of husbands fall a victim to the appa­rent ingratitude of

LETTER LXXIX. Thornton to Sedley.

GOD of Heaven. Sedley! what a wretch of adamant art thou! The disaster of the poor Harriet, and the pleadings of the pathetic Fanny, have almost exhausted the source of my tears. Consult thy Author, indeed! Con­sult thy heart, consult thy conscience. If thou hast the least touch of Nature in thee; of Na­ture yet undebauched by the treacherous Dor­mer; consult that, listen to it, admit it's ora­tory, obey it. What shalt thou do? Art thou at a loss what to do? Do what is right. Quit this instant any farther invasions of Fanny's quiet; search the wide earth for medicine and medicinal people for the hapless Harriet; com­fort the sad soul of the agonized Horace; watch the dawn of his wife's recovery; throw Chesterfield and all his works into the fire; ex­ecrate the name of Eugenia, and return, re­turn upon the spur of speed, to London and thy Thornton. But as I shall probably touch thee more by example than precept, take the continuation of my transactions in the worthy Lieutenant's family, and consider well a scene which may be held up in blessed contrast to thine.

[Page 57] Scarce had Sophia read her husband's letter, but she wrote an answer, of which I present you a faithful copy.

There, Sedley, there's a woman! the intrepi­dity of a man, blended with all the virtues and elegancies of her sex, and yet may I perish if I ever again attempt her destruction! On the contrary, I derive joy, real joy, from hearing her sing forth the praises of Caesar: I join in the panegyric. I improve by her superior ca­pacity, and though all the graces are in her train, and she seems formed to every purpose of extacy; has black eyes, and inviting shape, an air of breeding, and features perfectly sym­metrical [Page 59] yet I can now be contented to ad­mire her beauty, and hear the sallies of her wit, without a single endeavour to make her pay for pleasing me, at the expence of her chastity.

Adieu,

P. S. Act like a man and God prosper thee!

LETTER LXXX. Sedley to Thornton.

HORROR upon horrors, Thornton! Horace is come! He arrived at midnight. My letter found him in bed. He hurried on his cloaths, took his pad from the stable, and hath travelled thirty miles through the rain to see his Harriet. I was up and musing in my chamber, as he came, I unbarred the door, he hugged me, thanked me, kissed me, kneeled down to me, and with an air and look of dis­traction, desired to be directed to his wife. I shewed him her chamber, and let the conse­quence be what it will, I must stand it out.

As to Fanny Mortimer, not the whole con­gregated world should save her from my em­braces. Oh, earth and Heaven! Thornton, [Page 60] she is the most attracting form that ever died a death of gentleness. Then she is such a contrast to the full-formed Harriet, so slim, so soft of spirit, and eye so borne down by modes­ty to the earth, her eye-lashes so silken, so curved, the bow of the Heaven's cannot match the archings of her brow, her hair is so glos­sy, so abundant, such a luxury in it's various folds, her very languors are delicious, and as she put the letter into my hand, her palm struck mine upon the tremble; the murmur of love was in the sigh that then broke from her bosom, and the teeth through which it passed were purer than snow.

Away then with melancholy ideas! I pity Harriet: but I must, I will possess Fanny Mor­timer, though I were to die in the effort.

LETTER LXXXI. The Reverend Horace Homespun to Mrs. La Motte.

OUR poor Harriet is sorely hurt, but she received me kindly: the tear that she let fall upon my hand, I have suffered to dry, [Page 61] without wiping it away. The physician is to be here to-morrow, and then you shall know more. Harriet asked me several times, if I was well; I told her, I was; and yet, Heaven knows, I am in a fever at this moment, for I have not been able to close my eyes, and I was wetted through the shirt in my journey. My wife seems to have chiefly suffered in the face and arms. I therefore hope the less danger.

LETTER LXXXII. Miss Delia Delmore, to Lady Lucy Saxby.

EVERY moment in the day affords some fresh and beautiful instance of my noble father's wisdom and affection. About an hour after tea this evening, while Sir Henry was en­joying his serene summer-walk, as he calls it, William brought a pencilled card, and deliver­ed it to me. It was to advise with him (Sir Henry) about some concerns essential to the general welfare. Even my little brother and sister, Charles and Caroline, (who are down [Page 62] with us) were mentioned in this invitation: the card requested the company of all the fa­mily, adding, that as the evening was delight­ful, his mind composed, and nobody but our­selves, at present, in the house, he much de­sired that we might all have our share in the general serenity. How prettily, my dear Lu­cy, how persuasively, this exalted parent pro­poses, as a pleasure, what his authority might command as a duty! But it is among the num­ber of his excellent maxims, that none but fro­ward spirits do well with compulsion, and that a frank and ingenuous tenderness hath in it equal weight and satisfaction.

The conversation passed in the garden, un­der the shade of hawthorns, laurels, and fil­berts: there is a white bench under it; and a sort of natural arching, bower-fashion, made by the mixture of thick leaves and branches interwoven above. Hither we came in obe­dience to the summons: a group of relations, loving and beloved. Fanny who had been a­musing herself with the pen, (not having had strength for the pleasures of writing for some time) came forward, delicate as angel meek­ness, with her younger brother in one hand, and her little sister in the other. Venus, with [Page 63] two of her attendant Graces, could not be more lovely, even though the distress of ill health threw somewhat of languor into her air: but then it was a languor so soft, and a distress so gentle, that it only served the more to feminine, (if you will allow the word), and to recommend her to the spectator, as a more pathetic, interesting figure.

Sir Henry was at first sitting somewhat pen­sively, with an opened letter in his hand, my mother by his side, leaning her arm on one of the corners of the bench, and reposing her cheek within her hand, the true posture of me­ditation. They both rose at our approach. Mr. Mortimer and I went up first; then Fan­ny, and her twin-cherubs: we were a little a­larmed, but this was soon dissipated by Sir Henry, who seating us all on the bench, drew a green garden-chair from an adjoining shade, placing himself opposite to us, and, with a smile of ineffable benignity, in which the pa­rent and the friend shone beautifully blended, he paid each of us a varied compliment, on our obedience to his wishes, and addressed us to this effect:

"I have requested your company, my dear and worthy children, to engage your filial at­tention [Page 64] on several of the most important events of human life: I have, indeed, for some time, had a design to summon you together on this subject, but care, company, and amusement, have thrown their attractions or interruptions hitherto in the way of my wishes. I have, however, fixed upon this evening of leisure to deliver to you the secrets of my heart, and in mine are included those of the best of wives, and tenderest of mothers."

Lady Delmore drew her spread fingers across her face, and Sir Henry repeating his panegy­ric, went on:

"I am happy, my dear relatives, to tell you, in the first place, and let that serve as an en­couragement to you, that I can look back up­on a life of more than threescore years, with a tranquillity of retrospect, at the same time sin­cere, christian, and philosophic. The serenity of my soul is in no degree wounded by the cri­ticism with which I review it's conduct thro' the perilous voyage of my life, in which, by the care of Heaven, I have escaped those quick­sands that endanger our youth, and those rocks which alarm us in age. But that which I ac­count far the richest indulgence of Providence, [Page 65] is that dear prospect which I now behold in the persons of this beauteous circle, a circle filled with the pledges of this generous crea­ture's invariable fidelity, and the testimonies of my constant attachment to excellences so dis­tinguished."

My mother rose, Lucy gave her hand to Sir Henry, looked at him a moment, looked at him blooming even in age, sighed softly, and returned to her seat.

Sir Henry proceeded:

"The season of infancy is past with most of you; and it's pleasures are succeeded by re­flections of a higher nature. Even this sweet pair (here he pointed to my young brother and sis­ter) are at the age of distinguishing, and the test are mature. The blossoms of youth pro­mise a generous fruitage. You, Delia, have not yet been rewarded by the tenderness of such a man as my Mortimer: yet the colour of your life will depend on the exchange of your name. Your mother's expectations, like mine, are sanguine, and extensive: our eyes are turn­ed on your every action. We hope to see you all the supports of our declining age: our sun is about to set, and we wish it's departure may be gilded by your virtues and indulgencies.

[Page 66] "The father of a family is at once a sublime and venerable character. My full heart di­lates as I see myself encompassed by these charming portraits of ourselves."

Here Lady Delmore melted into tears of transport, but endeavoured to conceal them.

"I can form to myself (continued my fa­ther) no ideas beyond it, nor many equal. Our family is at present the seat of integrity, una­nimity, and mutual confidence. Our pleasures are reflected upon each other, and we recipro­cally give and receive inimitable complacence. Yet we must be alarmed for those we love. Though the tenor of your conduct, and the gratitude of your tempers, make us less fearful of deviation, and though the maxims we have ever been industrious to inculcate make us more secure and inapprehensive, yet certain tremors will inevitably touch the bosom of a parent: be not displeased therefore, my children, if I give you a few general precepts, for your establish­ment and adoption. They come sanctified to you with the venerable imprimatur of more than fifty years experience. The maxims which are necessary to regulate an ingenuous mind are neither multiplied nor intricate. The very corner-stone of a great character is a clear con­science: [Page 67] if you feel well, you will act well: and if you do not, all the talents in the world will only serve to torment you. Never wear a mask before your motives, but when it is ab­solutely necessary to the felicity of life, such as deceiving, or rather bewitching, the unprinci­pled into virtue▪ some tempers cannot bear the plain truth; she is too awful for them: be it then, in such particular cases, your parts, to lead them to her sacred temple by the most pleasing paths. Alleviate the apparent rugged­ness, and length of the way, by such meanders as, though they seem to deviate, may assuredly bring you, by the fairest prospects, to the shrine of the Goddess. I have no objection to your adorning yourselves with all the attraction of exterior, such I mean as are reflected upon the character from dignity of manner, persuasion of voice, splendor of address, and elegance of air:

They will act like magic, and make the inno­cence both of your sentiment and example, perfectly irresistable; and I beseech you to ex­ert them in the cause of that truth and sobriety of heart I have recommended. Make use of them to conciliate differences, to inspirit society, [Page 68] to embellish conversation, to soften the harsh­ness of dispute, to animate attention; to please, to instruct, to entertain. To all these purposes they will be excellent and ornamental. But beware of what a licentious and artful indul­gence of them may possibly lead to; beware of Duplicity; of that duplicity, which, so accou­tered, it's destructive sword sheathed in polite­ness, it's heart shielded by the impenetrable mail of gilded hypocrisy, is equal to the siege of a city, and might do more real mischief than all the efforts of a legion of avowed villainies. Of all earthly things, therefore, most detest, what is most to be dreaded, the system of a well-bred, high-polished, elegant deceiver: no eye can see him; no understanding detect him; no policy escape him. He comes in the form of a Seraph, and those who are themselves ho­nest, cannot imagine that he is a Syren.

