LETTER I. SEDLEY to THORNTON. Buxton.

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 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 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.

Adieu, adieu. PHILIP SEDLEY.

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!

Farewell. JAMES THORNTON.

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 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 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 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 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.

Adieu. PHILIP SEDLEY

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 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 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 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 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?

Farewel. PHILIP SEDLEY.

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 muſt not be loſt: a moment decides, ſometimes, the fate of a whole life.

Adieu. PHILIP SEDLEY.

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, 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.

Adieu. PHILIP SEDLEY.

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 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.

Farewel. JAMES THORNTON.

LETTER VIII. From the Reverend HORACE HOMESPUN to Doctor DIGGORY. Dear Sir,

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.

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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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: ſo you muſt wait till I can next ſteal a moment from folly for friendſhip.

I am, dear Doctor, Your moſt humble ſervant, and, without the leaſt tincture of Ton, your old firm friend, HORACE HOMESPUN.

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 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 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.

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 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.

"Thus far we run before the wind."

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 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.

PHILIP SEDLEY.

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.

Farewell. JAMES THORNTON.

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.

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 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.

Adieu. Another word would ſpoil the ſcene. PHILIP SEDLEY.

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.

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.

Adieu. PHILIP SEDLEY.

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.

Farewell. JAMES THORNTON.

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▪

PHILIP SEDLEY.

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 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.

DELIA DELMORE.

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 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

FANNY MORTIMER.

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

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 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.

I am, dear Doctor, Your faithful ſervant, HORACE HOMESPUN.

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, 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 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.

Adieu, adieu. HARRIET HOMESPUN.

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 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 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.

Adieu. PHILIP SEDLEY.

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, 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.

Adieu. PHILIP SEDLEY.

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 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

J. THORNTON. P. S.

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 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 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 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.

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.

Adieu. PHILIP SEDLEY.

LETTER XXIII. The Reverend HORACE HOMESPUN to Doctor DIGGORY. Dear Doctor,

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 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. —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 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 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!

Dear Doctor, I am yours truly, HORACE HOMESPUN.

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 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 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 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.

THORNTON, adieu. PHILIP SEDLEY.

LETTER XXV. The Reverend HORACE HOMESPUN to Doctor DIGGORY. Dear Doctor,

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 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? 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.

Dear Doctor, I am your unhappy friend, HORACE HOMESPUN.

LETTER XXVI. From the SAME to the SAME. Dear Doctor,

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 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.

I am, Dear Doctor, Your moſt faithful ſervant, HORACE HOMESPUN.

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 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 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.

Adieu, HARRIET HOMESPUN.

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 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 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.

DELIA DELMORE.

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 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 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!

CHARLOTTE LA MOTTE.

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.

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.

I am, Dear CHARLOTTE, Your affectionate HARRIET HOMESPUN.

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 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 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.

Adieu. PHILIP SEDLEY.

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 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 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, 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!

Adieu, PHILIP SEDLEY.

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

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 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.

"They ſhew too much, to raiſe deſire."

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.

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.

Vale— as I ſee your ſcholars conclude, Vale—Adio—Adieu— THOMAS

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.

HARRIET HOMESPUN.

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—

"He finds not Sedley's kiſſes on her lips; "He ſaw not, thinks it not: "He that is robbed, not wonting what is ſtolen, "Let him not know't, and he's not robb'd at all.

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,

Thine, in tranſport, and in haſte, PHILIP SEDLEY.

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.

Farewel. C. LA MOTTE.

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.

I am, HARRIET HOMESPUN.

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 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 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.

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.

Adieu. C. LA MOTTE.

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 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.

Adieu. PHILIP SEDLEY.

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,

"May the ſhame I mean to brand his name with "Stick on me!

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 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,

THOMAS Postscript.

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 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.

Adieu. PHILIP SEDLEY.

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.

Farewel. PHILIP SEDLEY.

LETTER XLIII. The Reverend HORACE HOMESPUN to Doctor DIGGORY. Dear Doctor,

THINGS are ſo pleaſingly altered, that I have been over-ruled as to my deſign of 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 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 is, perhaps, either proper or poſſible to taſte on this ſide of it.

I am, dear Doctor, Your moſt happy and faithful HORACE HOMESPUN.

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

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.

"I am myſelf the guardian of my honour, "And will not brook ſo inſolent a monitor." I am your deeply-injured, HARRIET HOMESPUN.

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 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.

