THE GENEROUS FRIEND: OR UNFORESEEN ALLIANCE.

TO make others happy, is to be happy our­selves; beneficence is one of the cardinal virtues, "said Alcindor to Ergastus, his son: "it is one of the attributes of the supreme be­ing, it is that which claims our reverence, and makes us the most sensible of his existence.

Alcindor passed for a philosopher, without ma­king philosophy his study. Misfortunes sustained with constancy, an unshaken resolution, and an inclination for solitude, acquired him that vain [Page 4] title. Born in an age of dissipation, of illustri­ous parents, whose virtues were not equal to their titles, he had learnt at his own cost the condition of one who is abandoned to the most lively pas­sions, and knows not how to restrain them.

Recovered from his wanderings, he became sensible of the danger of a neglected education, and was desirous of guarding his son against the temptations of a number of insignificant beings, who followed no other guide but appetite. He was in no want of examples to enforce his exhor­tations; but he thought that the most striking, and what would make the deepest impression up­on the imagination, would be the narrative of his own life.

"Ergastus," said he, one day, as they were taking a Tour in the park, at a small distance from his castle, "I am going to treat you in a manner that few parents treat their sons. I am desirous by giving you a recital of the follies of my youth, to put it in your power to make your­self a good man, that your old age may be free from remorse: few young men have this advan­tage. Listen to me with attention, may the words be engravened on your heart, and alway [...] treasured up in your memory; and may my story be a means of preserving you from the snare [...] which you will meet with from your contempo­raries.

Young, rich, and my own master, I entere [...] the world when I was about eighteen. Unacquainted with the allurements of flattery, or th [...] politeness of fashion, I imagined I was transported into the regions of delight. Every thin [...] gratified my senses, and I followed no other guide [...] I had a friend, but, unworthy of the sacred nam [...] [Page 5] he assumed, he plunged me in an abyss of volup­tuousness. He was my only counsellor; the most implicit obedience [...]infancy could not be more obsequeous to the precepts of a parent than I was to the lessons of Philintus. In short, he was e­very thing.

I was soon taught to recognize no other desire but my passions, and to have no other desire but that of gratifying them. Innocence, virtue and beauty could no longer claim respect. We got ourselves introduced into families, where we made it our study to seduce those whom impru­dence had exposed to our contemplation. Among others, whose fall effects me most was Calista.

She was charming, my son. Her heart was noble, her temper, her understanding, every thing about her was worthy of admiration, and irresistably captivating. But what can innocence avail amidst the tumults of the passions, and the deceitful artifices of seduction? I gazed at her. She pleased me, and from that moment I thought of nothing else but to make her increase the number of my conquests. The most flattering proposals, attachment, sighs and tears, were practised to seduce this young beauty.

Three months escaped without my perceiving that I had made the l [...]ast progress. Exasperat [...]d at the opposition of Calista, I had recourse to Philintus, who at that time was a stranger to the passion I had for her. What I thou [...] to be only taste, was love; I never suspected that this was my case; my vanity concealed my defeat from me. Philintus, on hearing of my adven­ture, clearly saw my condition; an i [...]onical smile ushered in this reply. 'Very p [...]e [...]y,' said he, 'Al [...]inder is in love▪ seriously, in love! the ob­ject [Page 6] of his passion is a mere child; she resists him, and he is despairing, though not beside a clear stream. To be serious, my dear, your brain is out of order. Go into the woods, make them echo with your sighs, and carve your lover's name on the bark of every tree; for you are unworthy either of my advice, or my friendship. It is a great pity that you should be lost to the world; you set out well, and I had better hopes of you.

After this rallying he turned upon his heel, and went out. This reception chagrined me; I persuaded myself that he made use of this han­dle to break with me; I formed a resolution to seduce Calista, to convince this diletanti, that I was more worthy of his acquaintance than he imagined.

That very night I planted my cannon, and was determined to be revenged of Calista and Philintus. I intended to triumph over the weak­ness of the too credulous fair, and then to leave her to the tortures of remorse. By this, my son, you may perceive the dangers of the passions, and the misfortune of an ill conducted education. We give only superficial accomplishments to our children, at the same time neglecting to form their hearts; virtue and reason, which only dis­tinguish us from the brute creation, is either overlooked, or despised.

In prosecuting my base design, I hypocritically assumed the garb of virtue; by which means I imposed upon Calista, and her relations, and I even exposed myself to raillery on the occasion. My reformation gave me so much credit with people of character, that I was mentioned as an example for those of my own age, You would be surprized, nay, you cannot imagine how I [Page 7] dissembled; but your surprise will cease, when you know the world yourself, and you will then be of my opinion; that few persons really are what they appear to be.

Calista accustomed herself to hear me profess my love for her, she listened to me with atten­tion and answered me with kindness; but her modesty would not suffer her to disclose her sen­timents. One day I found her alone, and pres­sed her to make some return to my love. She lifted up her eyes to me, which expressed both inclination and modesty. 'Will you never keep company with Philintus any more?' said she, in faultering accents. This question, which had no relation to our discourse, surprized and per­plexed me. She perceived it: 'Answer me,' said she, 'but, no—do not. I had rather think you will not.' As soon as she had said this, she ran away. Her flight disconcerted me very much. This caprice, which I could not account for, chagrined me; I was resolved never more to see a raw girl that seemed to be void of feeling.

Enraged with Calista, I had recourse to Phi­lintus. I met him that very day by chance. Though it was somewhat disagreeble to inform him of the bad success of my project, the rage in which I was, forced me to disclose the motives for the virtuous conduct, which I had assumed. He heard me with patience, and when I conclu­ded, embraced me. 'This artifice,' cried he, 'shews that you are worthy of my esteem. Why! with all my craftiness, I could not have played my part half so well. Nay, I was myself de­ceived by your reformation. I pitied you a thou­sand times; and was really sorry for your weak­ness. But will you fling away the fruits of six [Page 8] months restraint? Calista is but a weak girl; she is in love with you, and a single moment may bring her into your arms. The question she has proposed to you, supposes that you must drop my acquaintance. I forgive her, but shall wait for my turn. Conceal our reconciliation from her with the greatest precaution. We will see each other in secret. Adieu, remember that your re­putation depends upon the affair.'

When alone, I loved Calista more than I ima­gined; her tears, her despair, which I anticipa­ted, overwhelmed me with confusion. But alas! I had gone too far to retreat. I got rid of the impertinence of reflection, thought of nothing but securing the victim.

I saw Calista again, on the earnest invitation of her mother. She was ignorant of the distress, which she was going to bring upon her daughter. Notwithstanding all that I had heard from Phi­lintus. I could not meet her without changing colour. I imagined that she could read in my very eyes the criminal projects which I had en­tered into. I found her melancholy; a sudden flush, an emotion, which she could not suppress, convinced me that I was not disagreeable to her. This conviction, instead of increasing my re­morse, served to disperse it. I persuaded myself that she would at last own herself obliged to me for teaching her how to shake off the yoke of prejudice.

My passion, which increased every day, forced me to leave no stone unturned to obtain a com­plete victory. Philintus, whom I saw every evening, stimulated me by his importunities. One day, being alone with Calista, as I was stri­ving to extort from her the conf [...]ssion of [...] af­fection [Page 9] for me, a slight accident which happened to me let me into the secret, notwithstanding her reservedness. I had spent several nights in com­pany with Philintus and some other friends. My constitution was rather delicate. A bleed­ing of the nose, proceeding from fatigue and de­bauchery, seized me in to violent a manner, that I found myself very much indisposed. Calista, being terrified, rung the bell, and called for her attendants, who were at that time fortunately from home, and she was alone—alone with me in this condition. On my recovery I found my­self in her arms, She was bathed in tears. I perceived at that instant an inconceivable mix­ture of joy, pleasure, and shame. I snatched the hand of Calista, which she never thought of with­drawing, being ingrossed by other ideas. How happy am I! said I to her. Confirm my hap­piness, let one tender consent complete my feli­city! I adore you. I have no other wish, no other view than to dedicate my life to your ser­vice. She made no reply, but her looks discov­ered her thoughts. I imprinted a thousand kis­ses upon her hand; which I still held between mine. The timorous Calista, agitated with an emotion which encreased every moment fell back­wards upon a couch, when one of her domestics entered. I was chagrined at his presence, and took my leave a few minutes after in so much trouble and confusion, that I could not tell where I was.

When I came home the idea of Calista, her sweet delirium, her credulity, and her tender­ness, rushed upon my mind, and I thought it was a crime to take advantage of her innocence. My recovery was but of a short date, my unbridled [Page 10] appetite returned, I once more resolved that Calista should gratify my passion. I went to her house the next day, where, tho' I found a great deal of company, I found means of having a Tete-a-tete with her. I was convin­ced of her affection, but had no regard for the purity of my own. To cut this narrative short, my son, she was in love with me, and lov­ed me to her own ruin.

My attentions for Calista discovered our inti­macy to our two families. They talked of uni­ting us; but the proposal alarmed me. My de­sires were now gratified. I [...] several ob­jections. The mother of Calista, [...]ho was igno­rant of her daughter's weakness, disgusted with the delay, which I caused, broke off the treaty, and forbade Calista to see me.

It was not long before this unfortunate lady repented of the sacrifice she had made to me. She wrote to me, described her situation, and used every method to secure my return. I did not condescend to give her any answer, nay, I had the baseness to expose her letters to Philin­ [...]us. He published them. The distressed Calista retired from the world, and resolved to bury her shame and despair in the glooms of a convent.

Other intrigues served to obliterate the very name of Calista from my memory; there was no excess which I was not guilty of to avoid the ridicule of being thought religious or virtuous. I was guilty of so many, that I found myself un­der a necessity of quitting the capital, and went to join my regiment. War was declared soon after; I was rejoiced at it, for my villainies be­gan to disturb my repose. I endeavoured to sig­nalize myself, not so much from a desire of glory, [Page 11] as to eraze the remembrance of the crimes I had been guilty of. A letter which I received from Philiatus, on his death-bed, made me detest my irregularities, and pay the fruitless tribute of re­morse to the [...]ate of Calista."

Alcindor was advanced thus far in his narra­tive; the remembrance of his debaucheries af­fected him with so much horror that he was not able to continue it, when he perceived Alcipus approaching towards him.—This visit surprised him, because for two years, in which they had lived in the same neighbourhood, they had made no connection. He recovered himself as he could, and went to meet him.

Alcipus, formerly a friend of Alcindor, had entirely declined his company on account of the badness of his character. He sincerely loved him, and always promoted his interests, even unknown to him. After his return to the paths of virtue, Alcindor was so much engrossed by his religious exercises and the education of his son, that he lived in the greatest privacy, with­out enquiring who belonged to the estate which was contiguous to his own. Some incroach­ments of the tenants had discovered that it be­longed to Alcipus, but he did not venture to make himself known to him, and chose rather to give up his property.

Alcipus, after some compliments, taking Al­cindor aside, told him ingenuously that the good­ness of his character had made him wish to re­new his acquaintance with him, and farther, to unite their families, if it were agreeable. "We are neighbours, said he, we have known each other for some time, our families may form an alliance together. With respect to fortune, I [Page 12] have more than enough to make your son happy. I have no regard for punctilios or false delicacy: it is but natural, that as you never visited me, you could not be supposed to demand my daugh­ter of me, and therefore I am come to give you a voluntary offer of her. My dear friend, ad­ded he, I have heard much of your son, I am in love with him; as for my daughter, she is not disagreeable, and I imagine they will make no bad match. If you will both of you come to my house, you shall see her, and I flatter myself that you will not reject the proposal I have made to you.

Alcindor made his acknowledgments to his friend; but as he was desirous of finishing his instructive history, or rather finding himself un­der a necessity of disclosing his distress and com­punctions, he prevailed on Alcipus to spend the evening with him, promising to attend him the next morning. Alcipus consented, they supped together, and spent their time in talking of things that were past. Alcindor let some few tears escape him, on which account they chan­ged the subject of their discourse, and the night was spent in the sweet delights of friendship and gratitude.