"At your time of life it is hard, extremely hard, to master the predominant inclination: yet virtuous exercise will habituate the soul to the practice of uniform honour. To you, Delia, I am now going to speak more particu­larly. There is a passion, which, rightly di­rected, is the source of every noble and genu­ine greatness. Fanny and Mr. Mortimer, I [Page 69] trust, are not insensible to it. May it affect you, Delia, in the manner it has affected your mother. This excellent woman, whose regard for me was founded on principles that sustain the first of connections in it's due elevation, and adorn the heart, by the dictate of which, the hand is presented, with all that can give either spirit, elegance, or real transport, to conjugal engagements.

"Unadulterated as yet by the smallest com­merce with dexterous dissimulation, pardon my alarms, lest your innocence and simplicity should be the means of your misfortune.—That Dissimulation, which under the fair dis­guise of attracting elegance, led forward by the Graces, cannot be detected, even at noon-day, is for ever on the watch; and I know nothing so dangerous as yielding too easily to the ten­derness of a new-born passion. Do not, how­ever, mistake me: my system is not rigid; it is not inconsistent with the natural feelings of a delicate disposition. I have given Fanny to one, in whose education and culture, I myself had a share; and that my shew you, Delia, that I am no foe to the feelings of love."

Here a sigh heaved gently the bosom of Fanny. I dare presume it was the sigh of love, Lady Lucy.

[Page 70] "I wish, continued Sir Henry, to see each of my children, a wife, a husband, or a parent, and at the head of an infant society. I wish Delia to have the man of her heart. Perhaps she has lately seen that man. Perhaps the ac­complished Mr. Sedley."

In this place Fanny began to complain she sat too long, and I was glad of the interruption, for you can't imagine how my cheek began to crimson: certainly you was taking of me, or, or, or, What was it, Lucy?

Sir Henry went on:

"I will not, Delia, distress you. I see no­thing at present objectible. I will not enquire into this matter, till you judge it for your hap­piness to consult me; and till then particular enquiries would be premature, perhaps impro­per. Only, be circumspect: look well at the ground, before you build on it the foundation of your happiness or misery. To adopt the language of Shakespeare, "Wear your eye thus," neither vacant nor suspicious. In any case of emergency, while we live, (though that cannot in common course of terrestrial decays be now long) honour me, or your mother, with your confidence: and when we are no more, I beg all of you will trust to the affection of this [Page 71] worthy young man, our dear Mortimer, who, having seen more of life, and the transactions of men, is the better able to promote happiness and avert misery. With these sentiments, I trust you to your understandings, virtues, and tempers: with these precepts, which I have a particular reason now to urge, I trust you to discretion, oeconomy, and fair dealing. If I have been tedious, confider I am an old man: If I have dealt in repetitions, or if I have di­gressed, confider I am a father: Go, then, my children, cherish each other; avoid the path of Deceit, walk steadily in the road of Truth, e­ven though the roses may not always be in bloom: satisfy the feelings of your own con­science; be merciful, be moderate and be happy."

As he ended, my dear Lady Lucy, he rose, while the big paternal tear was in his eye, embraced us round, and taking my mother by the hand, walked with her, arm in arm, into the house.

Oh! my friend, had ever children such pa­rents! My heart is at this time so full of grati­tude, wonder, and the daughter, that I can only add the esteemed name of

LETTER LXXXIII. Thornton to Sedley. (Before the Receipt of Sedley's last.)

AS thou hast not taken notice of any parts of my letters relating to the family of Mr. Vernon, I am in hopes thou art not quite un­moved by the generous virtues that are reci­procated between the worthiest pair I ever knew, and who have made me quite in love with matrimony. Yes, Sedley, do not start; I say, sober matrimony; and could I get a cer­tain young lady in the mind, who is now a vi­sitant to Mrs. Vernon, and just arrived, I be­lieve I should enter into the holy estate without hesitation, for I begin to believe, whatever thy Preceptor may say, that wedded love is, after all, the most elevated of human connections; nay, I have had several reasons, since my resi­dence here, to adopt the language of the poet, and pronounce that state the most delightful wherein

Never were souls more exactly in unison [Page 73] than those of the Vernons. I present, for your emulation, another instance of it. Upon my unfolding the Lieutenant's design to his lady, she dispatched a letter into Suffix, which pro­duced the following reply:

[Page 77]

LETTER LXXXIV. Sedley to Thornton.

THORNTON, give me joy! My insinua­tions have extorted from Fanny "her slow leave," and as soon as I can contrive an interview with her, I am to have it. Hear, by what a display of my art, I won her consent to see me alone. In reply to her epistle (that which I sent thee) I wrote, though I like not trusting myself to the mercy of ink and paper, another, in which I exerted and exhausted all the delicacy of dissembled passion. I struck the string most likely to work upon a woman in her situation; and, as a proof of my address and eloquence, I tell thee again, that I prevail­ed. For once she will see me. Read her card.

Now then, Thornton, must I call to my aid Dormer's "unobserved observation," and banish all but the present object from my thoughts: now must I discover "the true marks of a su­perior genius," and shew "a steady, undissipa­ted attention," until I have ultimately succeed­ed in this great, glorious particular. Nothing shall seduce me a single moment from—'Sdeath, Thornton, the passing-bell tolls. Sure­ly Harriet is not dead. No matter; I will not, dare not enquire. I will command myself this once; and when this scheme is compleated, I care not how soon I descend to Elysium and to Chesterfield.

LETTER LXXXV. The Reverend Horace Homespun to Mrs. La Motte.

OH, Mrs. La Motte! the measure of my miseries is not compleated. I have every thing to apprehend from both the looks and words of the physician. Just as he had en­tered, she called out, without looking at him, that he was the cruellest of men, and then, upon drawing the curtains, begged his pardon, and said she was mistaken. I have not even yet had my cloaths off. I can eat nothing; and when I drink, it is only to allay the thirst­ings of a slow fever, that is still lurking about me. Mr. Sedley came yesterday kindly to en­quire, and just as he had said, Well, my good Mr. Homespun, and how does our poor Harriet now, she screamed out with inconceivable vio­lence, bade us shut the door, and then remained weeping and fainting alternately, for about an hour. My fate is really a hard one, Mrs. La Motte; but my conscience is void of offence, and the wisdom of the Almighty shall not even now, be questioned by

LETTER LXXXVI. Miss Delia Delmore to Lady Lucy Saxby.

I Confess it, Lucy, he has pleased me; and I am above concealing from my friend, that I admire his manner even more than his person. His, words, his looks, his motions, are truly irresistable; and if you knew half the noble things he hath done since he came to the bath, you would the less wonder at my being caught. I will only mention to you one or two points of his conduct, which will help you, by such specimens, to conjecture the rest. His servant had played the libertine with an innocent wench, who depended upon the bounty of the bathers for her attendance at the pump and well: the fellow seduced her, the poor deluded wretch lost her virtue, and her means of liveli­hood at the same time. Common masters would have cuffed the footman, and called the injured girl a simpleton. Mr. Sedley insisted upon the deceiver's marrying the deceived; the ceremony has actually been celebrated, and it is said, not by him, for he never speaks of him­self, that he designs to fee them well settled before he leaves Buxton.

There is, you must know, a lady, who on her [Page 81] return from the bath to her house, was hurt by the overturning of a carriage, and the husband, who is a worthy clergyman, would have been quite distracted, had it not been for the cares, the tendernesses, and attention of this obliging man, who hath the art of propitiating every body to him, and making every body around him happy, by those nice and minute, yet tru­ly engaging offices, which (being in general considered as unimportant, though in reality I find they are but too pleasing) are too often neglected. He is now very frequently in our family, and I rejoice to see him so much in the confidence and good graces of my father, mo­ther, and brother. As to poor dear Fanny, she seldom talks, when she can avoid it: and one may see Mr. Sedley's good breeding, and even the feelings of his heart, in the manner with which he adapts himself to the person he ad­dresses: when his sentiments are directed to Sir Henry, they are acute, correct, classical, pene­trating, learned: when to my brother, they are elegant, noble, dignified, and animating: when to my mother, they are grave, condescending, cautious: when to my sister, gentle, in an un­der-tone of voice, softened, as it were, to the situation of a sick person, and that person a woman: his subjects of Fanny are such as might [Page 82] soothe a spirit much nearer its end than I hope that dear creature is. He colours beautifully the ideas of hope: he talks of returning health: he paints to her imagination, and he gives such touches to the scene of her expected reco­very, that our dear invalid smiles when she is too exhausted to speak, and her husband thanks him, with overflowing eyes, for the entertain­ment and ease he hath produced to Mrs. Mor­timer. In short, Lucy, he is a divine fellow, and I know not what will be the consequence of my trip to Buxton. Let what will be the event,

I had almost forgot to tell you that I am half teazed to death with the fine surfeiting sayings of a beau, who hath offered me knick-knacks without number, and has made serious and tempting overtures to my father. So that you see Sedley has got a rival. Oh, Heavens! that Providence should into the same world, send two creatures so uniformly different.

LETTER LXXXVII. Sedley to Thornton.

THE Gods have been auspicious. The in­terview is past, and the stratagem by which it was obtained is worthy of myself. Thou must understand that the sister of Fanny, the lady I mean with the pastoral appellation, Miss Delia Delmore, is such an object as cannot possibly be passed over by the eye of a man who is taught to annihilate the very idea of crimina­lity, and is only intent upon the possession of as much beauty (without the vulgar considera­tion of "to whom related, or by whom begot") as he can possibly find, and the more to be found in one family the better, so as that secrecy which saves all mischief can be procured.—This Delia, I say, Thornton, being in the mai­den state, and to all intents and purposes in a marriageable situation, must be addressed in the way of wedlock. To this end, I have so ma­naged the point, as to make one sister [...] me in a design upon the other, while, in the mean time, I have so contrived it, that both shall be plotting their own personal pleasure: nay, I will make even the husband, father, mother, and the very coxcomb I before told thee of, who [Page 84] is my rival, the ostensible puppets on this oc­casion, while I, in the supremacy of my wit, and pushed forward by my great Preceptor, will make the whole family subservient to the gratification of thy

LETTER LXXXVIII. Thornton to Sedley.