Adieu. HARRIET HOMESPUN;

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 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 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, 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,

—"To do ſomething! "What it is yet I know not, "But it ſhall ſtrike the world," &c.

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!

Adieu, PHILIP SEDLEY.

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.

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.

Adieu. PHILIP SEDLEY.

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.

HARRIET HOMESPUN.

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 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.

Adieu, PHILIP SEDLEY. Poſtſcript.

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.

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 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.

Adieu. PHILIP SEDLEY.

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 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.

The Story of the Pretty Bath-Maid.

AN'T pleaſe your Honour, I am but a ſervant, and live, by handing my water to gentryfolks. I have tended the well-ſide, ſince BUXTON hath became famuſh; and nobody's tumbler was oftener filled than mine. Till the week before laſt, I was the happieſt waterwench that ever dipt her glaſs in the well: all the qallety knew me, all the ladies loved me, and all the gentlemen quarrelled which ſhould drink firſt; but matters are now altered, and I am aſheamed to take my stand at the place, becauſe of the baſeneſs of your Honour's unhoneſt Mr. THOMAS.

The arts he has uſed to tangle me, and take away my wartue, are monſtrous, and ſuch as would make the ſtouteſt ſhe in the country ſtumble. I am ſure, for my part, I ſtood it till I could ſtand it no longer. If your Honour will hear me out, and do me juſtis, ſeeing as my character is gone, and therewithal my water, and with that my bread, ſo that I have now neither bread nor water, I will unfold every thing, and let your Goodneſs ſee the affair from top to bottom.

Poor girl, ſit down, ſit down: I am ſorry for the loſs of your water, with all my heart, and ſhall very chearfully ſee as much of the affair as you think proper to ſhew me—Sit down, therefore, child, and ſhew away.

You muſt know, Sir, as how, when bathing and drinking the waters is over, and your Honour and ſuch-like fine folk are all buſy adancing; we ſervant-people, ſometimes get together to a leſſerrer room, and have a little hop of our own. This happened the very firſt night I ſaw Mr. THOMAS, who I obſerved, ſoon after he came into town, walk round the well, and then backwards and forwards; and to be ſure, there was ſomething in his putting his foot to the ground, taking it off again, ſwinging his arm, flouriſhing his ſwitch, and ſaluting the fellow-ſervants, that made him look a king to the reſt.

Well, Sir, he chus'd me for his partner; and, though I ſay it, I can ſhake a foot with my betters; nay, at a country-dance, I'll turn my back neither to gentle nor ſimple.

If your Honour had heard the highflyers he crammed my poor head with, all the while we were at it—the ſoft things he ſaid while we led out—the wows he made, as we handed up the middle—and the tender oaths and rodermuntadoes he ſwore, while we right and lefthanded it or caſt off, and joined hands again—while at the ſame time the muſic ſtruck up enough to melt one's heart—with candles lighted, and i' the ſummer-ſeaſon—your Honour would not blame me ſo much for giving away my ſoul and body to the moſt artfulleſt of his ſect.

In ſhort, Sir, he talkt me over ſo finely about this and that, that before I left the room, and we broke up, I did not know whether I ſtood upon my head or my heels.

After dancing was over, and Mr. THOMAS and I had made ourſelves all of a heat, or, as I remember he called it, all of an ardor, we took a walk in the grove by the hall, to cool ourſelves. And there he began to flouriſh it again—overpowered me with ſuch an ocean of love ſayings, and, in ſhort, talked ſo differently from my old ſweetheart ROGER DOUSIT, who is all dull and downright, as I may ſay, that I declares to your Honour, he at laſt made me think it would be a ſin to refuſe him; and ſo—God forgive me!—and ſo—

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 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?

She now dropt her tears, THORNTON, as faſt, to uſe the language of Shakeſpeare,

"As the Arabian tree "Its medicinal gum.

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 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.

Adieu. PHILIP SEDLEY.

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!

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. 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.

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 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, 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 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) 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 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 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 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.

Farewel. J. THORNTON.

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 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, 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 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.

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 grateful as ſerving a friend. You ſee, I am uncommonly ſerious to-day.

Adieu. PHILIP SEDLEY.

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

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 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,

Your moſt obedient, and moſt humble ſervant, H. DELMORE.

LETTER LV. The Reverend HORACE HOMESPUN to Doctor DIGGORY. Dear Doctor,

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 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.

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 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.