It was scarce day break when Alcindor enter­ed the apartment of Ergastus, who had passed one part of the night reflecting upon what his father had disclosed unto him, The idea of the approaching alliance had disturbed him likewise, what frivolity, and the love of mischief occa­sions in young people, Ergasius experienced, but from a different motive. A mild reserved tem­per, assisted with an education, though not fashi­onable, yet at the same time founded upon ra­tional principles, enabled him to form a right [Page 13] estimate of things. He was apprehensive lest a connection formed at his age, on the motive of interest, might render him unhappy; the be­nevolence of Alcipus charmed him, he was a­fraid of proving ungrateful, by refusing an alli­ance, or of being unhappy in uniting himself to a person whose character and disposition should be contrary to his own. These reflections dis­turbed him, when his father entered his apart­ment. After giving him some instructions re­lating to the visit they were to make, he resum­ed his narrative in the following manner.

I told you, my son, that Philintus wrote me a [...]etter which deluged my eyes with tears. The poor man had abandoned himself so much to de­ [...]auchery, that at four and twenty he could not help wishing for death, though he durst not pro­cure it. In this crisis he came to himself, and repented his having been the ruin of a vast num­ber of young men, who had too implicitely fol­lowed his pernicious counsels. When we are on the point of giving an account of our actions, the veil, which intercepted the sight of them, rends, and we are filled with horror; and the weakness of the body communicating itself to the mind, carries us in an instant from the excess of vice to that of a forced and involuntary repentance. The impossibility of making reparation for the evils which we have done fills as with terror, which of itself would be sufficient to accelerate our end. It was in this fatal moment that Phi­lintus, terrified with the retrospect of his past life, sent for his friends▪ confessed the crimes he had perp [...]ra [...]ed, and exhorted them to repen­tance i [...] so pathetic a manner, that most of them, affected with the spectacle they saw before them, [Page 14] changed their conduct, and became illustrious for their virtue.

I was informed of the death of Philintus al­most as soon as his sickness. The circumstances with which it was attended almost freezed me with horror. I began to reflect, and I must con­fess that the apprehensions of meeting a similar end had as much influence over me as virtue it­self. I turned my eyes within, I took a retros­pect of my irregularities, I groaned at the vil­lainy I had been guilty of to Calista; shame co­vered my face, and despair got possession of my heart.

The peace which had lately been proclaimed, left me at liberty to repair to court. I returned thither very unlike myself. I employed myself in endeavouring to find out the unfortunate Ca­lista. Some years were spent in the fruitless research, at length time abated somewhat of the poignancy of my remorse, and I yielded to the importunities of a family, of which I was the only descendant. I married your mother. Love did not preside at our wedding, my wounded heart could not harbour so sweet a guest. We were, however, united by esteem, and lived ve­ry comfortably, when my happiness was inter­rupted by the loss of your mother, who died a few hours after she had introduced you into life.

The remembrance of the crimes of my youth heightened the distress in which I was involved by the loss of a valuable wife. I should not have supported it, my son, if the hopes of being use­ful to you had not enabled me. I retired to this estate, where my whole study has been to form your heart to virtue. After the loss of a law sui [...]. I struggle with [...]er mi [...]rtunes. I [Page 15] should not have been affected with them wer [...] it not for your sake. The more I reflect upon the propensity we have to evil, and the easiness which grandeur gives to the perpetration of it, the more am I thankful [...]o the supreme Being for having reduced me to a mere competency. I thank him for your sake; it is at least a rock which I have escaped.

Alcipus, with an unbounded generosity, is desirous of repairing your losses, and wishes that our two families were united; I must say that I concur with him. Pay his daughter a visit▪ should she please you and her heart be disenga­ged, it is an a [...]ance which wi [...] give me inex­pressible transports. I beg, my son, that you would impa [...]t your sentiments to me with the greatest freedom [...] look upon me a [...] your friend, as a sincere friend, who wishes for nothing more than your happiness, and [...]aims no other [...]ght over you than that of approved friendship. Al­cindor ceased speak [...]ng, and Erga [...]tu [...], after re­turning him thank [...], promised him the most im­plicit obedience.

Being joined by Alcipus, they accompanied him to his castle, where they were received by Amelia as persons whom she expected. Selinda, the companion of Amelia, assisted her in doing the honours of the t [...]ble.

Some days passed in great festivity, [...] which Alcipus observed with pleasure the im­pression which the c [...]arms of his daughter made upon Ergastus. This youth kept his eyes con­stantly fixed upon her; his assiduity, his trivial attentions, which are important in love, meet­ing with an air of complacence, convinced him that he was not indifferent to her.

[Page 16]Friend! said Alcipus to Alcindor, let us leave the young folks by themselves, I have something to say to you, and we will join them in the park. Ergastus gave his hand to Amelia, Selinda accompanied them. They walked some­time without speaking to each other, and Selin­da, absorbed in melancholy, had no inclination to break silence. Ergastus, at last ventured to speak a few words, his looks and his expressions were animated; love itself could not appear more irresistible. He revealed his passion to A­melia with a force and energy, which could pro­ceed from sincerity alone. The amiable fair one, being instructed by her father before, did not strive to conceal her feelings, and a modest, but ingenuous reply, insured the happiness of her lover.

Satisfied with each other, they beheld no o­ther objects, and the arbour in which they were seated was a little world to them. Amelia, who till that moment, had seen none but her lover, recollected Selinda, rolled her eyes in search of her, and was surprised not to find her. She was disturbed at her absence, and was go­ing in quest of her. "I cannot ingross your attention, fair Amelia," said Ergastus to her in the accents of tenderness, "what are you afraid of?" Nothing, replied the inamoretta, the re­gard I have for you is a kind of security or a pledge that you have the same for me. But Se­linda is in distress, and demands my attention. She has no relations; and being entrusted to my father's care from her most tender age, the knows no one but him. Till this crisis she has lived a happy life; but an alarming discovery of her present situation has plunged her into the [Page 17] glooms of melancholy. I conjure you, Ergastus, to permit me to take her as my companion, and suffer me to keep her with me as long as I live. Were you acquainted with her virtues? No vir­gin was ever possessed of more virtues than Selinda.

Charming Amelia, replied Ergastus, I shall never have any will but your's. It will give me the greatest happiness to contribute any ways to soften the pains of Selinda.

As they were speaking, they looked after her; but how great was then astonishment to find her in the arms of Alcindor, who, together with Al­cipus, was bathed in tears.

My son, cried Alcindor, heaven has restored me my daughter, your sister, and the very copy of Calista.

Ergastus and Amelia looked at each other with surprize; but their surprize was superseded by the pleasure to find a sister in a friend, whom they loved so much. Selinda quitted her fa­ther's embraces for those of Ergastus and Amelia. They demanded with all the eagerness of curi­osity how this discovery was made? I can inform you, my children, replied Alcipus.

Calista, preyed on by the most lively sorrow, had confidence enough to repose in me the secret of her circumstances, and her just apprehensions. Her parents were going to confine her to those gloomy retreats, which are dedicated for the re­ception of involuntary penitents. I formed the resolution of snatching her from their obduracy. I was aquainted with the superior of the convent, where she was to reside till her delivery. We concerted measures to rescue distressed innocence. The relations of Calista were so much blinded [Page 18] with rage, that it was no very difficult matter to impose upon them. A pretended illness and death, which they seemed to hear of with plea­sure, were the means we made use of to rescue Calista.—My sister carried her to the extreme parts of Silesia, where she has a small estate. The distressed fair was delivered of Selinda, and her sorrows put an end to her miseries. With her dying breath she conjured us to have pity on her orphan daughter, to conceal her birth from her, and make use of our utmost endeavours to inspire her with the love of a religious life.

We undertook this charge. I married a lit­tle while afterwards, and had Amelia. I brought them up together. The unwillingness of Selin­da to take the veil obliged me to disclose some part of the fatal secret. She felt the distress of her circumstances, lamented them with the pangs of anguish, and persisted in her refusal. My daughter, whom I took out of the convent, beg­ged me to let her be with her; I consented to her request with joy. By chance I understood that Alcindor had seen his error, and was be­come a convert to virtue. I knew he had a son, whom he had educated himself. I then conceived the design of marrying my daughter to him, and to prepare my old friend to recognize his (daugh­ter.) My wishes are accomplished. I have but one condition to make with respect to my daugh­ter's marriage, which is this; my fortune is con­siderable, I shall divide it between Amelia and Selinda: I offer my heart to the latter; her fa­ther gives his consent; and to be short, one word will unite all four of us together.

Alcindor, who had gone aside to avoid hear­ing the narrative of Alcipus, returned at this [Page 19] period, and asked Selinda if she would give her consent.

Yes, my dear father, replied she, the obliga­tions I am under to Alcipus cannot be compen­sated but by the most sincere affection and at­tachment. I am ready to perform any thing you can command.

Alcindor, Alcipus, Ergastus, Amelia, and Se­linda embraced and congratulated each other on account of an alliance so happy, and so un­foreseen.

The two weddings were solemnized without pomp, but with a general satisfaction. Alcin­dor retired to a solitary place, where he employed himself in regretting his dear Calista. He went yearly to visit his children, imparted to them the fruits of his meditations, and recommended to them, above all things, to remember his fail­ings, that they might not only preserve their children from the same, but likewise all those whom providence should commit to their care.

INDISCRETION. A Moral Tale.

MISS Jenny Bradshaw was one of those figures which, without being very regu­lar, had something in her which seldom fails to please and charm. Born with a candid and vir­tuous heart, each day produced in her all the re­quisite qualities for making a husband happy. The pride, inspired by high life, praises, flat­tery, and still more the bad examples and wrong conceived maxims of the Lady, her mother, [Page 20] wife to Sir James Bradshaw, of an opulent for­tune in Hampshire, soon corrupted her good dis­positions. This Lady resided always in London during the winter season, and with reluctance quitted it even in summer, so few attractions had rural pleasures for her, comparatively to the means that facilitated her gratifications in town. She was possessed with a singular mania of be­lieving herself a fine wit, and greatly admired for her vast erudition. One time she was seen to enter the list with a band of Literation po­litical, religious, and metaphysical discussions. Mallebranche, Locke, and Newton, were favour­ite authors with her. Another time she prided in giving her patronage to every young adven­turer in authorship of any kind; she read all the pamphlets, plays, and poems they brought her, and in the enthusiasms of her heart consi­dered herself as the only arbiter of good taste.

Miss Jenny assisted assiduously at the conferen­ces held in her Ladyship's apartment. As she grew up, the inclinations of the mother gathered strength in her, but success was not answerable to her desires. She had some difficulty in ex­pressing herself. Often, in the midst of a con­versation, she would stop short, as bewildered. Forming two or three connected phrases was to her a painful business. A natural timidity still added to the embarassment of her tongue. No­thing could vex her Mamma more than the poor display of her argumentative faculties: she did not cease preaching to her daughter, and in her scientific delirium would cite examples to her of some philosophic Ladies, and many others of the sex, who had distinguished themselves for their genius in a variety of composition. How can [Page 21] your frozen imagination, said she, receive no warmth, collect no fire from the reading of the works of such incomparable women? See what glory has crowned them! will you, by indolent life add to the number of ordinary women, whose sole talent is to adorn, and to borrow from art charms which nature has refused them, or add to the number of those that waste their time and spirits amidst the obscure details of domes­tic occupation. A woman properly is no other wise commendable but by the extent of her wit and genius.

Such was Lady Bradshaw's manner of con­stantly lecturing her daughter. She was igno­rant how dangerous it is to tamper at procuring too much wit for women. Nature calculated them for pleasing and not for becoming learned. A forgetfulness of the duties annexed to their condition is the fruit of a taste misplaced on sci­ences. The wanderings of the mind common­ly produce those of the heart. A young Lady that seeks instruction, in the view of shining as learned, is but too often instructed at the ex­pence of her virtue.