THY letter, this moment come to hand convinces me of my mistake in supposing thou wert to be wrought upon by scenes of tenderness and generosity, and proves that it is not in the language and good deeds of either man or woman, to turn thy heart. That Ja­nus of an Earl has, I see, enfolded himself round thee: his maxims have penetrated into thy very marrow. Nay, thou even goest be­yond him: he did but point at the benefits of duplicity in a private letter, at least not by his consent made public, but thou art duplicity it­self. Thou, wish an insidiousness unparalleled, engraved his horrid precepts on thine heart, enterest the temple of domestic joy, and under the appearance of an angel, (while the cloven foot of the fiend is delicately concealed) art in sober truth, could thy real form be seen, the [Page 85] very daemon of destruction. Call not thyself my Sedley: I own thee not. Thou art the De­vil's Sedley, and I begin to shudder that I am connected with such a monster. Yet I beseech thee, once again in the still, serene, but pathe­tic voice of friendship, I beseech thee to desist. Bring not the grey hairs of the venerable Del­mores to the grave. Pollute not the weak, de­fenceless Fanny; catch not in thy treacherous toils the heart of Delia, who deserves a better fate. Hasten, I conjure thee, to the metropo­lis. There thy appetite for women may have it's full play. Our streets are crouded with chastity destroyed, beauty in ruins, and simpli­city seduced. Dissipate, at least, with less mis­chief, part of thy large fortune upon these.—From thy present pursuits, I again repeat it, thou canst gain nothing but infamy: and if I could but transfer to thee my feelings, thou wouldst hug them to thy heart for ever, and discard all others with horror. I have the happiness to please the visitor of Mrs. Vernon, the charming Araminta Sidney; she is the friend of Fanny Mortimer; they correspond: she describes her as thou hast done. Oh! for GOD'S sake, Sedley, do not harm her; do not push thy cruelties to the dishonour, disgrace, [Page 86] and very probably the death of, a sick woman. Mr. Vernon is returned: the affection, the happiness of this pair, might soften a panther into tenderness, and subdue the veriest rake in­to continence. No wonder it hath touched the gentle bosom of Araminta. I find a rapture in her smiles: I anticipate every change of her countenance. I am so far from desiring to ruin her reputation, that I tremble as I approach her: I have not assurance enough to kiss her beautiful lips: the slightest touch of her hand disorders me: I detect myself looking at her, and withdraw my eyes, for fear of offending. I am a very young man, Mr. Sedley, and thou and Chesterfield, with your united councils, had nearly led me to every thing odious: but I saw the precipice time enough to escape it: the so­ciety of virtuous people, the friendship of the Lieutenant and his lady, the esteem, and, oh! that I might be allowed to say, the love, the pure love of Araminta, will, I hope, again re­store me to what I formerly was. As to your secrets, Sedley, I shall not betray them: and you will judge how true I must be to the point of confidence, when I dare not violate it, even though, by so pious a treachery, I could pro­bably save a noble family, and involved in the [Page 87] fate of that, the friend of Araminta Sidney.

LETTER LXXXIX. The Reverend Horace Homespun to Mrs. La Motte.

PITY, Mrs. La Motte, the distraction of a husband and a father. I have lost my child, and my wife is in the agonies of death. The babe that was to have blessed me, and crowned my nine months expectation, appeared only to weep, and to die. The mother could nourish it no longer: her agonizing fits have produced an untimely labour, and, lifeless as it is, she will not part with the infant; she hugs it in her arms: cradles it in her bosom, insists upon its being laid upon her pillow, and will not suffer any hand but hers and mine to touch it. Oh! Mrs. La Motte! what shall I do, and whither must I fly. There is but one resource, and I will seek it before I finish my letter.

[Page 88] Blessed is the power of prayer! I retired, Madam, into my own bed-room, and upon the bended knee of humility sought for com­fort to the only hand that, in an exigence like mine, can bestow it. I rise easier, Mrs. La Motte, indeed I do: He that correcteth hath not utterly forsaken me. I have softly opened Harriet's apartment, and by the nurse's waving me to withdraw again, I judge that my poor patient is asleep. The GOD, who alone can effectually give medicine to a mind diseased, protect and prosper her moment of awaking.

LETTER XC. Sedley to Thornton.

MY master-wheels are in motion: I sent brother Mortimer upon a love-message made to the lady Delia's eyebrow, saw the old Baronet and his Dame set out for an evening­ride to Buxton bath, and had the fair Fanny Mortimer all to myself. Oh! ye Deities of Design! ye spirits congenial to Stanhopes! what an hour of whisper and insinuation have I passed! Oh! Thornton, for a second interview! It was all done in the very key-note of seduction.

[Page 89] Conscious of the prepossessing idea, I availed myself of her partiality. I did not kneel, I did not whine, I did not smack the palms, nor squeeze the handkerchief, but I hit her on the only chord of the soul that could make a vibra­tion in my favour; I pitied her want of health, I praised the sacrifice she had made to paternal quietude. I was all refinement, all assiduity, all Chesterfield. The features were obedient, and every atom of irresistible art was levelled against her. I called the colour into her face by one sentiment; I sent it away by another: one look brought the tear; a second dried it up. Now the rose, now the lilly, prevailed in her cheeks. Cordials became necessary. I ordered my hand to shake as I presented the hartshorn, the water, the drops. The lovely object of my battery began to yield. Nature tugged at her heart; her frame became weaker; her passion stronger: every finger tottered: her breath became difficult: she rocked herself in her chair; her eyes were full; her voice faul­tered out an—Oh! Mr. Sedley! the snare I had laid for her entered into her soul, and she fainted upon my bosom.

The assiduous talents that reduced and funk her, could not even by a different application [Page 90] of them bring her to herself; and when I per­ceived this, and found it impossible to quiet her increased agitations, I went into the summer­house, where my cause was pleading, and with a decent degree of trepidation told Mr. Mor­timer (after bowing to Delia with as decent a confusion) that his Fanny was rather more in­disposed than she found herself before tea.

LETTER XCI. Thornton to Sedley.

YOUR letter found me at tea in this inno­cent family. I begged leave to break the seal. I read as far as the fainting of Fanny, and the cup fell from my hand! Oh! thou hard of heart! Thou insensible, thou incorrigi­ble! But she is yet pure. She fell upon thy bosom. Thy horrid purpose is not yet perpe­trated: nor shall it be: for, by the GOD of Truth, Mr. Sedley, if thou dost not write me word that thou wilt give over the destruction of this most pitiable girl, I will, at the risk of [Page 91] all consequences, take the proper steps to put her out of thy power. No idle punctilio shall sway me in a case like this. When Innocence is in danger, to break Faith with a bad man, is not Fraud, but Virtue.

LETTER XCII. Sedley to Thornton.

TRAITOR and tatler as thou art, I have the start of thee. Yes, Thornton, she did fall upon my bosom; and I reaped the rewards of my insinuations and my address, in her arms. 'Tis true, she returned not the embrace. What of that? I was wrought up to the crisis, and her strugglings only answered the ends, and served as the sweet succedaneum of writh­ing the limbs in the transports of taste.

LETTER XCIII. The Reverend Horace Homespun to Mrs. La Motte.

MY unhappy wife is worse than ever: but as her strength decays, her affection seems to increase for me, and this only serves to ago­nize [Page 92] me the more. I sat up with her all the last night, part of which she passed without her senses. In the intervals of her delirium she treated me with a tenderness that pene­trated my soul: she called me by every name that could express her fondness; she kissed me; suffered the poor clay-cold corse of our little one to be taken from her. It must not be, said she, serenely. Let it be given to the grave; bury it decently; be sure you do not close up the earth; leave a small space for it's mother, and all shall be well. About mid­night she mentioned Mrs. La Motte, her dear, kind, noble, virtuous Mrs. La Motte, several times. About an hour after this she started up wildly, caught hold of the curtains, threw them aside with some violence, and enquired of the nurse for ink and paper; she said, she was resolved to write to him; then, without naming any body, melted into tears, sunk qui­etly down upon her pillow, and said, he was not worth it, and it did not signify. I dare not tell you how my own health is, but while I have any health at all, I am▪

LETTER XCIV. Mrs. Mortimer to Miss Sidney.

VILLAINY, too big to express; and which, though I am dying under it, I know not how to punish, without involving innocent people, has been practised upon me. I foresee, I feel, it will be impossible you should ever see again your▪

LETTER XCV. The Reverend Horace Homespun to Mrs. La Motte.

THE last hope is extinguished, and I can only hold the pen to tell you, that my wife is—in Heaven; and that the last words which came from her quivering lips, convinced me there is a wretch somewhere upon earth, to whom I am indebted for her death. I can say no more.

LETTER XCVI. Miss Delia Delmore to Lady Lucy Saxby.

WHAT a dreadful change; my dear Lucy, since I last wrote to you! There is an unusual degree of uneasiness on the counte­nances of my ever-honoured parents: my bro­ther, Mr. Mortimer, is pensive: Fanny was seized with an hysteric disorder, while her husband was communicating to me the dis­course that passed between him and Mr. Sedley, who has never been at our house since. Mrs. Mortimer, it seems, knew not that Mr. Sedley had interested her husband in the declaration made, by that medium, to me: she remains exceedingly ill: has actually refused to suffer Mr. Mortimer to sleep with her: says, she has strong reasons for it, which he shall know at a proper time. At our coming into the drawing room, after we were summoned to her assist­ance by Sedley, (who in his confusion and hurry to fetch us, ran down our long garden un­braced and without his hat) we found the poor dear creature just recovering from a swoon: her eyes closed, her teeth shut, her clenched hands locked in each other, and her dress in the utmost disorder, I suppose from the violent [Page 95] changes of posture occasioned by the fits. I have no heart now, Lady Lucy, to talk of my own affairs; and yet, as you have a right to know every thing that concerns me, I just send you a sketch of my brother's conversation in the summer-house, previous to these alarming circumstances. My almost constant attend­ance on my sister will not permit me to tran­scribe it fair; and you must be contented with a loose paper, on which I have been able to scribble only at intervals.

[The Paper, inclosing Mr. Mortimer's Address to his Sister, upon Mr. Sedley's Subject.]

Mr. Mortimer, having led me by the hand through the garden into the summer-house, began, as usual, with a pretty compliment, told me, that he found I had already done execu­tion; that I had made a wound which all the waters of Buxton were not able to cure, and then proceeded (you know, Lucy, what an able advocate he is) to open the design of his calling me aside. I will own to you, said he, my dear Delia, that I summon your attention in behalf of Mr. Sedley; but I will, as nearly as I am able, to recollect his own words, and, without the least endeavour to sway you, leave the result to your own determination. I lately [Page 96] had a particular conversation with Mr. Sedley, wherein he addressed me, to the best of my remembrance, as follows:

"The motive of this visit, Mr. Mortimer, is in confidence to enquire of you, from whom I have reason to believe she conceals nothing, whether your sister Delia is under any present engagement of heart, or in the least respect partial to any one in the disposal of her affec­tions; for I should shudder to be the cause of even a negative pain to so amiable a woman: and I forbore to ask this question of Sir Henry, lest that regard which he is pleased to entertain of me might incline him to something that might be contradictory to the private prospects of his daughter. I know, Mr. Mortimer, the fraternal affection your sister bears you, and I am no stranger, young as I am in your ac­quaintance, to the all-souled intimacy subsisting between you as happy relations: hence I ima­gined it more for the general peace to direct myself to you rather than any other: for as my enquiries are answered by you, Mr. Mortimer, I will either bury my ambitious wishes in my own and your bosom, or, should they meet an encouraging reply, I will proceed to take such measures as seem to you most conducive to the happiness I aspire to."