Farewel. I am yours, HORACE HOMESPUN.

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 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.

Adieu. PHILIP SEDLEY.

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 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, 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.

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 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 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,

Your affectionate, DELIA DELMORE.

LETTER LVIII. SEDLEY to THORNTON.

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

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, 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;

"At ev'ry word a reputation dies."

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.

"He talks of tranſports that he never knew, "And fancies raptures that he never felt."

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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.

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, 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

PHILIP SEDLEY.

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

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.

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 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 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.

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.

I am, Madam, Your humble Servant, C. La Motte.

LETTER LX. From the Same to the Same. Dear Madam,

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, 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

C. La Motte.

LETTER LXI. From the Same to the Same. Mrs. Homeſpun,

YOUR huſband is in his bed; brought thither by the evident indifference of a wife, on whom he doats. What courſe this 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.

Farewell, C. La Motte.

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 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.

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 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, 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? 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!

I am, My dear Lucy's inviolable Delia Delmore.

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, 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 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 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,

I am, truly, Your real friend, Lucy Saxby.

LETTER LXIV. Mrs. La Motte to Mrs. Homeſpun Madam,

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, 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.

Madam, I am, Your moſt obedient ſervant, C. La Motte.

LETTER LXV. The Reverend Horace Homeſpun to Mrs. Homeſpun. (Incloſed in the above.) My dear Wife,

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 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 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.

I am, her very faithful and affectionate huſband, Horace Homeſpun,

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.

"He that filches from me my good name, "Robs me of that which not enriches him, "And makes me poor indeed."

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, 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.

Yours, Philip Sedley.

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 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.

Farewell, Harriet Homeſpun.

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 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, from having totally diſcarded Stanhope, and liſtened to the voice of Virtue.

Farewell. James Thornton.

LETTER LXIX. Sir,

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.

I am yours, Philip Sedley.

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, 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

Your Harriet Homeſpun.

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

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 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.

I am, Sir, Your moſt obedient Servant, Philip Sedley.

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

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 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.

I am, Sir, With a grateful heart, Your moſt humble Servant, Horace Homeſpun.

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 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 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. My dear Benefactor,

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, 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 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, 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 which will then attend me. Theſe are the points I leave to my good Thornton, and I am his

Moſt faithful ſervant, Caeſar Vernon.

LETTER LXXV. Lieutenant Vernon to Mrs. Vernon. Dear Sophy,

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 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 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 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 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.

I am, my dear Sophy, Your own, Caeſar Vernon.

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 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 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; 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 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 was piqued at the ſlight, See CHESTERFIELD. 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.

To Mrs. Homeſpun. Madam,

I AM unfeignedly ſorry at your misfortune: the moment I became acquainted with it, I ſent to Mr. Homeſpun, who will be with you, no doubt, the moment he is able to ride there. I hope moſt ſincerely no ill effects will enſue from this diſtreſſing accident; and I have ſome little conſolation in underſtanding, by the meſſenger, that an apothecary reſides in the village where it happened, and that the art of a ſurgeon is not neceſſary. With the warmeſt wiſhes for your ſpeedy recovery, I am,

Madam, your moſt humble ſervant, Philip Sedley.

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, 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.

I am, Yours, Philip Sedley.

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.

The incloſed Billet. To Mr. Sedley. Moſt inhuman Sedley.

I HAVE ordered myſelf, on the receipt of your letter, to be taken out of my bed, and brought hither, in defiance of the Doctor, and at the riſk of my life, chiefly, indeed, becauſe I would ſee, before the laſt event, and once more kiſs the hand of the ſtill dear, but moſt barbarous Philip Sedley. I write in agony, but am ſtill

Your Harriet Homeſpun.

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 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. Sir,

AN addreſs from me, under my peculiar ſituation, will no doubt alarm you: but forms and ceremonies muſt all yield to irreſiſtable 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 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 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, 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 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

Frances Mortimer.

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.