Opportunity soon favoured the designs of her Ladyship on Miss Jenny. Mr. Reynolds, a young Gentleman of some rank, but of depraved morals, seemed to her the fittest person for inspi­ring her daughter with a love of the Belles Let­tres. This Mr. Reynolds was one of those su­perficial beings that haunt all our gay towns and places of resort, yet able only to impose on the senseless and undiscerning multitude. He had something of a sprightly imagination, spoke with ease and fluency, and reasoned upon every thing without knowing any thing to the bottom. [Page 22] The reading of novels and plays was his prin­cipal occupation. He would descant on the me­rit of every actor and actress on the stage, and as a perfect connoiss [...]ur in theatrical matters, would enter into minute details of their justness or improprieties. He also pretended to be an adept in the doctrine of chances at any sort of game or diversion. Nothing could be more pleasing to him than the favourable opinion La­dy Bradshaw entertained of his qualifications. For a long time he had been courting some no­tice from her, and he secretly aspired to Miss Jenny. He had already made some successful attempts in that way; but Jenny was a rich heiress, and himself had dissipated a good part of his patrimony, so that he had reason to appre­hend lest the inequality of fortune might become an obstacle to his desires. How great was his joy, and how confident his presumption, when he saw himself permitted to give lessons to his dear Jenny. He profited of every occurrence in them that could be applicable to love (for his first lessons were out of romances and novels) to make the case her's and his own, and more es­pecially, when a strained sensibility took place, all the sighs and raptures of Q [...]ixotism were a­dopted. Thus it was that this new Abelard and this new Eloisa spent the moments in amo­rous parley, which Lady Bradshaw imagined to be dedicated to study: 'Mr Reynolds, said she, I find my daughter has a smoother and rea­dier elocution since she has been under your tu­ition; her mind begins to open, and her intel­lects shew a more clear and lively conception.'

Reynolds, with many flattering speeches kept the mother in her fatal delusion. He saw with [Page 23] pleasure the progress his young pupil made in the science of love. Now he tried what effect soft and tender poetry might have on her mind. Ovid's Art of love and his Epistles were not for­got. To these succeeded some select passages from Tragedy. The young Lady's imagination became daily more heated. He was careful to dwell longer on the more passionate parts to give Miss Jenny a due feeling of them; she listened to him with avidity, and insensibly suffered herself to be wrought upon to give into all the snares of seduction. Already they wrote the tenderest billets-doux to each other. Their interviews and conversation were more frequent under the specious pretext of acquiring wit, and, the more they saw each other, the more they loved.

Sir James Bradshaw, a man of rough manners, and little or no learning, had however wit and sense enough to know his wife's foible. At times he would become boisterous, and fly out into a passion against her, reproaching her tartly with her strange ma [...]ner of conducting herself and fa­mily. He loved sincerely his children, was sol­licitous for their welfare, and did not look with so indifferent an eye as his Lady on the prepos­terous education of his daughter. On this ac­count he expressly forbad her to receive Rey­nolds's visits. This order seemed to strike Jen­ny with consternation. Love had made too deep a wound in her heart. Nothing was capable of effecting her cure.

The impetuous temper of the Baronet, and the melancholy air of Jenny's countenance, were soon as presages to Mr. Reynolds that some storm was gathering against his happiness; and what confirmed him in his notions was the cold recep­tion [Page 24] he had from Lady Bradshaw. She at length began to think that his assiduities to her daugh­ter might be attended with very disagreeable consequences. Reynolds had grounded his prin­cipal hopes on the confidence that blind mother had placed in him; however, as an expert man, and versed in the airs of intrigue, he schemed other measures to attain his end. He knew how Miss Jenny's heart was disposed; he was belov­ed by it, and he agreed with her, that it was best to desist from further visits; but, before separa­ting, they concerted the means of keeping up an epistolary correspondence.

Reynolds appeared no more at Lady Brad­shaw's assemblies, which indeed were now be­come less frequent than before. He wrote pret­ty often to Jenny, and strove to dispose her in­sensibly to private interviews. He knew by ex­perience that love is irritated by difficulties, and that a young female, once going beyond the bounds of modesty, runs afterwards of herself to the precipice. Miss Jenny after many reflex­ions, fears, uncertainties, and after having lis­tened to and long struggled against the murmur­ings of virtue, yielded at last to her lover's soli­citations. They saw each other as often as op­portunities served, by the intervention of a wait­ing woman, to whom Reynolds, in the disguise of a country farmer, was to personate the lover. This stratagem succeeded from time to time with little or no interruption. In the country, Miss Jenny and her maid used to take their evening walks by the recesses of wood [...] ▪ and along the banks of winding streams. Here too the indus­trious lover failed not [...] meet. Nature's ga [...] attire, the melody of birds, the sweetness of the [Page 25] every thing, in short, painted for Jenny the scenes and the language of love. While the maid would step aside to gather some wild flow­er that catched her eye, the amorous pair would go astray, and often out of sight, in their agree­able solitude. Reynolds became more passion­ate and fond; Jenny more adventurous and more weak. What will not an enterprising lover so circumstanced, attempt? Jenny lost sight of vir­tue, and was defeated.

Reynolds applauded himself in secret for his triumph. His happiness appeared certain to him. A marriage so much to his advantage would repair the disorders of his fortune occasi­oned by the eccentricities of libertine youth. Jenny on the other side, soon became inconsola­ble. Her heart was rent, her mind distressed and depressed by all the remorse that commonly follows illicit pleasure and the loss of virtue. She dared no more appear before her mother, and how should she confess her fault to her? To what reproaches was not she going to expose herself? Her situation, however, did not per­mit her to disguise it longer: Each day the indications of her dishonour were more and more visible▪ Encouraged by the solicitations of her lover, she went trembling to her mother's apart­ment, and reveals to her the fatal secret with all the shame the [...]cknowl [...]dgment of so bad an action usually inspires. [...]dy Bradshaw was highly incen [...]ed and exp [...]d Jenny her pre­sence. She dis [...]red, but too late, the dan­gerous illusion that had dece [...]ved her. Sensible of all her faults, she ha [...]tened in some manner to repair them by a marriage, generally disliked, and, in the sequel, ver [...] unha [...]py.

An Account of an Unfortunate Young LADY who was betrayed by her FRIEND.

IF your breast has any feeling for the distresses of a ruined wife and mother, I beseech you to communicate my unhappy story to the public. [...]t may possibly come time enough to prevent a catastrophe, which would add horror to ruin, and drive to utter distraction a poor helpless fa­mily, who have more misery already than they are able to bear.

I am the wife of a very worthy officer in the army, who by a train of unavoidable misfortunes, was obliged to sell his commission; and from a state of ease and plenty has been long since re­duced to the utmost penury and want. One son and a daughter were our only children.—Alas! that I should live to say it! happy would it have been for us if one of them had never been born! —The boy was of a noble nature, and in hap­pier times his father bought him a commission in the service where he is now a lieutenant, and quartered in Scotland with his regiment, O! he is a dear and dutiful child, and has kept his poor parents from the extremity of want, by the kind supplies which he has from time to time sent us in our misfortunes.

His sister was in the eyes of a fond father and mother lovely to an extreme. Alas Mr. Fitz Adam! she was too lovely.—The times I have watered her dear face with my tears at the thought that her temper was too meek and gen­tle [Page 27] for so engaging a form! She lived with us till she was turned of fourteen, at which time we were prevailed on by a friend to place her with a gentleman of fortune in the country, (who had lately buried his lady), to be the companion of his daughters. The gentleman's character was too honourable, and the offer too advantageous, to suffer us to hesitate long about parting with a child whom, dear to us as [...]he was, we were not able to support. It is now a little more than two years since our separation, and till within a very few months it was our happiness and joy we had provided for her so fortunately. She lived in the esteem and friendship of the young ladies, who were indeed very amiable persons, and such was their father's seeming indulgence to us, that he advanced my husband a sum of money upon his bond, to free him from some small debts which threatened him hourly with a jail.

But how shall I tell you, Sir, that this seem­ing benefactor has been the cruelest of all ene­mies! The enjoyment of our good fortune began to be interrupted by hearing less frequently from our daughter than we used to do; and when a letter from her arrived, it was short and con­strained, and sometimes blotted as if with tears, while it told us of nothing that should occasion any concern. It is now upwards of two months since we have heard from her at all; and while we were wondering at her silence, we received a letter from the eldest of the young ladies, which threw us into a perplexity which can neither be described nor imagined. It was directed to me, and contained these words.

Alarmed and terrified as I was at this letter, I made no hesitation of comp [...], with its con­tents. The bearer of it either could not, or would not, inform me of a syllable that I want­ed to know. My husband indeed had a fatal guess at its meaning; and, in a fury of rage, insisted on accompanying me: but as I really hoped better things, and flattered myself that the young ladies were apprehensive of a mar­riage between their father and my girl, I sooth­ed him into patience, and set out alone.

I travelled all night▪ and early the next morn­ing saw myself at the end of my journey.—O, Sir! am I alive to tell it? I found my daugh­ter in a situation the most shocking that a fond mother could behold! she had been seduced by her benefactor, and was visibly with child. I will not detain you with the swoonings and con­fusion of the unhappy creature at this meeting, nor with my own distraction at what I saw and [Page 29] [...]ard. In short, I learned from the eldest of [...]e young ladies that she had long suspected [...]me unwarrantable intimacies between her fa­ [...]er and my girl; and that finding in her alter­ [...] shape and appearance a confirmation of her [...]spicions, she had questioned her severely upon [...]e subject and brought her to a full confession [...] her guilt: that farther, her infatuated father as then gone to town to provide lodgings for [...]e approaching necessity, and that my poor de­ [...]ded girl had consented to live with him after­ [...]ards in London in the character of a mistress.

I need not tell you, Sir the horror I felt at is dismal tale. Let it suffice that I returned [...]ith my unhappy child, with all the haste I was [...]le. Nor is it needful that I should tell you [...] the rage and indignation of a fond distracted [...]ther at our coming home. Unhappily for us, [...] was too violent in his menaces, which I sup­ [...]se reached the ears of this cruelest of men. [...]o eight days ago caused him to be arrested [...]on hi [...] bond, and [...]urried to a prison.

But if this, Sir, had been the utmost of my [...]sery, cruel as it is, I had sp [...]red you the trou­ [...] of this relation, and ba [...]ed my grief in my [...]. Alas! Sir, I have another concern, [...] is more ins [...]pport [...]ble to me than all I have [...]. My [...] in the anguish of [...] and given him [...] of his daughter's [...]; conju [...]ing [...] me this [...]) by [...] his [...] upon this [...] his [...] was sent [...] [Page 30] and has left me in the utmost horror at the thought of what may happen. I dread every thing from the rashness and impetuosity of my son, whose notions of honour and justice are those of a young soldier, who, in defiance of the law, will be judge in his own cause, and the a­venger of injuries which Heaven only should punish.

I have written to him upon this occasion in all the agony of a fond mother's distresses. But O! I have fatal forebodings that my letter will come too late. What is this honour, and what this justice, that prompts men to acts of violence and blood, and either leaves them victims to the law, or to their own unwarrantable rashness? As forcibly as I was able in this distracted con­dition I have set his duty before him; and have charged him, for his own soul's sake, and for the sake of those he most tenderly loves, not to bring utter ruin upon a family, whose distresses already are near sinking them to the grave.

The only glimmering of comfort that opens upon me is the hopes that your publication of this letter may warn the wretch who has undone us, of his danger, and incline him to avoid it. Fear is commonly the companion of guilt, and may possibly be the means of preserving to me the life of a son, after worse than death has hap­pened to a daughter.

If you have pity in your nature, I beg the immediate publication of this letter, which will infinit [...]ly oblige,

THE HAPPY PERSEVERANCE.

HOPE seems to have descended from hea­ven in the suit of love to console mankind in the evils which that deity occasions; she al­ways attends upon lovers. She insinuates her­self into their hearts. She warms their imagi­nation. She multiplies their ideas. There is no beauty whom she will not promise to move; no coquettes which she will not pretend to fix; no obstacles which she will not undertake to sur­mount. She creates a delicious illusion which leaving the coldness of reality behind, gives you the enjoyment of many ages.

Ye who are now perusing this narrative, if invincible obstacles separate you from the object of your affection; if a constant but unsuccessful passion afford you no desirable prospect to console yourselves with hope: perhaps the next moment a [...]rtuitous vicissitude, or some unforeseen event, may present you with that happiness after which you sigh. The lover should not despair; let the history of Salvador, son of the king of Ceylon, confirm this assertion. In one night he lost his father, his relations, and his kingdom. The Portuguese, who had lately made the discovery of the Indies, and conquered the island of Cey­lon, sent him to L [...]bon, where he struggled with new misfortunes to which he was exposed by love. Of all the Portuguese nobles who had shewed their civilities to Salvador, the count d' Almo­dovar was the most ardent in the pursuit of his friendship. This nobleman was rich, of great [Page 32] interest at court, but fiery, ambitious, of rigid virtue, too credulous in believing ill, an enemy to his own age and mankind in general, disposed to find fault, and imagining that others were not possessed of those virtues which he felt in his own breast. He was pushing for the vice-roy­alty of the Indies, and in hopes that Salvador might some day be of service to him, he omitted nothing to gain his confidence. He easily suc­ceeded. The unfortunate run to meet their comforters, and kiss with transport the hands which wipe away their tears. Their connection became so imtimate, that Salvador made no scruple of accepting a lodging with his friend. The first object which struck him was the daugh­ter of his new friend; she was one of the great­est beauties in Portugal: it is impossible to con­ceive the charms and graces which Donna Isa­bella united in her person. Her air was noble and engaging, her figure majestic, her eyes full of fire, and her head adorned with jetty hair which she dressed herself: in a word, she seem­ed to be some angelical existence that had de­scended from heaven.