[Page 97] Here, Delia, he paused a little, and then, with inimitable grace, pursued his overtures:

"Although, Mr. Mortimer, said he, I have of late often had the honour of Sir Henry's company, whose nearest secrets of heart I am beginning to share, I never found that he had any view of uniting Miss Delmore to any parti­cular family. But why do I talk thus? Sir Henry spurns the bare idea of compulsitory connections, and his noble nature can never stoop to barter the felicity of a child to inter­ested prospects. And yet, Sir, may it not be reasonably apprehended, that a soul so delicate, a heart so susceptible, feelings so fine, and a bosom so alive to every nicer alarm, as Miss Delmore's, may have made some wise and fa­vourite choice of her own? If so, tell me of it, frankly, and I promise, dear Mortimer, to join you in promoting, rather than opposing, the happiness she hopes for. After what I have now said, you will be quite explicit, ingenu­ous, and unreserved."

He waited my reply: his fine eyes shone with expectation: I told him, that I believed my sister Delia had not yet, amongst the vari­ous pretensions made to her hand, seen the ob­ject she could approve in the intimate light he [Page 98] alluded to; that I had often heard her express a proper regard to the excellencies, manners, and address of Mr. Sedley: that, as a very young friend, introduced into the family by the hand of so reverend and sagacious a father, she had an elegant opinion of his merit: and that, tho' I had not observed the least intimation of her entertaining any sensibility of heart as to his person, (here, Delia, he bowed and blushed) yet that (be not displeased, Delia) I knew her naturally soft, sensible, and a nice distinguisher of superior endowments. I concluded with saying, that for the short time I could boast the honour of his acquaintance, I knew none more likely to inspire Miss Delmore; and that, as a proof of my good wishes, I would take the opportunity given me of Sir Henry and Lady Delmore's evening ride, from which I would excuse us young folks, to inform you of the conversation previous to any farther procedure.

His cheeks coloured to their full bloom (and you know what a complexion he has, Delia) at this proposal: he begged, with great delicacy, that, till I was pre-acquainted with your pro­posals, wishes, and views, I would preserve the whole matter a secret, not only from your mother and Sir Henry, but even from my wife, [Page 99] the angelic Mrs. Mortimer, as he was pleased to call her: adding, that he could not bear to occasion, by an ill-timed petition, one mo­ment's uneasiness in a family so harmonized, innocent, and affectionate, as Sir Henry Del­more's; and that, rather than be cruelly instru­mental in the subversion of this, although his heart was in the cause, he would stifle the pleadings of it to eternity. I easily prevailed, Delia, on Sir Henry and your mother, to ex­cuse us, and, as soon as their chariot rolled from the door, I took Mr. Sedley by the arm, and told him I was going to be his advocate. He pressed my hand, and, in a whisper, said he would have the honour to keep Mrs. Mor­timer company in the saloon, while I pleaded for him in the summer-house.

And now, my dear Delia, continued my brother, may not I congratulate you on the conquest of a man, who, if there is any faith in the fairest appearances, is equally adorned in mind and body, and who will, I dare say, in­stantly proceed to acquaint us with his circum­stances and fortunes, if he receives your sanc­tion to be more explicit. I must own I never was so truly attracted by any man, and he real­ly seems born for an alliance with a woman as [Page 100] enchanting as himself. Tell me truly, tell me like a sister, Did you ever see so manly, yet so decorated an address? such splendid sentiments, so elevated an air? Or did you ever before meet with any gentleman so easy, or so engaging, in that sort of behaviour which is the result of a brilliant capacity, ornamented breeding, and unaffected complaisance.

When you have read the inclosed, Lucy, give me the sentiment of your heart upon it: for my own part, flattering as it is, I am too disordered, and too much interested in the sud­den, gloom that hangs over our house, to find satisfaction in any thing. Yet I am always

LETTER XCVII. The Reverend Horace Homespun to Mrs. La Motte.

I AM obliged, my good friend, to summon, not philosophy only, but all the force of christianity to my aid; and even that sustains itself with difficulty against the agitated pow­ers of Nature. My child is scarce cold in the [Page 101] earth: my wife is to-morrow to be inclosed within her coffin: my duty at my parish is precariously performed, and my strength abso­lutely fails me. Yet the last solemn testimo­nies of a husband's affection shall not be neg­lected, Mrs. La Motte. I have caused the dear dimensions of her dead body to be taken, my friend. Her shroud is upon the table before me: and I have sent to bespeak the hearse that shall convey her from hence to my own church, where I am resolved her dear remains shall be deposited. I will not leave her in a strange land: I will not suffer her to lie where I cannot often visit her grave, often reflect upon her virtues, and always protect the con­secrated spot which she occupies, from all in­sult and sacrilegious indecency. Nay, my friend, I will do more than this: the child that I trusted but on Tuesday last to the tomb, shall be raised again from the earth. Little did I think the commands of my wife would be so soon necessary to be obeyed: but her dying words shall not be forgotten. The mother and the son, for ah! Mrs. La Motte, my infant was a boy, shall be buried in the embraces of each other. Nay, I will, however the custom of the world may pronounce against it, I will read over them the awful service with my own [Page 102] mouth: the funeral oration shall be composed by myself: in my own church-yard shall they be deposited, and I will have the fortitude to see the last spadeful of earth cover their be­loved ashes before I retire to the agony of my solitude. That this is an uncommon proceed­ing, I am not to be told, but it is, nevertheless, consistent with my notions of piety, tenderness and duty, and shall be done.

I am obliged to lay down the pen, but will not fold up my letter; for though I shall be with you some time to-morrow night, scarcely till the middle of it, I know I shall be inca­pable of relating to you (what yet you will be anxious to understand) the manner of my poor Harriet's death, and therefore I will try to set it down, as I think I can with less misery to myself, upon paper.

In Continuation.

About an hour before she died, she desired the nurse to withdraw, and, taking me gently by the hand, she looked at me for some time, was almost drowned with her tears, and hid her face within the pillow. Then, having some­what relieved herself, she rose again upon her arm, and with a voice scarcely audible, but piercingly tender, she addressed me thus:— ‘ [Page 103] Oh, my best Horace! I have injured thee: I die a victim to the arts of the seducer; a se­ducer under the fairest form of irresistible virtue. Inquire not who or where he is; resentment would, perhaps, ruin you both, and GOD can tell, I would not have any mischief befal either. I have long—’

Mrs. La Motte, she could not finish her sentence. A second effort gave her just the power to say, ‘Put the child in my bosom, that we may sleep together:’ after which her eyes became fixed full upon mine: I fell upon the bed in excessive grief: she struggled hard to give the kiss which exhausted nature denied her power to impress, and then, half turning upon her side, the sigh came forth that wafted her soul to it's Creator, and she ex­pired upon my cheek.

Oh, Mrs. La Motte, that I could find the seducer! Oh, that I could discover the dark complotter of all this mischief! Clergyman as I am, I would make him feel the vengeance of a husband's arm. I have enquired in vain; not a clue is left me in her pocket-book; the landlord, to whom I applied, without telling him the drift of my application, assures me, that since my departure from Buxton, none [Page 104] but his wife and himself were in her company, not even Mr. Sedley, who has been constantly, of late, at a family's out of town; but of him, indeed, I have not the least suspicion. Per­haps the horrid circumstance happened before our coming to the bath; perhaps the infant is the offspring of some other parent; perhaps—Oh, Mrs. La Motte! Mrs. La Motte! I am bewildered, and wild with a thousand appre­hensions. But why do I rage thus for revenge? Is that consistent with my holy character? Is not the poor object of seduction punished suf­ficiently? Are not the child and the parent both dead? Ah, my unhappy Harriet! I in­jure thee, I wrong thee! I have just kissed the clay-cold lip, Mrs. La Motte. I will thirst no more for the blood of the wretch that has de­spoiled me. I leave him to the justice of his Maker. Let me go on in the straight path, let me still walk in the way of my duty. The coffin is come; the hearse rolls it's sound in the wind. I hear the beat of the melancholy hoof at the door. My new-buried babe is bringing into the room. It is the deep of night; there is no moon. I will have no torches.

The child is raised; the mother is in her shroud, and placed in her last mansion; the [Page 105] horse waits to carry me home, and I have given orders to have both the bodies carried carefully down stairs. GOD keep your heart from a scene like this, prays the unfortunate

LETTER XCVIII. Thornton to Sedley.

I HAVE changed my condition, and by so doing enlarged the circle of my felicity.—The chaste and honourable connection I have now made, with the sacred and rational pur­suits attending it, render it very improper for me to hold farther correspondence with a man who professes to seduce the wife, and may very probably, one time or another, throw from his guard even one who is armed against him, by a knowledge of the basest system that ever was adopted.

I only write this to acquaint you that it is the last letter you will ever receive from

Mrs. Thornton, late Miss Sidney has received such a card from Fanny Mortimer, as pro­nounces you the most abandoned hypocrite upon earth. You guess the contents of it.

LETTER XCIX. Lady Lucy Saxby to Miss Delia Delmore.

HOW shall I be able to write a proper answer to so interesting a letter as your last, in which two subjects so immediately opposite are touched upon? As to poor Mrs. Mortimer's health, I anxiously hope, she is by this time, again restored to a more tolerable degree of it; and yet how much are you all to be pitied in being necessarily made the spectators of a dis­position so full of fears, hopes, wishes, and ap­prehensions! But, as Joseph says, ‘I dreamed a dream last night,’ and I shall relate it to my Delia, my fair oracle, for interpretation. Methought I was on a sudden (these things are all done suddenly) transported from the city of London to the realms of Heaven, where a Se­raph, in the form of my departed sister, (whom you and I used so much to admire) immediate­ly acknowledged me, and addressed me thus: ‘Upon what account is my dear Lucy come, [Page 107] uncalled, to Elysium? or How got she hither without a guide!’ "I come," said I, ‘in behalf of a dying friend, on the preservation of whose life depends the felicity of mine. Lead me, my sister, to the Angel of Health, and I will kneel down and worship him.’

‘If that is the purport of your errand to E­lysium, I fear you are come here in vain,’ said Clarissa: ‘there can be no partialities, and yon old, grey-headed, frowning personage, you see with a scythe in his hand, would be very angry if he was but to imagine what you want. Death is above a bribe, sister, you may depend on it.’