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

To Lieutenant Vernon. My dear, ambitious Caeſar,

THOUGH I am no friend to the devaſtations of war, I am warmly ſo to the dignity of my huſband's character; nor can I bear to ſee his laurels withered, by the childiſh and emaſculating fears of a wife. Yes, my dear Caeſar, you are, I feel that you are, only a diſbanded Lieutenant. I am not inſenſible to the reproach in that obſervation. But why, cruel Vernon why is our little fortune locked up ſo, as to deny us the pleaſure of making a purchaſe ſo infinitely to our credit. May Heaven long keep you from the perils of battle! but you are miſtaken, if you think there are not ſome women who can be tender, without being weak. Our ſex is diſgraced by the general affectation of it. We are flattered into the notion that we are prettieſt in our delicate pretences, and moſt lovely in diſtreſs. But our minds are not all formed or cultured alike; and for my part, I had not married a ſoldier, if I had not deſigned that he ſhould ſuſtain the duties of his ſtation: and you will recollect, that Capt. Bleſſington, my father, in point of martial proweſs, yields not the palm even to yours. Mr. Thornton and I, both wiſh your buſineſs may ſoon permit your return to the pleaſures of Surry; and we both alſo concur to venerate the name of Frazer: but whatever honours may be in ſtore for my Caeſar, may the nich of the Major be many, many years unoccupied, if it is kept ſacred to the memory of my ever dear Lieutenant Vernon. Thus prays zealouſly

His affectionate wife, Sophia Vernon.

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 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, 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.

Adieu, Philip Sedley.

LETTER LXXXI. The Reverend Horace Homeſpun to Mrs. La Motte. My dear Madam,

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, 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.

Adieu, I am your real friend, Horace Homeſpun.

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 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 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 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, 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.

"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: 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:

"Where virtue is, theſe are moſt virtuous."

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, 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 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.

"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 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

Your happy, and highly-honoured Delia Delmore.

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

"Thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part, "And each warm wiſh ſprings mutual from the heart."

Never were ſouls more exactly in uniſon 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:

Lieutenant Vernon to his Lady. Moſt dear Sophia,

THAT you was ſuperior to the feebleneſs of the modiſh female, who affects to liſp, to ſhudder at the ſhower, and tremble at the breeze, I knew before: but that your ſoul was ſo nicely attuned to the pains and pleaſures of mine, I was not ſo aware of, till the receipt of your laſt kind favour.

You will ſpare me to your King, you will lend him my ſervices againſt the foes of Britain: noble woman, generous wife! I am again at Major Fraſer's, in my way home, and upon my arrival at our peaceful villa, I will pay you my warmeſt acknowledgments by my embraces. I put your letter, with a ſparkling eye, into the hand of my old friend: he read it, and burſt forth into extacies, peculiar to the manly violence of his nature. "'Sdeath, Vernon, ſaid he, ten ſuch wives as thine would reſtore the female character from the ignominy of the reſt of the ſex. Such were the Spartan, ſuch were the Roman women: I do not wiſh our wives to fight, Lieutenant: I do not wiſh them to wield the battle-axe, nor to eject the bomb, but in the name of honour, let them ſuffer their huſbands to behave like men, and permit thoſe who wear beards to deſerve them. I love ſoftneſs, Vernon, and conſider it as the female characteriſtic, but ſtill I would have ſome diſtinction made betwixt women and children, excluſive of the mere difference of bodily ſize: and I do declare to thee, Lieutenant, though I have ſeen many women that I could have liked, that I could love, yet I never dared venture upon matrimony; leſt my wife ſhould ſtand betwixt me and my duty as a ſoldier; but could I, like thee, have met with a Sophia, I had long ſince taken to myſelf a brave ſpirited wench, who ſhould have ſpread the triumphal roſes under my feet, and wove her garland of welcome againſt my return: But you are the happy hero: you are more than a general in the affections of Sophia. Go on then, embark, exert yourſelf, to merit ſo illuſtrious a girl: fail not, I charge you, to viſit me with Sophy under your arm, on your coming again to the country you have honoured." I was preparing to give him the farewel embrace; but he held me by the hand, and ſurveying his figure in a glaſs that was oppoſite. ſhook his head, and burſt into tears. "Thou ſeeſt, ſaid he, ſtill looking into the mirror, I do not counterfeit; my beſt arm, and my moſt ſerviceable leg, have left me: my ſoul wiſhes for the field; but my body, this uſeleſs load of an old fellow, of whom the one half is timber, would but ſhame the troops and diſgrace his Majeſty." Then turning to the other end of the room, he took from the mantle-piece a ſword, cautiouſly guarded from the ruſt by a ſcarlet caſe; "There, (continued the Major, after he had taken it from the covering) there, Vernon, is the blade that attended me in all my fortunes, for more than thirty years: examine it, take notice of the marks of proweſs: it is no maiden, I'll aſſure thee:

"A better never did a belt ſuſtain "Upon a ſoldier's thigh."