Her father said, as he presented Salvador to her, My daughter, I present one of my friends, which I wish may likewise add to the number of yours. He has conflicted with great misfor­tunes; you will aid me in closing his wounds with the balm of consolation.

Donna Isabella made a vague but ingenuous reply, but Salvador was unable to utter a word. The sight of Isabella made a strong impression upon him, a sweet emotion sh [...]k his whole [...]! a glowing red [...]fused i [...]self all over his countenance; his eyes were infl [...]med, and [Page 33] striving to fix them on Isabella, they lowered themselves as if unable to sustain the splendor of so many charms. He strove to raise them a­gain, but they lowered themselves again. His soul intoxicated with the sight, seemed to have quitted him: he remained without motion, plun­ged in an extasy of delight. Such are the deli­cious moments which feeling hearts experience but once, and which those who are cold, or void of feeling, never experience.

Salvador found his heart wounded for the first time. A consuming fire, which circulated through all his veins, informed him that he was in love; he shuddered at the event, but could no longer prevent it, a single glance had infla­med him for the rest of his life. It is the na­ture of great passions to be born in an instant. The count perceived his embarassment, and im­puted it to his reviving the idea of his misfor­tunes. He made him several very polite apolo­gies, and in order to divert his thoughts, took him aside into his garden. "You are master of all my house," said he to Salvador; "look upon it as your own; esteem me as your parent; your age, and my friendship, vindicate me in assuming that title. I have but two children, they w [...]ll be happy in looking upon you as a bro­ther. My son is with his regiment; you have seen my daughter; her person is well enough: her soul is far more amiable. I have had the pleasure of educating her myself, and her im­provements have more than recompenced me for all my cares. I should be glad to settle her be­fore I sail for the Indies; you will assist me in the c [...]oice of a son in-law.

Th [...] last sentence made Salvador quake; it [Page 34] pierced his heart with a dreadful light, which discovered to him the dangers which attended his passion; like a flash of lightning in a stormy night, which discovers to the despairing passen­ger the rocks and breakers with which he is sur­rounded. From that instant he was resolved to struggle against his passion; but he struggled in vain! It is in vain to wrestle with our fate. His inflamed heart resisted in vain the passion by which it was enslaved. The reflection he made to destroy his affection served only to increase it. He saw and conversed with Isabella every day, and drank from her eyes the fire which consu­med him. The sound of her voice, or guitar, pierced his heart, the fragrance of the flowers which she wore in her bosom overpowered him; all his senses were intoxicated with love, and his passion was never more violent, than when his feeble reason strove to suppress it.

Love made as great a progress in the heart of Isabella. Her eyes were fixed upon those of Sal­vador, and were rejoiced to meet them; a secret anxiety made her uneasy in his absence, and the days which they passed together sted away like so many moments. The most intimate confi­dence was established between them. Their mouth was a stranger to the secret of their hearts, their eyes communicated their mutual thoughts and desires; and the pleasure of seeing each other, left them no other to wish for. That age must be very deplorable in which the sight of two young and innocent lovers should appear either strange, or chimerical!

The happiness of Salvador and Isabella want­ed nothing for its completion, but some circum­stances which taught them the value of it. One [Page 35] day Salvador, with an heart and eyes full of tenderness, met with Isabella as she was going up to her apartments. The elegant disorder of her dishabille seemed to give a great addition to her charms. Never had she appeared to him with so much beauty. He offered her his hand, and trembled to receive hers. He grasped it softly. He thought he felt it tremble, and in his transport [...] glued his burning lips upon it. Isabella was in great agitation. She blashed, and retired.

Salvador, intoxicated with pleasure, was at length confused with the thought or his daring to offend one whom he loved: it was some time before he was able to appear in her presence. He dreaded her sight and he had reason for do­ing so. Isabella thought herself offended. Though she was not without feeling, she was nevertheless of rigid virtue; and the rashness of her lover appeared inexcusable. However, chance offered him an opportunity of excusing himself.

The king's comedians had brought out a new play. The count d'Almodovar begged Salva­dor, who had been at it the first night, to give some account of it before Isabella and a nume­rous company: the subject of the piece was a quarrel between too lovers, occasioned by an in­discreet salute. Salvador enforced the excuses [...]f the shepherd with so much address and warmth, [...]nd described his distress in so pathetic a man­ [...]er, that the company would have been dis­pleased, had not the shepherdess granted him his pardon. Isabella perceived that Salvador was pleading his own cause: she was affected with his remorse, the turn he gave to his ex­cuses, [Page 36] and with the glance from her eyes, as­sured him of his pardon.

The reconciliation which took place between them was productive of a shortlived happiness. A croud of suitors flocked to Isabella; they were all suitable to her in age, fortune, and birth. Isabella was not a little disturbed at the appli­ [...]ations which were made to her. She confided in the affection which her father had for her, as a means of avoiding an engagement which was disagreeable to her. But Salvador was in des­pair, from an apprehension of losing the object of his affections. He reproached himself for be­ing an obstacle to the happiness of Isabella; for disturbing the tranquility of a worthy family; for practising upon the affections of the daughter of his friend; and he was resolved to triumph over his weakness. He saw Isabella but seldom; but the efforts he made to conquer his passion flung him into a profound melancholy, and im­paired his health. Isabella perceived it, and was greatly alarmed. She was resolved to run any risk to procure his recovery. She wrote him a billet, which she sent by a slave, whom she thought she could confide in. Salvador received it with an anxiety, which was not very favourable to his cure; it was to the following effect.

"Your condition makes me very uneasy, take care of yourself for my sake, and repeat this charm­ing couplet which I sing with as much pleasure as sincerity;

[Page 37]Salvador read this billet with transport; he bedewed it with his tears, and put it into his bosom. He was enjoying the happiness of plea­sing the object of his love, when he was sent for by Isabella's father. On his entrance, "Dear Salvador," said he, come and comfort your friend. I assure you he never had more need of it. You know my intentions with respect to Isabella, and the desire I have to settle her be­fore I go to the Indies. Very advantageous offers have been made; I gave my consent to several, but my daughter refuses every one: tho' hitherto she esteemed it her greatest happiness to please me, yet she now opposes my intentions with a firmness which astonishes me. Her heart, which is full of ingenuousness and simplicity, seems to be affected with melancholy; perhaps [...]t is not disengaged; perhaps some perfidious [...]educer—But away with so unjust a suspicion: [...]t is in your power to clear up my doubts. Isa­ [...]ella esteems you; she may grant you that con­ [...]idence which she refuses to her father. Sound [...]er heart, read her soul, and if any sentiment, which ought to make her blush, has made too [...]eep an impression, undertake her cure, and res­ [...]ue us both from an attachment unworthy of [...]er and myself.

The count melted as he pronounced these words; a few tears burst from his eyes, and he [...]lasped Salvador to his bosom. Salvador, con­ [...]used and disconcerted with his address, reproach­ [...]d himself for the misfortunes to which he was [...]rivy. He was going to make a discovery, when the count thus resumed his discourse. "But you, my dear Salvador, who are melted [...]ith my distresses, what cause has augmented [Page 38] your own? You have fallen into a melancholy, which affects me very much; you drag on a chagrin which preys upon you: your health is impaired; I have till now avoided enquiring into the cause of your melancholy, but if it be in my power to afford you any consolation, the keeping it a secret is a crime in the eyes of friendship. Does my friendship cease to be a­greeable to you? Has my daughter forgot the regards which are due to you? Have my friends or domestics neglected you? Have you suffered any considerable loss? Speak! my dear friend. My fortune, my life is at your service; you shall meet with satisfaction in every thing. Are you impatient on account of not being able to obtain that compensation which the king has promised? You ought to rely upon his promi­ses, and I will do my utmost to realize them."

Salvador, pierced with so affecting an ad­dress, and ashamed to harrow up the soul of so generous a friend, was for some time in suspense whether he should not fall at his feet, and dis­cover the whole affair to him; but he was ap­prehensive of making too deep a wound in his own heart; he conceived the rash hopes of ba­nishing himself from the heart of Isabella, and to reconcile her to the views of her father. He pretended that the motive of his melancholy was his distance from his own country, the re­membrance of his misfortunes, and several other circumstances which is not in the power of the count to redress. He thanked him hearti [...]y for his friendly offers, and quitted him with a thou [...]nd protestations of gratitude.

In the interim, the slave who carried Isabel­la's bill [...]t to Salvador, had the indi [...]retion to [Page 39] read it; on reflecting upon the contents, he was filled with apprehensions, and prostrated him­self at his master's feet, where he confessed his crime, and discovered the contents of the billet with which he had been charged; and the con­fusion, joy, and transport with which Salvador had perused it. This impoisoned the breast of the father with jealousy, hatred, and fury. "It is this wretch, then," cried the count, "that has disturbed her tranquility, betrayed his friendship, and violated the laws of hospitality! the wretch! with what artfulness did he wipe off the tears, which he alone was the cause of! With what perfidiousness did he receive my ad­dresses! How calmly did he enjoy the fruit of his crimes! Bid him quit my house directly," said he to one of his domestics, "and never dare to come there again." In the height of his fury he wrote him the following billet:

"You have betrayed my friendship and con­fidence: quit a house of which you are the dis­grace, and never dare to appear again in the presence of a friend whom you have so cruelly offended."

The count d' Almodovar set no bounds to his passion, because he thought that Salvador had set none to his. The contempt he had for those of his own times, and the ill-will which he bore them, were united against Salvador and Isabella. He might have been convinced of their inno­cence, but his natural ferocity, and the rigidness of his principles were equally hurt; and he ran the risk of doing an injury to his daughter, merely for the sake of a pretence of hating a friend. Salvador was overwhelmed with grief, but he resigned himself to his exile without mur­muring [Page 40] against Isabella's father. He imputed his misfortunes to none but himself; he did not hesitate to seek an asylum f [...]r from the spot where the count resided, and he formed a resolution which he kept inviolate; which was never to disturb the repose of Isabella, or to augment the grief of her father by his presence.

Isabella heard of the departure of Salvador, without being informed of the cause. She durst not speak of it to any one, nor durst any one, speak of it to her. At one time she grieved at the cruel usage, which she was apprehen­sive that he was unable to support; at another time she was offended at his coolness; she accu­sed him of deserting her, and, if it were possi­ble, of hating her. "If he loved me still," said she, "would he not have contrived to see me? Should I not have seen him at church, or the publick walks, or at the play? Would not love have inspired him with some expedients to assure me that he loved me still?

Notwithstanding Isabella constantly rejected all the offers that were made her, she artfully eluded the importunities which her father made use of to engage her to choose a husband. She knew that Salvador ought to carry his point at court; that the king had honoured him with strong promises, and she hoped that if the fa­vours he might meet with were any wise suitable to his birth, and the loss of his estates, he would soon be in a condition to offer her a hand, which her father himself would urge her to accept.

Salvador cherished the same ideas in his re­tirement. The image of Isabella was always before his eyes. He would not have wished, for [Page 41] the sake of Isabella, that she should think too much of him; but he could not but wish that she would not imagine him inconstant. He often repeated the song which she sent him, wrote it upon the sa [...]ds of the Tagus, and engraved it upon the bark [...] of the orange trees which grew upon the banks of that river. He dwelt with singular delight upon the last line.

He knew the inexorableness and the views of the count d'Almodovar: he could not flatter himself with a certainty of ever possessing Isabel­la: but at the same time finding no obstacles which might not be surmounted, his heart gave entrance to hope. He redoubled his applica­tions to the king; and in hopes of obtaining some favour from him, which might make him nearer to Isabella in point of fortune, he fre­quently visited the ministers, and laid aside that air of importance which his birth and the jus­tice of his pretensions inspired him with. Love, which melts the most savage, softened his tem­per. He became an assiduous, importunate, if [...]t a servile suitor; for nothing appeared mor­tifying to him, when compared with the loss of Isabella.