At this instant I beheld a most beautiful cherub, with golden plumage expanded, flut­tering over my head, and alight by the sight of me. I trembled and bowed. "Stranger," said the celestial figure, ‘I know your business! put the name of your friend into that little lattice; it leads to the palace of the Angel of Pity; approach reverently.’

Soon after I had obeyed these commands, a door opened, out of which came the most ele­gant appearance of the female sex that can pos­sibly be imagined, and with her a second form, whose face was shaded by a snowy veil.— [Page 108] "Mortal," said the first splendid figure, ‘the prayer of the affectionate shall not be offered in vain; thy friend shall live, and lo! here she is in the bloom of beauty, and in the height of health.’ Saying this, the veil was thrown aside, and in the second form I imme­diately recognized the features of Fanny, more animated and animating than ever. I ran to embrace the sister of my friend; but the An­gel of Pity interposed, and after bidding me depart in peace, she waved a golden wand, and then the different emotions occasioned by the vision awaked me.

And yet, Delia, I am persuaded this dream will be propitious. How truly happy shall I be, if you send me word that I have made a trip to Elysium to some purpose. Nor will I, at any rate, suffer you to call me superstitious; for the thing is very probable: surely, in reco­vering such a woman, where such a family and such a husband are concerned, the Angels of Pity and Health may very probably be interest­ed. I will not excuse you, if you do not ac­quaint me with the success of my dream im­mediately.

As to the conduct and conversation of Mr. Sedley in the summer-house, I cannot but ad­mire [Page 109] his address and ingenuity. His making a confidante of your brother was such a stroke of policy as shews him to be no ordinary lover; and I can see, from the delicate turn of his compliments, and his management of those nameless delicacies, (which though called mi­nute, are amongst the points of importance) that he is no novice in those matters. You ask for my sentiments upon the subject: What can I say? Have you not sent me the most a­miable specimen of his attachment? Was not this attachment discovered in a mode peculiar to the elegance of his character? Has he not person, manner, fortune, wit, sense? Do you not know what a complexion he has, my dear, when he blushes? Has he not, by your own confession, the most decorated address, the most splendid sentiments, the most elevated air? and, Is it not the opinion of your brother, that he never met with any gentleman ‘so easy, or so engaging, in that sort of behaviour which is the result of a brilliant capacity, ornamented breeding, and unaffected complaisance?’

Thus recommended, then, my dear, on all sides, how is it possible that my sentiments should not be greatly in his favour? How is it possible that I should not wish to alter the su­perscription [Page 110] of my letters, and direct them for Mrs. Sedley?

After all, suppose I was to change my note: you ask me for my sentiments: suppose you see them in the following letter:

Should I send this laconic epistle, formally signed and sealed, what would be the conse­quence? Methinks I see the whole scene? The angry Delia has finished the letter, and lays it down; she hems twice or thrice, attempting, but in vain, to swallow the affront. Surely, says she, (beautifully bridling) surely Lady Saxby might have softened the matter a little; she is very explicit; but how should she be a judge of a man she never saw? I am not much delighted with her letter, I can tell her that? She believes all men are alike. What! does she compare the divine Sedley to that atom of a fop, that "bug with gilded wings?" Upon my word, a smart comparison, very agreeable truly. I'll drop my correspondence with her censorious Ladyship, however.

Ah, Delia! Delia! have I not shewn off the sex faithfully? Do I not know what agreeable [Page 112] inconsistencies we are in love affairs? How ready we are to ask the advice of another, when we are predetermined to take our own! Now, are you not, my dear correspondent, are you not a little hypocrite? Have you not re­solved to encourage Sedley, and would not eve­ry dissuasive be ineffectual. But I rejoice to think you are under no necessity to answer that question. I do not see any suspicious part in Sedley's behaviour, and I expect that you will distinguish yourself from the rest of your sex, even by the elegance and ingenuousness with which you meet his advances. That the event may be happiness to both, is most unfeignedly the wish of your

LETTER C. Mrs. La Motte to the Reverend Horace Homespun.
(Prior to the Receipt of the last.)

IS then the veil rent, my good Mr. Homespun? Is the bruised reed shaken to pieces? Lan­guage was never made equal to such a heart­rending subject. Remember, however, even in the midst of affliction, remember the cha­racter of a christian pastor. Make haste, Oh, [Page 113] my unhappy friend! to your own cottage.—Take no vengeance on an unworthy rake, even should you find him. The thorn is in his heart, the flaming sword is in his bosom. My feeble consolations, my hopes, my attentions, and my prayers, will be for ever at your ser­vice. Delay not then, longer than it is neces­sary, your journey to the parsonage, and your real sympathizing,

LETTER CI. The Reverend Horace Homespun to Mrs. La Motte.

YES, Mrs. La Motte, I will remember what is due to the character of a Christian cler­gyman, and I am returning, as I ought, to my solitary cottage: but let me enjoin you, though your own prudence will render that injunction superfluous, not to satisfy curiosity of any kind, whether it comes in the shape of condolence, sympathy, or surprize, as to the true cause of my unfortunate Harriet's departure. Let her memory escape the censure even of an ill sug­gestion. I write this upon the road at our resting-place, while the horses are baited, and the men refreshed. Ah, my dear Mrs. La [Page 114] Motte, what a mechanical creature is man! People who are hired for their attendance at a funeral are so familiarized to the last ceremo­nies, that they smile in their sables; and, while they are conveying youth and beauty to the tomb, can enjoy the ordinary, every-day e­vents of life with as much glee and inconsider­ation as if they were carrying the gayest bride and bridegroom to the altar. The mourners who came with me, are at this instant carous­ing in the next room, while she who used heretofore to be the companion of my jour­neys, and made every place a home to me by the enchantments of her presence and society, is waiting their leisure, and lying in a gloomy vehicle, without any refreshment whatever.

Without refreshment! What have I said, and how does my present practice contradict my former precepts? Do I forget the rewards of an innocent soul, and are all my tears shed over the breathless body; which, being no longer a­nimated by that soul, is nothing? Surely, I have lost my wonted sense of religion, and Provi­dence—

No, Mrs. La Motte, no, I have not. To religion, and to Providence, be every event committed; but neither have robbed me of my [Page 115] sensibility, and while that remains I cannot "but remember such things were, and were most precious to me." Even memory assists in drawing a picture to distress me.

She who is there emboxed was one whom I chose from the rest of the world. She was indeed my world. I have seen her walk. Her now clay-cold hand, has been a thousand times joined in that which is now employed in de­scribing her fate.

She increased every day in sense, and discre­tion, and beauty. I think not of her last of­fences, for how should village simplicity be a match for town maxims:

It begins to rain, Mrs. La Motte. The drops patter upon the roof of the hearse. I put my face to the casement, and hear them. The poor little infant too, my boy, my darling! my heir, my first-born!

Oh, Mrs. La Motte, forgive, forgive me! [Page 116] Though I know the independency of soul and body in such a situation, though reason points out to me their separate state, yet I cannot, all at once, disunite them. Human Nature, pow­erful, pathetic Nature, puts in her plea, and you have too much tenderness not to admit it. Do not, therefore, reproach me for ordering ano­ther covering to be thrown over the hearse.

More weakness, Mrs. La Motte. I have walked forth, and am a little relieved; the shower is over. Do not argue with me, dear friend; while the earth contains the beloved re­mains of Mrs. Homespun, I must consider her as claiming from, me respect and tenderness: the duties even of the husband, do not termi­nate till she is in the grave.

But the sable train have finished their repast. We are preparing to proceed in our journey. The postman is blowing, his horn close beside me: he says this letter will reach you some hours before the wretched writer of it. He waits, while I beg of you to be at the Parson­age against our arrival: your presence will be then necessary to prevent me from running the gauntlet, through starers and condolers. Such pity is, at such periods, insupportable. The [Page 117] hearse is moving awfully on. I must not leave it without one real mourner.

LETTER CII. Mrs. La Motte to Philip Sedley, Esq at Buxton. (After the Return of Mr. Homespun.)

I Congratulate you, Sir, on your victory over every feeling that should distinguish the human species from the brutal: or rather I sa­lute you upon your notable transmigration! The system of the philosopher, who contended for such a change, you have adopted, even in this world, with success. Yes, Mr. Sedley, you are most compleatly brutalized indeed. Al­though I have not the dishonour to know you personally, I make bold to address a few senti­ments to you, chiefly to acquaint you with what you might otherwise be for some time ignorant. Your principal victims were buried last night, and the survivor is in a fair way of soon following them.

I could have wished, however, for the sake of your amusement, as it seems you are [Page 118] gratified upon such occasions, that you had been a spectator of this funeral. Though I can easily conceive you do not love preaching, yet, in the discourse of last night, there were such remarks as might have highly diverted so ele­vated a mind as yours!

But, to drop this ineffectual part of my sub­ject, and proceed to another, more likely to excite your curiosity, Do you know, most assi­duous and yet most negligent Sir, that a part of your treasures are now in my possession? To speak plainer: you must know that, amongst the now useless cloaths, and other late necessa­ries of the entombed Harriet, was found a Book, very thickly marked, both by marginal notes, crosses of the nail, points of the pen, and strokes of the pencil; and in the fair leaf, next the title, there is written what distinguishes it to be Mr. Sedley's property.

Now, it plainly appears, Sir, from the several parts referred to, that you purposely pillaged the volume for the pernicious, and rejected the instructive. This would have been very pro­per, had you contented yourself, like other commentators, with reprobating what is wrong, in order to set it apart from what is right: but how could such ordinary methods be expected [Page 119] from a person so very extraordinary! You, Sir, have even improved upon your original, and have ingeniously laboured to annihilate it's merit, while you perpetuate it's infamy.

As an instance of this, I select the subsequent well-illustrated passages, out of a multitude of others equally amiable. I shall place both the Commentator and his Author in a seemly, or­derly manner, and, as you will easily recollect, act the part of a faithful transcriber.

"Avoid seeing an affront, if possible."

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

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

Oh, Dormer, Dormer! thou dear encourager. How dost thou give me spirits to go on? H. H. is an angel of the first order.

"Read faces."

What a Right Reverend face, and how de­lightfully legible is that of Master Minister H. Not a trait of suspicion about it. I like his honest broad brow; his grey eye, which looks at every thing, and into nothing. The very man. Oh divine H. H.!

"Don't yield to fits of rage."

I am cursedly addicted to passion. Will curb myself. Coolness carries all before it. Saucy L. thou shalt suffer, for I will oblige thee; and instead of contempt, shew thee a kindness. Then, then, Mum!

How could the sagacious Mr. Sedley trust his serious views with the very woman he meant to destroy? But that is easily accounted for. In another part of the book we find a clue to this mystery.

"Be, like Caesar's wife, unsuspected.