Take it, Lieutenant. The hand which uſed to manage it, is gone, and with it the occupation of poor Fraſer: 'tis a ſhame that ſo excellent a friend ſhould be converted into a piece of lazy houſhold-furniture. Take it then, I ſay, and when thou art in the front of the battle, remember whoſe token thou haſt in hand, and do it juſtice."

There are other traits, my dear Sophia, of this brave invalid's character, which I ſhall reſerve for the opportunity of domeſtic endearment. As to your ſaying that you ſee leſs beauty, and ſmell leſs fragrance, in the flowers of our garden, ſince my abſence; and then artfully urging that as a reaſon why you ſhould accompany me to America, makes me pleaſed with the compliment, though I am not convinced by the argument. The Colonies are now in too much confuſion, to afford a lady accommodation; and your reſidence would be with me, always precarious, and, for the moſt part, unfit for you. The ſcene of bloodſhed would be too near your eye; and the attention I ſhould pay to you, would make me leſs attentive to my own profeſſional advantages. Satisfy yourſelf, therefore, with the friendſhip of the good Mr. Thornton, with the exacteſt correſpondence, and with the unalterable love of

Your tender Caeſar Vernon. P. S.

I am glad you are at laſt joined by Miſs Sidney. Tell her I ſalute her.

Thornton, in Continuation.

THERE, Sedley, is, thou ſeeſt, freſh reaſon to animate thy amendments. But the poſtman brings me a packet: I perceive it is ſuperſcribed by thy character, and impreſt by thy ſeal. Haply I ſhall find, by the contents, that thy reformation is begun. In this hope, I break thy wax, and bid thee farewel.

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.

Mrs. Mortimer to Mr. Sedley.

FOR once, as you urge it with ſuch vehemence, and as you promiſe to quit Buxton immediately afterwards, I will ſee you. When you ſee an opportunity, either in the garden or elſewhere, you may employ it in communicating what you tell me is of ſo much conſequence to my fame and felicity.

F. M.

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.

Philip Sedley.

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

Horace Homeſpun.

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 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 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 am always yours, Delia Delmore. Adieu. P. S.

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 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

Philip Sedley.

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 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, 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 fate of that, the friend of Araminta Sidney.

I am, With prayers for your change of heart, Yours, James Thornton.

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.

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.

Horace Homeſpun.

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.

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 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.

I am thy, And, in ſpite of old proverbs, and all croſs ſayings, will be thy Philip Sedley.

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 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.

James Thornton.

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.

Philip Sedley.

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 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▪

Your Horace Homeſpun.

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▪

Fanny Mortimer.

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.

Horace Homeſpun.

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 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 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."

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 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, 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 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

Your Delia Delmore.

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 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 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:— 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 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 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

Horace Homeſpun.

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

Sir, Your moſt humble ſervant, James Thornton. P. S.

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, 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.— "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 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 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:

To Miſs Delmore. Dear Delia,

I OBEY your deſire in regard to the offers of Mr. Sedley, and here ſend you the ſecret of my heart upon them.

In the firſt place, I would have you to conſider, men are generally falſe, and can aſſume any ſhape that forwards and facilitates their purpoſe.

In the next place, you are moſt likely ſo partial to him, that you call thoſe actions elegant which are only ordinary; and his manners, which are in your eye ſo enchanting, may only be a pretty method he has got of playing upon the ſurface of common ſubjects, juſt to gain his ends, after which he will, perhaps, become as inſipid, or as impertinent, as the ſop whom you, in your former letters, have ridiculed. Ten to one but this polite lover will be a very rude huſband; and when the magic of the marriage-circle is drawn in his favour, alas, poor lady wife, how will thine eyes be open to the deluſion? Putting all theſe points together, therefore, my advice is fairly this; forbid him your houſe, baniſh him from your company, blot him from your memory, and, to cut the matter ſhort, have nothing more to ſay to him. Theſe are the councils of your

Lucy Saxby.

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 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

Lucy Saxby.

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, 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,

C. La Motte.

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 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 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:

—"Neither man nor angel can diſcern "Hypocriſy, the only evil that walks "Inviſible thro' earth; "And oft, tho' Wiſdom wakes, Suſpicion ſleeps "At Wiſdom' gate, while Goodneſs thinks no ill, "Where no ill ſeems."

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! 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 hearſe is moving awfully on. I muſt not leave it without one real mourner.