One day as he was at the levee of Don Die­go de Mello, the Lord high-admiral, a lady whom he formerly had been acquainted with, and was waiting as well as himself to have an audience of the admiral, accosted him. She was an intimate friend of the count d'Almodo­var, and had heard a part of Salvador's history, which affected her. Whether it were from cu­riosity, [Page 42] or compassion for his misfortunes, she spake to him concerning Isabella, informed him that her health was impaired more and more every day; that she constantly refused every offer which was made her, and at last, promised to introduce him to her, if she could do it with­out wounding either her discretion, or her deli­cacy. Salvador closed the proposal with trans­port, and the day and place for receiving the answer were fixed. At the time appointed he flew to the place of rendezvous; but how great was his agony when he was informed, that "Isa­bella heard his name mentioned with indiffer­ence, that she pretended to question whether he had any great desire of an interview, and that she at last ordered her to acquaint him that she was quite recovered.

Heavens! cried he, is it possible that Isabella should be inconstant, unjust, and cruel! Even though she ceased to love me, providing her in­difference would have contributed to her health, I should not have complained; but to suspect that I was no ways interrested in her health, to give me notice of her inconstancy, to plunge the dagger herself into my heart, is such a shock as I cannot support! I am determined to fly a place where there can be no feelings, when there are none in Isabella's heart.

He ran over every part of the inhabitable globe in idea in quest of a place to bury his grief in. But his choice was soon fixed, a secret, a natural propensity generally attracts us to our own country. He recollected, that amongst the Indians, who are in alliance with his ancestors, the Marattoes were the most numerous, the most courageous, and most favourable to his own [Page 43] views, because they were continually at war with the Portuguese. He was resolved to seek an asylum among them, and solicit a commission in their army. He soon informed them of his descent, and gave them proofs of his courage. The skill he acquired in military affairs enabled him to discipline their troops. Though he sought for death in every engagement, he met with nothing but glory. A man may easily be­come a hero who had no value for his life! The Indians regarded Salvador as some celestial be­ing, who was sent to protect their liberty and their country; they imagined a sovereign who resembled him would insure their happiness; and the unanimous voice of the nation placed him upon the throne. He ascended it with transport, in hopes of sharing it with Isabella.

I have, said he, at last a throne to offer to one, who is more worthy of it than any other. The absolute sovereign of my heart, she shall be so likewise of an extensive dominion; but this do­minion is rather too small, I could wish to be the king of the universe, to make her a more meri­torious offer.

Salvador thus pleased himself with the idea of presenting a crown to his mistress. But he was perplexed for the means of obtaining her accep­tion. —The war which the Portuguese carried on against the Marattoes, and especially the im­mense distance which separated him from Isabel­la, formed almost insuperable obstacles to his wishes. He imagined that Isabella was at Lis­bon, and was under a mistake. She had traver­sed the ocean, inhabited the same continent as himself, and almost breathed the same air. The count d'Almodovar had at last ob [...]ned the vice [Page 44] royalty of the Indies, which he had solicited so long. He was at Goa, and fortified it with the greatest expedition, that it might be in a condi­tion to resist the attacks of the Marattoes with which they were threatened. His daughter still constant to her attachment, had accompan [...]d him with an aching heart. She thought that she was flying from her lover, and never dreamt of meeting him in the midst of so shocking a scene▪

Salvador had scarce taken possession of his sov­ereignty, when he was obliged [...] [...]ke which should decide the liberty of the Indies. At the head of a numerous army he ventured to lay siege to Goa, which was the capital of the Portuguese. It was fortified both by nature and art, but what fortresses can resist an invinci­ble courage? That of the Marattoes bordered upon savageness. The resistance which the Por­tuguese made, augmented their ferocity, fury and rage took possession of their breasts, and with a general cry they demanded to be led on to the assault. Nothing could withstand the impet [...]os­ity of the Marrattoes, they surmounted every obstacle, forced the ramparts, and hewed down all before them. In an instant the houses were pillaged, the streets flowed with blood, and hor­ror spread itself every where.

In this terrifying confusion Salvador could not be heard, he endeavoured in vain to stop the en­r [...]ged troops. He knew not the vicer [...]y, he was ignorant of the danger to which Isabella was ex­posed; he had no thoughts of the cruel spectacle which was to torture him. Excited sol [...] by the meltings of generosity, he endeavoured to [...]ave the governour from the fury of his troops; he r [...] to his palace; but the gates had been al­ready [Page 45] forced. The [...] penetrated to the apartments of the viceroy; his domestics were massacred in his sight; he himself made but a weak resistan [...] [...] His daughter, rendered [...] affecting by her beauty, confusion, and [...] the soldiers and her fa­ther, to [...] from their attacks, and in­tercept that danger with which he was threaten­ed. The obdu [...] [...] going to sa­crifice her; their battle axe were lifted up, when Salvador entered, and recognizing Isabella, slew to her as quick as lightning, and parried the blow which was aimed at her. Stop! my com­ [...]ades! cried he. The Marattoes fell back, astonished at his words, and Salvador prostrated himself at the feet of his mistress. Isabella, who could scarcely believe her own eyes, fell in fit into her father's arms. The count, who [...]pported her with one hand, attempted to push [...]w [...]y his generous friend with the other. The Marattoes, affected with this scene, retired with [...]spect. Isabella opened her eyes again to in­ [...]rm herself whether he [...] happiness was real.

As for the count, who was sti [...] implacab [...]e, he [...]uld not but behold with horror one whom he [...]ked upon as the greatest enemy he had in the [...]ole world. He would have discharged his [...]ole rage upon him, when Salvador prevented [...], by saying, that he never had betrayed his [...]ndship; that he must confess he loved Isa­ [...]la; that he loved her still, but that he never [...] the rashness to avow it to her. In a word [...]ed he, my views are honourable; I am the [...]g of the Marattoes, and I can in offering my [...]d to the charming Isabella, give her [...] share [...]ne of the most considerable kingdom [...] of the [Page 46] Indies. In granting my wishes you will restore the happiness of one who has always been your friend; and you will at the same time for ever reconcile the Portuguese and the Indians. I scorn to take any advantage of the victory which has endangered your life. I give up my con­quests. I restore to the Portuguese the country which I have taken from [...]. I will give them more if it be requisi [...]e; and, in one word, I leave you free, and more free than I am.

The count, overcome by the generosity of Sal­vador, ashamed of having even denied him his friendship, begged him to forg [...]t what was past. and gave him his daughter with joy. That of Isabella and Salvador was inexpressible. That their happiness might meet with no farther de­lay, the next day was fixed on for their marriage.

The confusion and carnage immediately cea­sed. — The a [...]iance of Salvador and Isabella re­united the conquerors and the conquered. The Marattoes consented to the restitution of Goa▪ The count d' Almodovar appeared confused a [...] the injury he had done his children.

Salvador could give his attention to no sub­ject but his mistress, could scarce believe his o [...] eyes, and imagined that what was transactin [...] was an illusion. As for Isabella, whose joy a [...] ded new charms to her beauty, she gazed at h [...] lover, embraced her father, and as she approached the altar said to herself. I know that co [...] stancy and perseverance lead to happiness.

History of DORANTES. A Moral Tale founded on fact.

DORANTES was naturally well dis­posed, and full of sensibility; but losing his parents in his infancy, he was intrusted to the care of mercenary tutors, who regarded their salaries more than the improvement of their pu­pil. I need not say that their abilities were not very great; it cannot be otherwise where persons are void of sentiment.

Dorantes despised his tutors and consequently conceived a very high opinion of himself, and was obstinate in all his desires.

This character grew into a habit by the time when a person enters into the world, and chooses his manner of life for himself.

Honoured with a military post, as soon as he was able to enjoy it, Dorantes was introduced to Lucinda; her house was the receptacle for all those that were des [...]rous of studying the taste of the day, to seize the fashion of the moment, or figure in the art of pleasing.

Instead of submitting to the general to [...], Do­rantes, would not adopt it till he had seen how it would take for one month, which was the way of never submitting to it.

To brave the torrent of fashion, to make it the subject of s [...]tire, is mere singularity and [...]olly: though the person who does this may be laugh­ed at, yet he is excused.

What the world could not forgive in him, was [Page 48] his obstinacy in his sentiments, and the positive manner in which he defended them against his superiors, I mean those who had gained an as­cendency in society.

This pertinaciousness may sometimes be found in the company of truth; but yet it is no proof of it: for error has had its martyrs. Do­rantes never quitted an opinion which he had adopted. Persons of such a temper may at first be sincere, and though afterwards they are un­deceived, yet their vanity will not suffer them to confess it.

Those who were in the right in their disputes with Dorantes, co [...]ented themselves with ban­tering him on account of his oddities; for supe­riority is indulgent. Those who were in an er­ror, and were for destroying the veil of error in his company, were not quite so easy; on which account he was frequently engaged in some af­fair of honour.

For instance, he broke with Medor, one of his friends, only because he had not so high an opinion as himself, of an eminent actor. Do­rantes grew warm, and they drew their swords; the engagement was not a very bloody one, they came off slightly wounded but yet, it might have been attended with more fatal consequences.

Though they st [...]ove to bury their duel in ob­livion, yet we know that secrets of this nature cannot be kept from the knowledge of our ac­quaintance [...] news is spread with a single hint, and the world is soon in possession of them.

The blame was universally [...]aid upon Doran­tes. Lucinda was affected with it. "It is a pity, said she to herself, that a man of honour, and one whom I have entered into my list, [Page 49] should ruin himself, at the beginning of his ca­reer! Come, my dear Cloe, I will prepare a triumph for you. Love must reform him—nor is there a greater master."

This proposal was agreeable to her wishes▪ Lucinda could not have made a better choice. Cloe [...] new how to set off reason without giving up any of its rights. It is frequently repre­sented as surrounded with thorns; if the road to it be difficult, it is only owing to the guides.

It was by this secret charm that Cloe acquir­ed an ascendency over Dorantes; subdued by her graces, he thought that he yielded only to her arguments.

As it is impossible to draw the character of Cloe to perfection, I shall only add that her beauty was the only subject of discourse among the other sex, and that her good friends among the ladies, could find but one defect in her; though her rivals thought she had two. "Her eyes, said the latter, are expressive of tenderness, when they ought to express indifference; and the colouring of her complexion has too near a resemblance to that of art, on account of its be­ing too glaring."

Cloe soon received a visit from Dorantes: he endeavoured to efface, by his presence, the re­ports which had been spread of his duel. "What here already! cried she; you have very little value for your health."—"My health! repli­ed he; I do not understand you."—"Do­rantes, resumed Cloe, none of your evasions; preserve your ingenuousness, especially as it will not become obstinacy, which is a great thing in your favour." "Well, answered Dorantes, I will confess. I have had an affair; yet I was [Page 50] but slightly wounded; will you blame me for shewing that I did not want for courage. It is the inheritance of those who are in the army." "It may be so, said she, but politeness is their inheritance likewise. What was the cause of the rupture between you and Medor? You admired the expression, the fire, and sensibility of—the actor, and I cannot but say I have the higher opinion of your taste for doing so. Medor who is more phlegmatic than you, admires him with­out enthusiasm; in the name of good sense was there any reason for your falling into a passion on that account? Dorantes, your confusion and silence shew that you are sorry for it." "Ma­dam, answered he, they only shew my astonish­ment; I could not have imagined that valour would appear as a crime in your eyes." "I have told you, replied she briskly, that I have no objection to valour; I only object to the abuse of it; blood should never be drawn in a dispute on taste. Repair your fault. —You may do it without any prejudice to your character. Con­fess to Medor that you attacked him without grounds or reason." "What would you have me do? cried Dorantes. No, I shall not dis­honour myself. A concession of that nature would only expose me to fresh insults.—Perhaps I may have been in the wrong. Ah Madam, what an expression have you extorted from me!" This kind of confession was all that Cloe could draw from him; and he was sorry that he had made it.