Yes, dear enchanting Harriet, if it should ever be my fortune to please thee, how would I consult the security of thy situation; how [Page 121] guard thy fame, even with my life, from the breath of detraction. Ah, could'st thou but surmount the vulgar prejudices of the world, could'st thou but read in my countenance the attentive, ardent, eternal friend; the, the, Oh! Harriet, Harriet, I will not swear to the truth of my passion, lest you should suspect me; but if I might be permitted to ask a favour with all imaginable softness. In a word, Harriet, This is the true Volume of Delight. The world is full of masks, and if you and I put ours delicately on, so as to talk not of our own affairs, never shew Master Minister H. any contempt, flatter his little oratorical and clas­sical vanity, and assume the proper flexibility, what joys may we not taste, what treasures of tenderness may we not allow one another!

Ah, dear arbitress, keep this sacred volume from every eye but your own: read, and return it to the fondest and most faithful of men!

Here break we off, Mr. Sedley, to make way for a reflection; I have always taken notice that your great schemers counteract their fondest purposes. In the very depth of their conspira­cy, they discover a little which serves as a clue to the discovery of a great deal; nor did I ever know any man who had a bad secret to keep, [Page 122] and a difficult hand of cards to play, that did not, by too much caution in some points, and too much carelessness in others, lose the ho­nours of the game:

And yet, Sir, to apply one more poetical line to you, what, after all, can be said of you better than this?

These expostulations, however, Sir, are foreign from the purpose of my address, which is to intimate to you my design of publishing this odd volume of the great Lord Chesterfield, with the Remarks of the splendid Philip Sedley, Esq Such annotations will, no doubt, give fresh vi­gour to the sale, and add exceedingly to the popularity both of the Original and the Com­mentary. It will at least shew how the Man of Fashion may improve upon celebrated pre­cepts, and (what is, perhaps, of greater conse­quence) how the Woman of Innocence may e­scape the miseries of the practice. Above all [Page 123] things be assured, the world shall not long be unacquainted with the gentleman who has ac­commodated it with so spirited an illustration of a book so much in vogue; and who knows but this conduct may tempt you to favour the pub­lic with the remainder of the volumes, equally enriched, and by the same eminent hand?

LETTER CIII. Mrs. Thornton to Mrs. Mortimer.

YOU frighten me to death, my dear Fanny: what can possibly be the matter? Not two hours before your alarming letter arrived at Lieutenant Vernon's, I had given away my name, my hand, and my heart, to Mr. Thorn­ton, of Leicestershire. It is a match of haste, but I hope not of rashness. He is, I find, the friend of a gentleman now intimate in your fa­mily, and, by the disordered answers I have received from my husband, I am afraid, to the wicked schemes of that friend you—But it cannot be: Mr. Thornton would not avow any close connection with a character so atrocious; [Page 124] nay, I may be mistaken as to the villainy under which you tell me you are a dying. Dying, Fanny Mortimer! Heaven forbid; what a wed­ding-day have you made of mine! My hus­band, too, has been in tears, almost ever since the receipt of your letter. I know not what to write, or what to think: if you ever loved, satisfy the impatience of

LETTER CIV. Mrs. Mortimer to Mrs. Thornton.

WRITTEN in the agony of her heart, and with a trembling hand, receive the last sentiments that are to be expected from your wretched friend.

Was Mr. Thornton, then, intimate with the, the, Oh! Heaven! was he intimate with this, this, I shudder at his name, this Mr. Sedley? Perhaps he was one of his correspondents. If so, he knew his designs; and, if he did know them, how shall his heart be appeased for con­cealing them from the unhappy woman whom they have thrown into despair. Yes, Araminta, [Page 125] I am in despair. I am ashamed, not only of my friends and my husband, but of my sha­dow. I dare not look in the glass.

Seek not to know the particulars of what, cannot be spoken to. I am abused, deceived, and hurt beyond the possibility of cure. I will die.

Dreadful officiousness! I had flown up to my chamber, and turned the key, to indulge my anguish in all that luxury, which, on such occasions, is afforded by solitude, when Mr. Mortimer tapped at the door, to know how I did? My father, sister, and all the family, fol­lowed his example; and last of all came my beloved mother, whose eye I beheld through the key-hole swimming in tears. But I was proof even against this. Steady in my resolu­tions, I dared not to admit her.

The cause of my new source of grief seems yet to be undiscovered. What of that? I know it myself. The blessed GOD, "from whom no secrets are hid" knows it. I was myself the aggressor. This fatal hand brought about the horrid circumstance. I betrayed my weakness to him in a letter. I told him his departure was necessary to my repose. That [Page 126] was enough to make such a man perpetrate my destruction.

Partiality. Wretch that I was. What right had I to be partial? Mr. Mortimer claimed my heart. Mr. Mortimer is the best of men.—Memory be still!

Hush! Araminta, I hear his step on the stairs.

He has thrust a card through the door, and gone down again softly to the parlour. Ara­minta, the pen falls from my hand. When I send this, I will send with it the card! Ara­minta, I will not live!

Read, read, and tell me if I ought not to wish for annihilation.

I must pause again, Araminta; my strength fails me.

In Continuation. Ten o'clock at night.

No, my friend, I could not obey the sum­mons. I could not, on the other hand, have courage to send an apology. About ten mi­nutes after the card was delivered, I heard the dear, well-known voice of Lady Delmore,

tenderly enquire, ‘Is my child preparing to [Page 128] join us? Will she make us happy? Take your own time, my love; only remember, that the pain or pleasure of the night de­pends upon you. Don't hurry, don't dis­compose your spirits.’

The excellent, most revered, and most ve­nerable Lady, a second time returned unan­swered.

Oh! Araminta, Araminta, how I wept! how my heart yearned to clasp this dear mo­ther to it! but I was all the time labouring with a dreadful circumstance, which to disclose would produce complicated misfortune.

GOD of compassion, to what an exigence am I reduced!

Scarce had Lady Delmore withdrawn, but Mr. Mortimer ascended the stairs, and ‘Will not my lovely Fanny, will not the wife of my soul, condescend to oblige us?’ said he with a softness that was a fresh occasion of distress to me.

I could not, upon this, avoid giving way to some incoherent expressions, and wild ejacula­tions, part of which were uttered upon my knees.

[Page 129] The trembling Mortimer turned down stairs, and presently I heard the whole family assem­bled in the entry leading to the chambers, consulting by whisper.

They conclude (I overhear) that my brain is hurt. Ah! that it were, Araminta. How, how, my friend, is this to be accounted for, but I would not enter the sleeping apartment of Edward Mortimer for all that the sun surveys beneath its radiance! My soul is not polluted!

‘When will the darling of my wishes suffer me (said Mortimer just now) to lead her from that melancholy chamber to her own apartment?’

"Never, never, never," (said I, in the extre­mity of my grief) "Never, Mr. Mortimer."

"Fanny," (replied the astonished Mortimer) "Did you speak, my love?"

I recollected my imprudence, and catching up a piece of paper, wrote on it as follows:

I put this under the bottom of the door, and heard the injured, yet most delicate Mortimer immediately carry it away.

The maid has brought me a candle, and tho' I find the whole family (even to my aged father, he who must needs want the balms of repose) is to set up, I am no more to be invaded. This tenderness, this constant, uniform com­pliance distracts me. Poor, poor Mortimer, this is the first time since our union that, that—

Excuse me, Araminta, I must leave off, and think a little!

In Continuation.

It is midnight, Araminta. I have come to a resolution. In the common course of hu­man declinings I cannot live long. My con­stitution [Page 131] is utterly gone. A fair excuse offers (during my present state of infirmity) to be indulged with an apartment separate from the excellent Edward Mortimer. Let me, then dare to live. Let me live, were it only to pre­vent a discovery which my death might occa­sion. Let the secret of the most barbarous Sedley die with me, without involving in it, either my father or my husband.

The maid tells me the whole house is in tears. What, my venerable father, my mo­ther, all, all in tears!

I was unable longer to support the idea; and I will go down to them that they may rest—But into the chamber of her husband never shall again go the desolate

I will privately give this letter to the post­man with my own hand, if I can steal out when he calls for others. But, it must, alas! my Araminta, it will be my last.

LETTER CV. Thomas at the Bath, to Timothy in Town.

'SDEATH, Timothy, "I'm sped, I'm mar­ried." In the very flower of my youth, in the bud of my adventures, I'm cut off from all the joys of rambling, by matrimony. In a word, Timothy, the first fair she that I was well with, as the great Lord Chesterfield calls it, complained in form to my master, who, in the moment of his rage, drew his sword, cocked his pistol, and giving me the choice of two cursed things, namely, death or a wife, would certainly have sent me to my account, "with all my imperfections on my head," even now broad blown in the middle of May, if I had not fixed upon something: and, although in the confusion of my fears I have chosen the worst of the two destinies, by taking to my bed the low-born wench I have simulated, yet, "no man knows the fate he's born to," and I have been to the church with a water-dipper, yea, Timo­thy, with a creature, who for some years, hath got her bread by standing at the side of the [Page 133] bath, and presenting a brimmer of the water to the passenger. Then she is as insipid as the water itself, and ten times more illiterate than the tumbler that contains it. I marked her out only as a petty experiment, just to bring my hand into play, as it were, before I ventured to Chesterfieldise; a word, Timothy, I collected from Thornton's letters, which thou knowest I have an occasional access to, with others. However, my spouse, or rather my sposo, for I would a­void vulgar expressions, which are "certain characteristics of bad company, and a bad edu­cation," my sposo is wholesome, pretty, and not ill-made: but as she has not the smallest degree of ton about her, and doth not pretend the most distant acquaintance with either A, B, C, or any of the twenty-four members in that learned family, I despair of ever making her figure as an editor, or, indeed, of collecting to­gether any of my papers, upon which account, I charge thee, Timothy, to preserve, very cau­tiously, all my letters, notes, minutes, and max­ims; and as I shall very soon travel, (for a wife at home will only give me eclat abroad, and thou canst not believe I will live long with a water-dipper, though she were the Nereid of the spring) thou wilt observe to tie them up, date them on the backs, docket them, and if [Page 134] thou shouldst survive me, (which I supplicate the heavens thou mayst not) I beg thee to put them into the hands of the best bookseller then in vogue, and publish them against my consent; and (as order and method are the very souls of business) suppose the title (which I am to know nothing of) were to run thus: ‘ The Letters of Thomas Traverse, abroad, to Timothy Trueman, at home: containing Every Instruction necessary to form a Footman of Honour, Virtue, Taste, and Fashion.’