Farewel! Farewel! Horace Homeſpun.

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 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 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.

Cheſterfield.

"Avoid ſeeing an affront, if poſſible."

Sedley.

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

Cheſterfield.

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

Sedley.

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

Cheſterfield.

"Read faces."

Sedley.

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.!

Cheſterfield.

"Don't yield to fits of rage."

Sedley.

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.

Cheſterfield.

"Be, like Caeſar's wife, unſuſpected.

Sedley.

Yes, dear enchanting Harriet, if it ſhould ever be my fortune to pleaſe thee, how would I conſult the ſecurity of thy ſituation; how 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, 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:

"You, under fair pretence of friendly ends, "And well plac'd words of gloſſing courteſy. "Baited with reaſons not unplauſible, "Wind into the eaſy, human heart, "And hug it into ſnares."

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

"Oh, what a goodly outſide falſhood hath!"

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 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?

I am, Sir, Your indignant humble ſervant, C. La Motte.

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; 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

Your much diſturbed, but ſincere, Araminta Thornton.

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, 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 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.

The Card incloſed.

Edward Mortimer's tendereſt invitations wait on Fanny, for her company (after ſhe has amuſed herſelf with her pen) in the parlour, as Delia is going to try a gentle tune on her new Piano Forte, Edward will attempt a ſoft accompanyment upon the flute, our little brother is to join in the ſtrokes of the violin, Sir Henry and Lady Delmore will be our auditors, and they are to have quite a little concert. But they will be all out of tune, and it is impoſſible there ſhould be any harmony, unleſs Fanny is amongſt them, now and then beſtowing a note from one of the moſt melodious pipes in the world. Perhaps Mr. Sedley may drop in, and the manly elegance of his voice will be delightful. Edward deſires his Fanny to obſerve, that this very full card is ſubſcribed by all the perſons in the world whom ſhe beſt loves, and who beſt loves her, namely, by

Sir Henry Delmore, Lady Delmore, Delia Delmore, And Her Edward Mortimer.

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, "Sweet as the ſhepherd's pipe upon the mountains." tenderly enquire, Is my child preparing to 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.

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:

LET the dear and honoured friends of Fanny, indulge her idle fancy for this ſingle night, and they ſhall command her for the remainder of her whole life. She finds herſelf unuſually well, and inclined to ſcribble to her long-neglected correſpondents; and when ſhe is weary, ſhe will lie down on the little tent-bed in the room where ſhe now is.

Her peace of mind depends ſo much on their yielding to this requeſt, (however romantic it may appear) that ſhe flatters herſelf her dear friends will not refuſe it to her.

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 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

Fanny Mortimer: Farewel! Farewel!

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. Dear Timothy, "How like a dog look'd Hercules, "Thus to a diſtaff chain'd!"

'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 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 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 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 I ſend thee, underneath, a couplet or two, by way of ſpecimen of the work.

Some pluck the button from the injur'd cloaths, While others rub the ears, and pick the noſe. Some are ſo deſtitute of air and grace, Even while they ſpeak, to turn away the face: Nay, ſome there are, too delicately dead, Who always have the fingers in the head; This ſmells his meat, and makes his neighbour ſick, This clown eats ſlow, and that a world too quick. Nay ſome, to ſuch a height is rudeneſs grown, Will greaſe their lips in picking of a bone.

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 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.

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 ſimulated 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 arduous and laudable undertakings, pray Timothy, and believe me

Thy conſtant friend, Thomas.

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

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, 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.

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 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 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 you to your undertakings, and beg that you will do me the favour to leave me to mine.

Timothy Trueman. Lombard-ſtreet, London.

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 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 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, my ſtill beloved Thornton, by the preſence of the

Deteſtible Philip Sedley. P. S.

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. Sir,

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 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,

Your moſt humble ſervant, Edward Mortimer.

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 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, 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 to articulate a word. That paper, Lady Saxby, that fatal paper,This was the laſt letter Mr. Sedley wrote to Thornton, but delayed the ſending of it till he had ſeen Mrs. Mortimer. See Letter CVII. 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.

Delia Delmore.

LETTER CX. Sir Henry Delmore to Mr. Thornton. Sir,

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 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.

MAXIMS. 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 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.

I am, Sir, Your obedient ſervant, Henry Delmore.

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

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,— 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,

My dear Lady Lucy, Your own, undiſguiſed, Delia Delmore.