We are very partial to ourselves, and are of­fended with those who do not flatter our preju­dices. Hence Cloe displeased Dorantes by the very circumstance which ought to have increased [Page 51] his love. "She censures my conduct, which is a sure token that it is worthy of esteem: for nothing but what is intrinfically valuable is deemed a proper object for criticism. Well I shall leave these censurers to themselves, and I am de­termined to begin with Cloe, she is like others carried away by the stream of vulgar errors, and ready to give her sanction to every thing that is in fashion; she may indeed have too much sense to differ from me in opinion—but she seems at present only to flatter those that are my enemies."

To renounce our present connections is to re­duce ourselves to the necessity of contracting new ones: Dorantes experienced the truth of this ob­servation. A character like his, and an opulent fortune, open a favourable prospect to those who strive to extricate themselves from their difficul­ties by their officiousness, and substitute the most servile compliances and intrigue, in the stead of honest labour for their support.

Among those with which he was surrounded, no one surpassed Damis in finesse. Employed incessantly in developing the foibles of humani­ty, attentive to their motions, their conversa­tion, and their looks, he turned all the light he acquired to his own advantage. Persons of a positive disposition are fond of applause; this was the instrument which Damis availed himself of; far from opposing his opinions to those of Dorantes, he cried up their sublimity, and rever­enced them as much as a critic does one of the Greek or Roman classics.

At the first shaft of flattery Dorantes was shock­ [...] [...] where is there a man who can resist the [...] heart becomes an accomplice to [Page 52] betray us, and if we aspire at public applause, we are in part seduced.

To dispute every inch of ground with address; to oppose or comply with the public taste, was the artifice which Damis employed on this oc­casion. "I must bring you acquainted with a young lady from the country, whose relations have committed her to my care," said he to Do­rantes; and he added, "she is tolerably hand­some, you shall form her, and be her instructor."

Dorantes, prejudiced in favour of Clarinda's character, perceived nothing but simplicity, where others would have discovered finesse, and was inchanted with her person, which he had given them but a faint description of.

Not that her person was equal to that of Cloe's, but there is a great deal of partiality blended with the judgment we make of beauty. We frequently depreciate in private those charms which others applaud with the greatest warmth, and commonly fall a victim to those which others pass by unnoticed. Were it not for this oppo­sition from partiality to the general taste, two or three persons would ingross every one's ado­ration, and the major part of the sex would not have a single heart left for them.

Be this as it may, the affection of Dorantes fluctuated between the two Belies; but when he found himself applauded by Clarinda, when he contrasted the captivating notes of ad [...]iation with the gra [...]ing sounds of reproof, it admits of no doubt to which he gave the preference. A siren obtained the prize which he refused to wisdom.

Clarinda easily got the ascendancy over him, and [...]ded her designs upon him▪ At first [Page 53] [...]he confined herself to raise contributions from [...]is purse, to obtain furniture and jewels in con­cert with Damis; but considering the impressi­on which she had made, she aspired to the hon­our of being his wife. "Certainly, said she to Damis, he shall be my husband:—pray do not [...]ugh at me. I have some scruples, I intend to [...]e an honest woman. It is my fancy to try all characters; to say no more, my probity is well known to you; I am indebted to you for the [...]diments of love, and I shall be faithful to my master."

Clarinda had two difficulties to struggle with; her poverty, which is a very great obstacle in these days; but that was nothing in comparison [...]ith the whispers which were spread against her character. She had never strove to make a se­ [...]ret of the latter; and as the bare suspicion of [...]nfidelity will sometimes set aside a marriage, how was it possible to accomplish designs, when a thousand witnesses deposed against her? How was it practicable to smother the rumour of [...]me▪ At first, Clarinda thickened the cloud, which hid Dora [...]tes from the public view; she excited in him, by artful i [...]sinuations, an indif­ [...]ence to those who were of the same character [...]s himself; she persuaded a man, who was al­ [...]eady discontented, that the world was full of criminals; whether more from indulgence or truth, she added that [...]ults seldom proceed from the heart, but almost always from frailty, pre­ [...]ice, error, or ignorance; for it is the interest of the bad to depre [...]i [...]e human nature, and bring it down to their own level.

After having given an unfavourable picture of th [...]se who were not her friends, Clarinda's [Page 54] grand secret was to inspire her lover with a [...]i­king of modest and discreet appearances, and to feed his love by little liberties. To secure the former she made choice of those situations where a person may risk every thing without too much rashness; to procure the other, she tempered by her discourses, the ardor which she had excited? she made him contented in re­ceiving small favours, by giving him a prospect of obtaining still greater; thus at the same time as she inflamed his desires, she chained them with hope; and from the whole of her conduct she was able both to keep his love alive, and to preserve his esteem.

Dorantes would readily have proposed mar­riage, had it not been for the excessive precau­tions of Clarinda. But she had painted man­kind in so disagreeable an attitude, that he was afraid to furnish new victims, and add to the number of dupes; or the bad.

However, to hasten the catastrophe, Clarinda changed her battery. She became reserved and scrupulous. She never received Dorantes without lamenting the force of the passion by which she was attached to him. She assumed an external appearance of devotion; and after having prepared him by these artifices, she de­clared that her virtue, honour, conscience, and the advice of persons of the greatest piety, obli­ged her to take refuge in one of those asylums of innocence, wherein that time is dedicated to prayer, which others dedicate to pleasure.

Dorantes entreated, conjured, made a hun­dred protestations of affection, and concluded with a promise of leading her to the altar.

If Clarinda had not consented, if she would [Page 55] have applied for a licence which would not have been refused her, instead of bands, nothing could have added to her triumph. But she em­ployed that time in affected delicacy, which ought to have been employed in a more mate­rial affair▪ and she let fortune slip out of her hands, while she was contemplating it.

This news was not long in spreading all over the place. Dorantes's former friends, shocked at an example which might have a contagious influence, endeavoured to dissuade him from the match.

This was no proper time for truth to be heard; always prejudiced with his own ideas, he shut his heart to her whispers; he was approaching towards a precipice; his feet tottered upon the brink of an abyss.

Dorantes, now became the jest of the town, and valuing himself more for that very reason, was to have been married in a week's time. Happily for him, Clarinda, who was near the end of her labours, and held the palm in her hand, grew tired of a dissimulation which ap­peared of no farther use, and which is always difficult to support. Dorantes saw, as well as the rest of the town, that he was her dupe, and that she treated him more like a husband than a lover.

It may be thought incredible, that she could not have held out one week longer. They who think so, forget conquest infatuates, and that no one is nearer a fall, than he who has arrived at the summit of grandeur; but even they should have reason on their side, yet I cannot sacrifice the truth of history to the false delicacy o [...] the age.

[Page 56]This alteration in Clarinda's behaviour re­moved the bandage from the eyes of Dorantes. He compared what he saw now, to what he had seen, and to what he had heard. Scarcely a­waked from a long lethargy, and freed from il­lusion, he had recourse to his friends and owned for once in his life, that advice was necessary. Truth, which had been long smothered bur [...]t out on all sides, and the unhappy lover was en­tertained with several anecdotes from the Scan­dalous Chronicle.

I shall not attempt to describe his feelings, Those who have experienced such disagreeable situations, can conceive them well enough, while others cannot form any idea of them. The image of Cloe revived in his imagination; he thought he had offended her too grossly, to re­cover her esteem, or expect her forgiveness. Fluctuating thus between love, which attracted him to her, and shame, which kept him at a distance from her, he was informed that she was gone off with another man. The manner in which this event was described, was somewhat remarkable. The ladies who gave this infor­mation were no great friends to Cloe, because she eclipsed them. They said, "they saw her by herself in a lonesome place; after which they saw a gentleman accost her, who led her away." All this was true; but they should have added, that Cloe prostrated herself at the gentleman's feet and was bathed in tears. But the eye of jealousy can perceive nothing but what flatters its wishes.

When this anecdote transpired, Cloe was vindicated by some; others said, that this event gave them no surprize, as it was suitable to her [Page 57] character, and some, who were more bold, said they foresaw it. Dorantes was determined to search this affair to the bottom, and to snatch Cloe from her troubles; for her virtue was ne­ver suspected by him. But he knew not what course to take. After many a tedious enquiry, he discovered that a vessel had lately failed from Dieppe, for the island of Jersey, having on board a young lady who was very handsome; who no one was permitted to see, and that she was a prey to grief. With this glimpse of light, he set out; no sacrifices are too great to one who would be a protector of female honour, and is desirous of delivering his mistress, and meriting her love. He landed. Heavens! what a sight! He met Medor conducting Cloe to church.

"Condescend, said Medor to him, to be pre­sent at the union of two lovers, who are going to vow an incessant fidelity to each other." The priest was ready, and going to begin the ceremony, when Cloe cried—"Stop! Stop! do not be guilty of sacrilege; deliver me from his impious hands! Oh, deliver me!"— At this crisis Dorantes discovered himself; the thunderbolt which strikes a person dead in the middle of a feast, could not cause a greater astonishment. Cloe alarmed at this interposi­ [...]ion, uttered many an exclamation of joy. Me­dor knew not where he was, what he was doing, or what he said; every motion indicated the greatest perturbation and confusion: he mut­ [...]ered some inarticulate sounds, he confessed hi [...] [...]rime, and quitted the island with the greate [...] [...]recipitation.

After this Dorantes ran into Cloe's arms. [Page 58] The chagrin which he had occasioned, was eclipsed by the important service he had ren­dered her. His fault was being positive and obstinate; but misfortune, which works many a change in the human heart, wrought one in his; and love which sweetens it softened [...]his. Dorantes married Cloe, and was happy with her to the day of his death.

Story of AMBITION.

AMONG the variety of subjects with which you have entertained and instructed the public, I do not remember that you have any where touched upon the folly and madness of am­bition; which, for the benefit of those who are dissatisfied with their present situations I beg leave to illustrate, by giving the history of my own life.

I am the son of a younger brother of a good family, who at his decease left me a little for­tune of a hundred pounds a year. I was put early to Eton school, where I learnt Latin and Greek, from whence I went to the university, where I learnt—not totally to forget them. I came to my fortune while I was at college; and having no inclination to follow any profes­sion, I removed myself to town, and lived for some time as most young gentleman do, by spending four times my income. But it was my happiness, before it was too late, to fall in love, [Page 59] and to marry a very amiable young creature, whose fortune was just sufficient to repair the breach made in my own. With this agreeable companion I retreated to the country, and en­deavoured as well as I was able to square my wishes to my circumstances. In this endeavour I succeeded so well, that except a few private hankerings after a little more than I possessed, and now and then a sigh when a coach and six happened to drive by me in my walks, I was a very happy man.

I can truly assure you, that though our family economy was not much to be boasted of, and, in consequence of it, we were frequently driven to great straits and difficulties, I experienced more real satisfaction in this humble situation, than I have ever done since in more enviable circum­stances. We were sometimes indeed a little in debt, but when money came in, the pleasure of discharging what we owed was more than equi­valent for the pain it put us to; and though the narrowness of our circumstances subjected us to many cares & anxieties, it served to keep the body [...]n action as well as the mind: for as our garden was somewhat large, and required more hands to keep it in order than we could afford to hire, we laboured daily in it ourselves, and drew health from our necessities.

I had a little boy who was the delight of my heart, and who probably, might have been spoilt [...]y nursing, if the attention of his parents had [...]ot been otherwise employed. His mother was [...]aturally of a sickly constitution, but the affairs [...]f her family, as they engrossed all her thoughts, [...]ave her no time for complaint. The ordinary troubles of life▪ which to those, who have no­thing [Page 60] else to think of, are almost insupportable, were less terrible to us than to persons in easier circumstances: for it is certain truth, however your readers may please to receive it, that where the mind is divided between many cares, the anxiety is lighter than where there is only one to contend with. Or even in the happiest situa­tion, in the midst of ease, health, and affluence, the mind is generally ingenious at tormenting itself, losing the immediate enjoyment of those invaluable blessings by the painful suggestion that they are too great for continuance.