Above all points, Timothy, avoid carelessness: let not a slip of our sacred simulations be seen. Sedley, with all his cleverness and graces, is a most thoughtless fellow, saving his authority. There is not a syllable in his correspondence to Thornton but I am acquainted with it. Many a small essential he hits off to admiration. As far as the maxims of his Author extends, in regard to being well with women, he is a wonder. But of this exclusive, between our­selves, he is a bungler. He never puts his e­pistles into the office with his own hand; he [Page 135] trusts them to me, under the simple safeguard of a wet wafer: my knowledge of the world points out to me the necessity of learning all I can, especially when I can make observations without being observed. But, besides this, an epistle so hurried off is but half a letter; for nicely is it noted, that neatness in folding up, sealing, and directing, is by no means to be neglected: there is something even in the ex­terior of a letter that may please or displease, and consequently deserves attention. Thou must know, Timothy, and I tell it thee in great confidence, that I have bestowed several leisure­hours in preparing for thine eye (and in due time for the world, that is, against my will) a Treatise on Tooth-picking, wherein I will shew the precise method of holding, handling, draw­ing, and re-placing the dentical instruments. Besides which, I have almost ready, an Essay on Nail-cutting; and I have gone a great way in bringing to perfection an instrument, for which, by the bye, I expect both a reward and a patent, that is so contrived, as to curve the nails, prevent their raggedness, hinder the flesh from growing up, and preserve them smooth, even, and transparent. And that every thing may be compleat, I have sketched out a plan for a satire against tricks and oddities, of which [Page 136] I send thee, underneath, a couplet or two, by way of specimen of the work.

I must not, however, forget to apprise thee of the most elaborate of all my works, enti­tuled, The Art of Carving, wherein the adroit­ness and gentility of doing the honours of the table, without hacking across a bone, without bespattering the company with the sauce, and without overturning the glasses into our neigh­bours pockets, will be critically considered.—At the end of my performances I propose to annex certain miscellaneous observations on men and manners, such as knowledge of the world, the taking off the hat, offering the hand, making the bow, hanging the sword, managing the cane, holding the knife and fork, blowing the nose, and all the et-caetera essential to a [Page 137] gentleman. I shall, by way of supplement, add a few free thoughts on modest assurance, a ca­veat against bashfulness, hints on exterior seri­ousness, and cautions on flexibility of counte­nance; with a key to the heart, or the study of weaknesses, infirmities, foibles, and passions, illustrated: in short, Timothy, my labours all­together, will form a complete commentary on Chesterfield, and I would have them lettered on the back thus: Traverse on Stanhope. Perspi­cuity is a peculiar grace.

Oh! Timothy, why were talents like mine denied an adequate fortune? Here has Sedley been, almost a month, catching a pair of beau­ties, simulating a couple of petticoats; when I, had my purse been like his, could have encom­passed a dozen. To say the truth, he has been rather unlucky too, for one of his damsels is dead, and the other is moving off.

You will guess what a regard I pay to moral character, when, notwithstanding my poverty, I scorn to repair my shattered fortunes by im­peaching him. No, Timothy, that would be base; let every gentleman's affairs be sacred: I must not wound my feelings. I must not be blasted, Timothy, I must not be blasted.

[Page 138] I lament nothing, my friend, but want of money; and yet I have been lately thinking, manner, may procure even that. Surely, Ti­mothy, the same sprightly powers that can make a cuckold, cannot fail, if dexterously ap­plied, to help a man's pocket. There is a very rich, old, rheumatical, heavy-heel'd fellow at the bath, whom I have fixed my eye upon, and I am resolved to try the experiment.

Surely the serious exterior may befriend us with men as well as women. I know his weaknesses, and he says he is sure I was born a gentleman. Money I must really have.

Now, taking a ride upon the King's high­way, rather late in the evening, is so cursedly hazardous, and I have such an objection to ro­guery, that I cannot think of it: but I am per­suaded I can simulate or dissimulate (for I hardly know the distinction) a purse or two, and make the person simulat ed pleased with himself, and much obliged to me for taking it. This is, at worst, an ingenious way of running round the halter, without putting the neck into it; and if we view it as it ought to be viewed, it is only a notable way of making a man pay so much gold for so much flattery, self-love, and satisfaction. For the success of all these [Page 139] arduous and laudable undertakings, pray Ti­mothy, and believe me

LETTER CVI. Timothy in Town to Thomas at the Bath.

I Have received safe all the letters you directed to me, and I should have honoured them much sooner, had it been in my power; but the truth is, I have too much business to allow much time for pleasure; or, rather, I endeavour to make my pleasure and my business go fair and softly, like worthy fellow-servants in the same family. Besides this, Tom, you and your master, and I and mine, (if you will excuse me for following your example of putting the cart before the horse) are so very different, that it is impossible we should agree upon any point we talk of. I am a plain fellow, with a worsted­laced livery and a wig, and you a gentleman with ruffles at your wrists, tambour waistcoat, and your hair tucked in braids under your hat. I condescend to take a shilling, or even six pence, a head, by the way of Good bye to you, [Page 140] honest Tim, from my master's company, and you are above such a custom, and break your guinea at a tavern or a coffee-house to fling down your half-crown to the waiter with a dignified disdain, like a Prince.

Philip Sedley, Esq your Lord, makes it his amusement to rattle away from salt-water to fresh-water, from this polite place to that po­lite place, (to speak more properly) from one Ton to another Ton, till he has shewn himself every where, without settling any where. My master, on the contrary, Mr. Michael Bank­well, is an elderly, industrious, regular, batch­elor of a citizen, up at eight, and in bed by e­leven, who keeps me because he says I hit his humour, and he hates new faces. Moreover, Mr. Tom, there is nothing similar between our families. I save, you do not save. I am pru­dent, you are not. I love a wife, to whom I have been married fifteen years, and am only sorry that I cannot see her more than once in a week. You are tired of yours, to whom you have not been a week married. I delight in the appellation of plain Tim, or Timothy. You are offended unless, Sir, or Mr. precedes the name which was bestowed upon you by your godfathers and godmothers.

[Page 141] In short, Tom, I beg pardon; in short, Mr. Thomas, I begin to think, (as we so little re­semble one another, either in our likings or a­versions) that we had better not put ourselves for the future to the expence of postage; which (as you and your master are addicted to go pretty far into the country, and you are apt to write four letters where a man of less genius and spirit would scarce write one) is really a serious circumstance.

Not that I should propose such a matter nei­ther, were there no other obstacle in the way: for (to flourish for a moment in your mode) I must inform you, that

"The friends I have, and their adoption try'd, I'd grapple to my heart with hooks of steel."

Frankly to speak therefore, Mr. Traverse, (tho' you are undoubtedly a youth of parts, and able to do as much harm as any lad I know) you are not the man to my mind. In a word, Tom, I never took kindly to you; and since your last letter, which lies on the table before me, I like you less than ever.

And so you look like a dog now you have got a wife, do you, Tom? and marriage at three and twenty you call being cut off. Take care you [Page 142] are not cut off in your flower another way!—For if the scheme of simulating (the meaning of which God knows) the rheumatical Gen­tleman's money out of his pocket should fail, and you should employ the sprightly powers you talk of in making him part with it whether he will or no, you may stand a chance to be promoted even sooner than you wish.

With respect to the books you figure so much upon, I know nothing about them; and if they relate only to picking of teeth, and turning out of toes, paring of nails, blowing noses, and taking off hats, I must beg to be ex­cused having any thing to do with it; in the first place because I think I know all these things partly as well as his Lordship, and, per­haps, some of them better. As to knives and forks, I believe I can handle them as well as any nobleman in the universe. I am no bad carver, unless, I am sharp set; I am not to be told when it is my duty to have my hat under my arm; and, as to the rest, I never under­stood, till his Lordship told me, that it was de­cent to pick the teeth at all in company, if it could be avoided.

I shall make you laugh, no doubt, when I acquaint you that I approve a custom my mas­ter [Page 143] has of reading to his family every Sunday evening; and, as to books, I have as many as serve my purpose; namely, a Testament left by my aunt Mary in the year 1701, a Whole Duty of Man, Farriery made Easy, and The Servants Guide.

You wish for a full purse, you say, for the sake of doing more injuries to innocent wo­men: there we differ again: though I am, in the main, contented with what I have, I now and then sigh for an increase of fortune to dis­tribute amongst many worthy people whom I know to be under a cloud: and (if I thought you would not smile too much) I should ven­ture to tell you, that I have two little orphan cousins in my eye, who shall not want a friend, if they turn out well, though they have lost a father: and I have more pleasure in seating my old frail mother her arm-chair by a chearful fire, and giving now and then a necessary to a blind brother that I have, all which I pinch out of my perquisites and wages, than it is pos­sible you should even simulate, as you call it, out of a stranger, or get by the ruin of all the men, women, and children, in Buxton.

And so, pretty, polite, Mr. Thomas, I leave [Page 144] you to your undertakings, and beg that you will do me the favour to leave me to mine.

LETTER CVII. Sedley to Thornton.

OH, Thornton! Thornton! Thornton! I must write, I must fly to thy kind bosom for resource, although it were only to tell thee that thy prophecy is fulfilled! There walks not the insulted earth, at this present moment, such a rascal, such a wretch, such a fiend as Philip Sedley. Oh, my GOD! what a stroke of heart have I this instant sustained! The dead of the night, thou knowest, is generally my hour for projection; and, as this evening was particularly dark, serene, and favourable to my purpose of reflecting upon the mischiefs of the morrow, I left my chamber about eleven o'clock, and took the path that would soon have brought me to a little grove, by the side of a still streamlet, where I could have indulged "meditation even to madness." But, oh, Mr. Thornton! what an agonizing interruption met me in the way! As I reached the door where I lately resided, (for [Page 145] on Horace's return to town I changed my lodg­ings) what, of all things horrible to the heart, dost thou think I saw? Not lightning, not the flames of a burning town, but a single torch, that displayed to me two coffins, containing the two fair creatures in whose fates I had been instrumental, carried on the shoulders of the attendants to a hearse that was standing ready to receive them: yes, my friend,— Harriet Homespun, and the pledge of chaste embraces, were both passing to their last home: I gave a scream that broke voluntarily from my bosom. I fainted in the arms of a person that was standing in a pensive posture against the side of the hearse. Oh, Mr. Thornton, it was Horace himself!—it was the honest man, the kind friend, the unsuspicious priest, that I had in­jured past redemption. I recovered only to meet an eye that sunk me to the earth again; the dominion of the accursed Dormer was past. Truth took me by the heart-strings, and Con­science cast me upon the knee. I had no power over my own faculties; and the God of Nature did as he thought proper. I took the coffin of the wife in my arms: I bathed it with the scalding tears of unaffected penitence: I told the poor, trembling, astonished priest, whom he might thank for all his miseries, whom he [Page 146] might consider as the murderer of his family. I usually carry with me, in my night-walks, a sword: I was armed with one at present: I offered it to the hand of Horace. I tore open my waistcoat, bared my breast, and begged from him the stroke of mercy. He refused to give me the death I merited. Cruel man! he left me to my GOD! I caught the weapon, shortened it, and pointed it at the detested heart, that directed the detested hand: but even here I was disappointed by the barbarity of Horace, who wrenched it from me ere I had little more than perforated the skin; and assuring the at­tendants, that I was at times, as now, disordered in my senses, ordered the hearse to pass on.—He mounted his horse, bade the landlord go quietly to bed, say nothing of what had hap­pened, and, wiping his eyes, rode after the machine that contained the ruins of his family.