These are the reflections that I have made since: for I do not attempt to deny that I sigh­ed frequently for an addition to my fortune. The death of a distant relation, which happened five years after our marriage, gave me this addition, and made me for a time the happiest man liv­ing. My income was now increased to six hun­dred a year; and I hoped, with a little econo­my, to be able to make a figure with it. But the ill health of my wife, which in less easy cir­cumstances had not touched me so nearly, was now constantly in my thoughts, and soured all my enjoyments. The consciousness too of hav­ing such an estate to leave my boy made me so anxious to preserve him, that instead of suffering him to run at pleasure where he pleased, and to grow hardy by exercise, I almost destroyed him by confinement. We now did nothing in our garden, because we were in circumstances to have it kept by others; but as air and exerci [...] were necessary for our healths, we resolved [...] abridge ourselves in some unnecessary articles and to set up an equipage. This in time broug [...] with it a train of expenses, which we had neither [Page 61] prudence to foresee nor courage to prevent. For as it enabled us to extend the circuit of our visits, it greatly increased our acquaintance, and subjected us to the necessity of making continual entertainments at home, in return for all those which we were invited to abroad. The charges that attended this new manner of living were much too great for the income we possessed, in­somuch that we found ourselves in a very short time more necessitous than ever. Pride would not suffer us to lay down our equipage; and to live in a manner unsuitable to it was what we could not bear to think of. To pay the debts I had contracted I was soon forced to mortgage, and at last to sell the best part of my estate; and as it was utterly impossible to keep up the parade any longer, we thought it advisable to remove of a sudden, to sell our coach in town, and to look out for a new situation at a great distance from our acquaintance.

But unfortunately for my peace, I carried the habit of expense along with me, and was very near being reduced to absolute want, when, by the unexpected death of an uncle and his two sons, who died within a few weeks of each other, I succeeded to an estate of seven thousand pounds a year.

And now, both you and your readers will un­doubtedly call me a very happy man: and so indeed I was. I set about the regulation of my family with the most pleasing satisfaction. The splendour of my equipages, the magnificence of my plate, the crowd of servants that attended me, the elegance of my house and furniture, the grandeur of my park and gardens, the luxury of my table, and the court that was every where [Page 62] paid me, gave me inexpressible delight, so long as they were novelties; but no sooner were they become habitual to me than I lost all manner of relish for them; and I discovered, in a very lit­tle time, that by having nothing to wish for, I had nothing to enjoy. My appetite grew pallid by satiety, a perpetual crowd of visitors robbed me of all domestic enjoyment, my servants pla­gued me, and my steward cheated me.

But the curse of greatness did not end here. Daily experience convinced me that I was com­pelled to live more for others than myself. My uncle had been a great party man, and a zea­lous opposer of all ministerial measures; and as his estate was the largest of any gentleman's in the country, he supported an interest in it beyond any of his competitors. My father had been greatly obliged by the court party, which determined me in gratitude to declare myself on that side; but the difficulties I had to en­counter were too many and to great for me; in­somuch that I have been baffled and defeated in almost every thing I have undertaken. To desert the cause I have embarked in would dis­grace me, and to go greater lengths in it would undo me. I am engaged in a perpetual state of warfare with the principal gentry of the county, and am cursed by my tenants and de­pendants for compelling them at every election to vote (as they are pleased to tell me) contra­ry to their conscience.

My wife and I had once pleased ourselves without thoughts of being useful to the neigh­bourhood▪ by [...]ea [...]ng out our charity to the poor and indu [...]r [...]ous; but the perpetual hurry in which [...]e [...] renders us incapable of lo [...]king [Page 63] out for objects ourselves; and the agents we intrust are either pocketing our bounty, or be­stowing it on the undeserving. At night, when we retire to rest, we are venting our complaints on the miseries of the day, and praying hearti­ly for the return of that peace which was only the companion of our humblest situation.

This, Sir, is my history; and if you give it a place in your paper, it may serve to inculcate this important truth, that where pain, sickness, and absolute want, are out of the question, no external change of circumstances can make a man more lastingly happy than he was before. It is to an ignorance of this truth that the uni­versal dissatisfaction of mankind is principally to be ascribed. Care is the lot of life; and he that aspires to greatness in hopes to get rid of it, is like one who throws himself into a furnace to avoid the shivering of an ague.

The only satisfaction I can enjoy in my pre­sent situation is, that it has not pleased heaven in its wrath to make me a King.

History of Sir HARRY PRIGG.

NOT long since, I met at St. James's cof­fee-house an old acquaintance of mine▪ Sir Harry Prigg; who having been long rusti­cated, [Page 64] and much altered, I should never have recollected, had it not been for the information of a fine old coat, in which I remembered him to have made a figure about town many years ago. After the usual civilities had passed be­tween us, amongst many other questions, he asked me when I had seen our old school fellow, Sir John Jolly. I answered, that I had last summer spent some days with him at his country seat, in a manner which would have been high­ly agreeable to a person of more fashionable turn, but was to me rather fatiguing, from its excess of gaiety and hospitality, which, accor­ding to my unpolite taste, were by no means consistent with the soft and serious pleasures of a rural retirement. He said, he perfectly a­greed with me in my sentiments, and passed his time in the country in conformity to them: his manner of life, he was sure, would exactly suit me, and obligingly begged I would make the experiment, adding, that he should go down in a few days, and would carry me with him in his chariot. I accepted his invitation, not so much out of inclination as curiosity to see a new scene of country life, formed on princi­ples so opposite to what I had before experi­enced, and promised to attend him at the time appointed.

But, first, it will be proper to give some ac­count of the birth, parentage, and education of my friend. He came young to his title and a small estate, and was soon after sent to the uni­versity; where his title absurdly giving him the rat [...] of [...]ility, and his estate, though small [...] an allowance sufficient to support that rank at that place, he there contracted an affectation [Page 65] of grandeur, and a pert kind of self-im­portance, which he has ever since retained, and which neither poverty nor solitude has been yet able to conquer. Having in two or three years acquired the advantages of that sort of education, such as the arts of sporting, toasting, billiards, and coach-manship, he came to London, enter­ed into the gay world, and had address and qualifications sufficient to introduce himself in­to what he still calls the best company; that is, the company of smarts, bucks, jockeys, and gamesters: nor was he deficient in point of gal­lantry; for he soon commenced an intrigue with the sister of one of these his friends. Whether his intentions were at first honourable is not perfectly clear; but he was quickly obliged to declare them so, being acquainted, that a lady of her rank was not to be trifled with, and that he must either fight or marry! the latter of which he courageously chose, as being the most daring action of the two. This lady had more gentility than beauty, more beauty than under­standing, more understanding than fortune, and a fortune about equal to her reputation. She was tall and well-shaped, carried her head very high, and, being the younger daughter of the younger son of the first cousin of an Irish baron, looked upon herself as a woman of quality. In a little time Sir Harry heartily ha [...]ed her for compelling him to marry, and she no less des­pised him for being compell [...]d: so th [...]t finding [...]ittle happiness at home, they were obliged to seek it abro [...]d at prays and r [...], operas and [...]ming tables, at no small expense. This could not continue long; so that before one [...]inter was a [...] an end they discovered that the [Page 66] town air would not agree with them, and so re­tired to their country seat, about forty miles from London; whither I shall now conduct my reader.

On the morning appointed I attended early at their lodgings in town, where I found the post chariot at the door, and my friend standing by it, with a long whip in his hand, ready to mount the box; saying, at the same time, that coach-men were such insolent and expensive rascals there was no keeping them; and that therefore he always chose to be his own. In the parlour sat my lady, and colonel Macshane; a gentle­man who had long been very intimate with Sir Harry, and not less so with her ladyship; and in the passage stood her French woman, in a sack and long ruffles, with her arms full of band-boxes and bundles; which were no sooner dis­posed of in various parts of the chariot, than my lady and myself, with her woman on a low stool at our feet, were stuffed into the little room that was left. Sir Harry mounted the box, his valet de chambre rode by, and a sniveling foot-boy climbed up behind. Thus the whole fami­ly, with their baggage, and myself into the bar­gain, were conveyed without the expense of ei­ther a stage-coach or a waggon.

Nothing passed during our journey worth re­lating. Her ladyship spoke little, and that lit­tle was only complaints of her bad nerves and her ill state of health; to which, having no ex­pectation of a fee, I paid little attention. They both declared that nobody but a carrier could dine at an inn, therefore they never stopped on the road; so with the assistance of a fresh pair of horses, that had come twenty miles that [Page 67] morning without a bait, about sun-set we arriv­ed at our journey's end. The colonel got there before us, having rode post: for Sir Harry fre­quently declared to us both, that though his friends were welcome, he never entertained their horses; that it was not the fashion in that coun­try; neither my Lord —, nor the Duke of —, nor himself, did it.

It was not long before the dinner made its appearance; which was so very genteel, that had it not been rendered uneatable by a bad af­fectation of French cookery, it would not have been half sufficient, after so many miles travel­ling, and so long fasting. At the conclusion, we had mead, which passed for to [...]ay; and el­der wine, which Sir Harry swore was the best Burgundy in England, and that he himself had imported it, in conjunction with a noble lord in the neighbourhood. Over a glass of this, the cloth being removed, he informed us that when the smoke of London, and the bad hours inci­dent to keeping good company, would no long­er agree with his own or his wife's constitution, he had determined to seek health and quiet in an elegant retirement. He had been offered, indeed, a seat in parliament, and a considerable employment; but his crazy constitution would not permit him to accept of the one, nor his sound principles of the other.— Retirement was their object, therefore all they dreaded was the horrible irruptions of a country neighbourhood▪ but this they had happily prevented.—That in­deed, on their first coming, every family within ten miles round tormented them with their im­pertinent visits; but they returned none, af­fronted them all, and so got rid of them. D [...]t [Page 68] you think we did right, my dear? turning to his wife. I think, answered she, in a surly and dejected voice, that it is better to forget the use of one's tongue than to converse with squires' wives and parsons' daughters. You are right, Madam, added the Colonel, with an oath and a loud laugh; for what can one learn in such company? To-morrow, says my friend, ad­dressing himself to me, you shall see that we want no company, and that we can sufficiently amuse ourselves with building and planting, with im­provements and alterations, which I dare say will be honoured with your approbation.

Accordingly the next morning, as soon as breakfast was finished, my lady and the Colonel retired into her dressing room to cribbage, and Sir Harry and myself to reconnoitre the place. The house stands at the end of a dirty village, and close by it are a few tame deer impounded in an orchard, to which he gives the pompous title of a park. Behind is a fen, which he calls a piece of water, and before it a goose common, on which he bestows the name of a lawn. It was built in that deplorable aera of English ar­chitecture, which introduced high doors, long windows, small rooms, and corner chimnies; and of gardening, which projected gravel walks, clipt yews, and strait lined avenues, with a pro­fusion of brick walls, iron pallisadoes, and leaden images. But all these defects, and many others, he has now corrected by a judicious application of modern taste. His doors are reduced, you cannot enter with your hat on; and his windows so contracted, that you have scarce light enough to find it if you will pull it off. In the midst of the front, one large bow window is stuck on [...] [...]e­sembling [Page 69] a piece of whited brown paper plais­tered on a broken nose; and a great room is ad­ded behind to dine in, which, was it ever inha­bited, would make all the little ones appear still less: but having never yet been finished, for want both of cash and credit, it remains at pre­sent only a repository of broken china, a pair of back gammon tables, and the children's play-things. His brick walls are converted into chimnies and ovens, and his yew-trees supply them with faggots, his iron work is sold to the black [...]ns, and his heathen gods to the plum­ber for [...] pious use of covering the parish church; his grave, walks are sown with grass; and he frequently repeats that frugal, yet genteel max­im, that sheep are the best gardeners. His horse pond being made serpentine, is become useless, l [...]t it should be trod up; and his sences, being all Chinese, are not fences at all, the hor­ses leaping over, and the hogs walking under them at their pleasure. The transplanted ave­nue is expiring in [...]less platoons; the kitch­en garden, for conveniency, is removed two far­longs from the house; and the kitchen itself un­justly turned out o [...] doors for smelling of victuals; a crime of which it has [...]ver been acquitted by the voice of the whole country.