I was left alone; my shame is revealed; every man's tongue will be against me on the mor­row. I have followed my Preceptor into the pit of irremediable perdition. Repentance is the labour of a life: a minute's ignominy is to me insupportable. I will leave this cursed place directly. I will saddle my horse private­ly but never, never shalt thou again be dis­graced, [Page 147] my still beloved Thornton, by the pre­sence of the

The poor Fanny Mortimer, too, is dying. I have reduced to ashes that family also. To possess her undefended form in a swoon! What violence! What villainy! Oh, shame! shame! I will not send this letter at present. I must ask the forgiveness of the expiring Fanny be­fore I die; or else I should be ashamed even to leave existence. I will see her. Poor Morti­mer, how have I wronged thee! Unhappy De­lia, how have I deceived thee! Let no man be tempted by the maxims of a casuist, to leave the plain, simple path of singleness; and be it engraven upon every heart, indelibly, that HYPOCRISY, however polished, will lead us to the gates of Hell, and that TRUTH, only TRUTH, can conduct us, through her temple to Heaven!

LETTER CVIII. Mr. Mortimer to Mr. Thornton. At Lieutenant Vernon's.

I Am this moment arrived in town from Bux­ton, where the body of your wounded friend, Mr. Sedley, will be found either by you, or any of those who think it worth while to own him. He has, as I suppose you know, been the occasion of the most multiplied mis­chief that ever was, I believe, committed in the same space of time, in that or any other town. His death however, and his repentance which appears to be sincere, are all that man can have.

It would by no means interest a stranger, as you are, Sir, to particularize the sorrows your friend has introduced, not only in my family, but others equally happy before his admittance into them. But I understand from this liber­tine, who put your late letters into my hand after I had wounded him, that you have mar­ried the most intimate friend of my dishonoured Fanny: to her it will not be uninteresting to observe, that it is impossible she should ever behold again alive that most injured and un­fortunate [Page 149] girl, who was upon the point of ex­piring before I left Buxton, which I thought it prudent to do, (notwithstanding my indifference to all future events, till I see what is to be done with the broken-hearted authors of Fanny's existence.

The scene of Mr. Sedley's villainy has, I per­ceive, been already exhibited to the eye of Mr. Thornton, who hath, it seems, long been his confidant and correspondent; though he must pardon me, if I esteem him less worthy the no­ble-minded Araminta, who could countenance by his regard, the actions of a Philip Sedley.—Happy, however, am I to hear, for his lady's sake, that the connection is at length dissolved. The affair betwixt me and the offender, hap­pened in the dead of night: the surgeon, to whom I went myself, in defiance of danger, assures me the wound is vital. Mr. Sedley, who could not speak, gave me, at my depar­ture, your address: I must be excused from discovering mine to Mr. Thornton at present; and I only write to acquaint him of his friend's situation. My own misery is, indeed, extreme: but I have the honour to be, Sir,

LETTER CIX. Miss Delia Delmore, to Lady Lucy Saxby.

NEVER was the ruin of a happy family so rapidly completed, as that of your wretch­ed Delia Delmore's. All the fair hopes that I communicated to Lady Lucy, in my late letters, are now totally overthrown; and the fairy pro­spect I drew before her eye hath terminated in death and horror. Oh! Lady Saxby, I can scarce command my hand, or my tears, to enter into explanations: but your kind condolence is the only consolation now left me, and I will endeavour to collect myself.

About twelve o'clock, last night, a horseman stopt at our door, and knocked loudly for ad­mittance. We were seated quite out of spirits at the table, and had just been talking about withdrawing for the night, while poor Mrs. Mortimer was lulling her cares to rest upon the sopha, having past the day in a manner too me­lancholy to describe to you. William had scarce opened the door, when a person dis­mounted, from a panting, hard-ridden horse, and rushed into the middle of the supper-room without any ceremony. We soon discovered, through the dreadful metamorphose, the fea­tures [Page 151] of Mr. Sedley, his waistcoat unbuttoned, his hair without a ribbon, his shirt spotted with blood at the bosom, his face pale and squallid, and his eyes beating all the marks of terror and desperation. Without making any apology for his intrusion, he drew a chair from the side of the room, flung himself into it, stampt his foot twice against the floor, smote his breast with an air of inexpressible vengeance, and, taking a paper from his pocket, held it at arm's length, and burst into tears. By this time our attention was diverted from this a­larming object to another still more dreadful; poor Fanny Mortimer was in the strongest con­vulsions I ever remember to have seen. Sedley tossed away the paper, after he had crushed it in his hand, and flew like lightning to Mrs. Mortimer: my father, mother, and my brother, all assisted: we hurried her up stairs: as I had got to the edge of the door, I saw Mr. Morti­mer, with a trembling hand, pouring out a glass of the brandy, and lean, almost ready to sink, against the wainscot: and just as I left the room he took up the paper that Sedley had thrown away. It is a good way to any bed-chamber, and the stairs are sleep: we were some time reaching Fanny's apartment: she remained in­sensible. When we got her into the bed-room, [Page 152] Mr. Sedley went down stairs; where he had not been two minutes before the words villain! imposter! murderer! were vehemently rever­berated. Sir Henry ran to the head of the stairs, and saying that he distinguished the clashing of swords, ran down with the utmost precipitation: my mother followed him, and Fanny started from the bed, and staggering at every step, begg'd, for God's sake, I would conduct her down. Terror gave her swiftness, horror lent her temporary strength: she was in the supper-room in a moment, but even that was a moment too late; for Oh! Lady Lucy, the deed was done. Mr. Sedley was on the ground, writhing in blood, and Mr. Mortimer was sobbing in his chair, with the weapon of destruction smoaking in his hand. Fanny Mor­timer saw, shriek'd, shiver'd, and fell down: even at this moment she lies distracted. Her senses are quite gone: neither bleeding, chasing nor any other applications can recover her; she pierces us to the heart with her cries. She execrates first Sedley, then herself, then Morti­mer: Sedley is put into one of our beds; my poor father wishes to hush the horrid affair as long as possible. Mr. Mortimer, without a servant, has taken the road to London, and from thence to France. Sedley has never been able [Page 153] to articulate a word. That paper, Lady Saxby, that fatal paper, ^* created all the mischief. I inclose you a copy of it, from whence you may guess the other horrid deeds committed by this all-accomplished villain. What is to be done Heaven knows. We are all inexpressibly mi­serable. I cannot go on: the cries of Fanny are again begun.

LETTER CX. Sir Henry Delmore to Mr. Thornton.

YOUR letter came to me too late: the de­spoiler of my family left this world about an hour before its arrival: his body, however, shall be conveyed according to your directions. It was his dying request that he should be brought before Mrs. Mortimer, my wretched daughter: but he expired before the request could possibly be granted. In his pocket, which he begged with his last words I would search, was found a small manuscript, that he enjoined me to consider as the instrument of [Page 154] every circumstance that had happened. On opening this I discovered, written with a pencil, the following maxims, the practice of which might very properly lead to more mischief, if that were possible, than they have occasioned.

• 1. Have a serious exterior.
• 2. A modest assurance.
• 3. Study command of temper and countenance.
• 4. Dissemble resentment.
• 5. Judge of other men by your own feelings.
• 6. Be upon your own guard.
• 7. Throw others off theirs.
• 8. Study the passions and foibles of both sexes.
• 9. Flatter the vanity of all.
• 10. A flexibility of manners commendable.
• 11. Soothe all, please all, conquer all.
• 12. Be every thing, to every body.

These are, I perceive, selected from the per­nicious volumes of the late Lord Chesterfield, whose letters falling into the hand of any vo­luptuous character, might very naturally pro­duce effects the most dreadful. It is very un­happy that me and mine should have been marked out as the first victims. But that misfortune, like every other, must be sustained to the best of my ability. My poor daughter is [Page 155] not dead: her senses are in some measure re­stored to her; and perhaps the life of her mo­ther, husband, and father, may be made sup­portable by her preservation. In the midst of my own misery, Sir, I have a wish for the nuptial joy of you, and the amiable young lady to whom you are now so tenderly united. I formerly knew the brave Lieutenant Vernon, and I beg the compliments of a forlorn parent may be made welcome to him: recollect me, also, kindly to Mrs. Thornton, and Mrs. Ver­non. The corpse of Mr. Sedley shall be sent to your address, as soon as the hearse can be pro­vided. He purposely concealed himself from all his worthy connexions here: nor did I know, till the receipt of yours, the illustrious ancestors and family of the man to whom I am indebted for this accumulated agony. Not­withstanding this, my resentment survives not the life of the aggressor, whom I will see justice and decency done to, with a scrupulous exact­ness. His loss of honour would ill warrant my loss of humanity.

LETTER CXI. Miss Delia Delmore to Lady Lucy Saxby. (Dated six weeks after the preceding)

PROVIDENCE and Felicity seem again dis­posed to smile upon us. The trial and honourable acquittal of Mr. Mortimer is over: and the thousand tender assurances he has given his Fanny, (whom Heaven has spared to us) that the violence she sustained, is quite for­gotten, have contributed, with the caresses of her affectionate parents, to reconcile her to that life, which GOD seems intending to continue. Though extremely weak, she is in perfect pos­session of her senses, and mends every day.—There is certainly some turn in her favour, and perhaps she is preserved as an example of Almighty benignity, that will not desert perse­vering goodness, and patient affliction. The truth of Mr. Sedley's death, I mean as to the precise occasion of it, is little known. The Judge was extremely delicate on the subject: so was every body concerned. Mr. Sedley's rela­tions have not wept over the ashes of their kinsman, nor does any body seem to regret,— [Page 157] though every body professes to be astonished. For my own part, I heartily detest his memory. Mr. Mortimer is so truly tender of Fanny, that her gratitude seems ripening into love: none e­ver deserved a fonder return than our Mortimer.

In a word, I warmly hope happiness will a­gain subsist amongst us. On Thursday se'n­night our whole family sets out for Montpelier: the southern softness, and a short absence from the scenes of irksome reflection, with a change of air and company, may be of service to us all. That, in the mean time, you may enjoy all the tranquillity of a worthy, and ingenuous spirit, is the often-repeated prayer of,