When our survey was finished, our amuse­ments we [...] all at an end; for within doors the the pleasures both of society and solitude were equally wanting. Of our conversation I have given a specimen; and books there were none, except a small one containing tunes for the French horn, belonging to Sir Harry, and the third volume of Peregrine Pickle, and a Me­thodist prayer book, the property of her lady­ship. [Page 70] I began now to wish for a little of my friend Sir John's hospitality, of which there was not here the least appearance. We heard not of a human creature, except by their inju­ries and insults, not altogether indeed unpro­voked; for the pantry and the cellar, though usually empty, were always locked. Strong beer there was none; and the small, though no body at home could drink it, was not suffered to be given away. The servants were always out of [...]umour, and frequently changing; and the tradesmen who brought their bills were paid only by a wrangle, or a draught on some tenant who owed no rent. There was not a neighbor near, except the parson of the parish, and Alder­man Grab, a rich citizen, who had purchased a considerable part of it from Sir Harry. With these they lived in a state of perpetual hostili­ties: they quarrelled with the alderman for pre­suming to buy an estate which they wanted to sell▪ and the parson quarrelled with them be­cause he was in possession of the only living in the gift of Sir Harry and the alderman had a much better to dispose of. By the encourage­ment of these good neighbours, and their own ill conduct, consisting of a strange mixture of insolence and avarice, of meanness and magni­ficence, they were despised, persecuted, and af­fronted by all around them. Their pigs were w [...]rried, their poultry murdered, their dogs poisoned, their game destroyed, their hedges broke, and their hay stacks set on fire. They were hissed and hooted at; and now-and-then a great pair of horns were fixed on their gates; an insult at which they were highly enraged, but the meaning of which neither Sir Harry [Page 71] nor my lady, not even with the assistance of the Colonel, could ever guess at.

I soon grew weary of this land of contention and uneasiness; and having recourse to the old excuse of urgent business, I took my leave and went post to town: reflecting all the way with surprise on the ingenuity of mankind to render themselves at on [...]e miserable and ridiculous; and lamenting that the happiness and innocence of rural life are now scarce any where to be found but in pastorals and romances.

History of Sir JOHN JOLLY.

HAVING been frequently pressed by Sir John Jolly (an old friend of mine, pos­sessed of a sine estate, a large park, and a plen­tiful fortune) to pass a few weeks with him in the country, I determined last autumn to accept his invitation, proposing to myself the highest pleasure from changing the noise and hurry of this bustling metropolis for the agreeable silence and soothing indolence of a rural retirement. I accordingly set out one morning, and pretty early the next arrived at the habitation of my friend, situated in a most delicious and roman­tic spot, which (the owner having fortunately no taste) is not yet defaced with improvements. On my approach I abated a little of my tra­velling pace, to look round me, and admire the towering hills and fertile vales, the wind­ing streams, the stately woods and spacious [Page 72] lawns, which, gilded by the sunshine of a beau­tiful morning, on every side afforded a most en­chanting prospect▪ and I pleased myself with the thoughts of the happy hours I should spend amidst these pastoral scenes, in reading, in me­ditation, or in soft repose, inspired by the low­ing of distant herds, the fall of waters, and the melody of birds.

I was received with a hearty welcome, and many shakes by the hand, by my old friend, whom I had not seen for many years, except once, when he was called to town, by a prose­cution in the King's Bench, for misunderstand­ing the sense of an act of parliament, which on examination, was found to be nonsense. He is an honest gentleman, of a middle age, a hale constitution, good natural parts, and abundant spirits, a keen sportsman, an active magistrate, and a tolerable farmer, not without some ambi­tion of acquiring a seat in parliament by his in­terest in a neighbouring borough: so that be­tween his pursuits of game, of justice, and po­pularity, besides the management of a large quantity of land, which he keeps in his own hands, as he terms it, for amusement, every moment of his time is sufficiently employed. His wife is an agreeable woman, of about the same age, and has been handsome; but though years have somewhat impaired her charms, they have not in the least, her relish for company, cards, balls, and all other manner of public di­versions.

On my arrival, I was first conducted into the breakfast-room, which, with some surprise, I saw quite filled with genteel persons of both sex­es in dishabille, with their hair in papers; the [Page 73] cause of which I was quickly informed of, by the many apologies of my lady for the mea [...] ness of the apartment she was obliged to allot me, by reason "the house was so crouded with company during the time of their races, which, she said, began that very day for the whole week, and for which they were immediately prepar­ing." I was instantly attacked by all present with one voice, or rather with many voices at the same time, to accompany them thither; to which I made no opposition, thinking it would be attended with more trouble than the expe­dition itself.

As soon as the ladies and equipages were ready we issued forth in a most magnificent ca­valcade; and after travelling five or six miles through bad roads, we arrived at the Red Lion, just as the ordinary was making its appearance on the table. The ceremonials of this sump­tuous entertainment, which consisted of cold fish, lean chickens, rusty hams, raw venison, stale game, green fruit, and grapeless wines, de­stroyed at least two hours, with five times that number of heads, ruffles, and suits of clothes, by the unfortunate effusion of butter and gravy. From hence we proceeded a few miles farther to the race ground, where nothing, I think, ex­traordinary happened but that, amongst much disorder and drunkenness, few limbs and no necks were broken: and from these, Olympic games, which, to the great emolument of pick­pockets, lasted till it was dark, we galloped back to the town, through a soaking shower; to dress for the assembly. But this I found no easy task; nor could I possibly accomplish it before my clothes were quite dried upon my back: my [Page 74] servant staying behind to settle his betts, and having stowed my portmanteau into the boot of s [...]e coach, which he could not find, to save himself both the trouble and indignity of car­rying it.

Being at last equipped, I entered the ball­room, where the smell of a stable over which it was built, the savour of a neighbouring kitchen, the fumes of tallow candles, rum punch, and tobacco, dispersed over the whole house, and the balsamic effluvias from many sweet creatures who were dancing, with almost equal strength contended for superiority. The company was numerous and well-dressed, and differed not in any respect from that of the most brilliant as­sembly in London, but in seeming better pleased, and more desirous of pleasing; that is happier in themselves, and civiller to each other. I ob­served the door was blocked up the whole night by a few fashionable young men, whose faces I remembered to have seen about town, who could neither dance, drink tea, play at cards, nor speak to any one, except now-and-then in whispers to a young lady, who sat in silence at the upper end of the room in a hat and negli­gee, with her back against the wall, her arms a kimbo, her legs thrust out, a sneer on her lips, a scowl on her forehead, and an invincible as­surance in her eyes. This lady I had also fre­quently me [...]t with, but could not recollect where; but have since learned, that she had been toad-eater to a woman of quality, and turned off for too close and presumptuous an imitation of her betters. Their behaviour affronted most of the company, yet obtained the desired effect: for [...] overheard several of the country ladies say, "It [Page 75] was pity they were so proud; for to be sure they were prodigious well-bred people, and had an immense deal of wit:" a mistake they could never have fallen into, had these patterns of po­liteness condescended to have entered into any conversation. Dancing and cards, with the re­freshment of cold chickens and negas about twelve, carried us on till day-break, when our coaches being ready, with much solicitation and more squeezing, I obtained a place in one, in which no more than six had before artificial­ly seated themselves; and about five in the morning through many and great perils, we arrived safely at home,

It was now the middle of harvest, which had not a little suffere [...] by our diversions; and there­fore our coach-horses were immediately degra­ded to a cart; and having rested during our fa­tigues, by a just distribution of things, were now obliged to labour while we were at rest. I mean not in this number to include myself; for though I hurried immediately to bed, no rest could I obtain for some time, for the rumbling of carts, and the conversation of their drivers just under my window. Fatigue at last got the better of all obstacles, and I fell asleep; but I had scarce closed my eyes, when I was awaked by a much louder noise, which was that of a whole pack of hounds, with their vociferous attendants, set­ting out to meet my friend, and some choice spirits, whom he had just left behind at the as­sembly, and who chose this manner of refresh­ment after a night's debauch rather than the more usual and inglorious one of going to bed. These sounds dying away by their distance, I again composed myself to rest; but was pre­sently [Page 76] again roused by more discordant tongues, uttering all the grossness of Drury Lane, and scurrility of Billingsgate, I now wake [...] indeed with somewhat more satisfaction, at first think­ing, by this unpastoral dialogue, that I was once more returned safe to London: but I soon found my mistake, and understood that these were some innocent and honest neighbours of Sir John's, who were come to determine their gentle disputes before his tribunal; and being ordered to wait till his return from hunting, were resolved to make all possible use of this suspension of justice. It being now towards noon, I gave up all thoughts of sleep, and it was well I did; for I was presently alarmed by a confusion of voices, as loud though somewhat sweeter than the former. As they proceeded from the parlour under me, amidst much gig­gling, laughing, squeaking, and screaming, I could distinguish only the few following inco­herent words—frightful—ridiculous— Fr [...]es [...]and hen—r [...]gue—Red Lion at Brent­ford—stays padded—Ram's Horn—sau­cy mi [...]x—impertinent [...]oxcomb. I started up, dressed me, and went down, where I [...]ound the same polite company, who breakfasted there the day before, in the same attitude, discoursing of their friends with whom they were again hasten­ing with the utmost impatience. I was saluted with a how d'ye from them all at the same in­stant, and again pressed into the service of the day.

In this manner I went through the persecu­tions of the whole week, with the sufferings and resolution, but not with the reward, of a martyr, as I found no peace at the last; for at the con­clusion [Page 77] of it, Sir John obligingly requested me to make my stay with him as long as I possibly could, assuring me, that though the races were now over I should not want diversions; for that next week he expected Lord Rattle, Sir Harry Bumper, and a large fox-hunting party; and that the week after, being the full moon he should pay and receive all their neighbouring visits, and spend their evenings very sociably together; by which is signified, in the country dialect, eat­ing, drinking, and playing at cards all night. My Lady added with a smile, and much delight in her eyes, that she believed they should not be alone one hour in the whole week, and that she hoped I should not think the country so dull and melancholy a place as I expected. Upon this information I resolved to leave it immediately, and told them, I was extremely sorry that I was hindered by particular business from any longer enjoying so much polite and agreeable compa­ny; but that I had received a letter, which made it necessary for me to be in Town. My friend said, he was no less concerned; but that I must not positively go till after to-morrow: for that he then expected the mayor and aldermen of his corporation, some of whom were facetious companions, and sung well. This determined me to set out that very evening: which I did with much satisfaction; and made all possible haste, in search of silence and solitude, to my lodging, next door to a brasier's at Charing-cross.

STORY of an UNFORTUNATE CLERGYMAN.

I AM the same clergyman who troubled you with an account of his misfortunes in your paper and am indebted to your kind publication of that letter, for the ease and happiness which, with only one single interruption, I have enjoyed ever since. My uncommon, and I hope I may say, unmerited distresses, recommended me to the n [...]ice of a noble lord, who called to see me at my lodgings, brought me home to his lordship's own house, and honoured me so far as to make me his dom [...]tic chaplain. His lordship' [...] regard f [...]r me was so truly sincere, that he married me soon after to my lady's wo­man, a young person of admirable beauty and virtue, and a great favourite of my lord, because, as his lordship used to tell me▪ she was a clergy­man's daughter▪ and, for what reas [...]n he knew not, extremely hated by his lady. But my good fortune did not end here: his lordship, whose nature is never to be tired with doing good, was so very [...]iging as to take us a little [...] rea­dy [...]rnished▪ in a retired and pl [...]a [...] part of the town, pa [...]ing the rent of it himself, and ma [...] us considerable presents from time to time [...]he was also so very cond [...]scending [...] to [...]pend [...]o or three evening in a [...] with us, [...]d [...]eq [...]ently to take my wi [...]e with [...] [...]he c [...]ario [...] [...] an afternoon's a [...]ring [...] [...]he misfortune, [...] after our [...], of [Page 79] bouring under an ill state of health, which we all feared would terminate in a dropsy.

His lordship was still kinder to me in other af­fairs, insomuch that in less than two months af­ter our marriage he sent me into the west, with thirty guineas in my pocket, to supply the place of a worthy clergyman whom my lord had sent for to town upon particular business; and be­cause the ill health of m [...] wife required a little country air, his lordship proposed taking lodg­ings for her at Knightsb [...]idge during my absence, where she was daily to be attended by his own physician.

At the end of six weeks, his lordship was pleased to recall me to town, where I had the inexpressible satisfaction of finding my wife returned to her house perfectly cured of her disor­der, with only a litt [...]e paleness remaining, from the violent remedies prescribed to her by her physician. I had the additional happiness of finding his lordship with my wife waiting my re­turn, and to be honoured with his thanks for the faithful disch [...]rge of my trust, together with a promise of the very first living that sho [...]ld fall within his gi [...]t.

I m [...]tion these things, Sir, to the honour of my noble benefactor, who ever since my marri­age, which is now three y [...]ars ago, has been la­vishing his [...]avours upon me: who has been so very [...]des [...]nding as to st [...]nd godfather in per­son to my t [...]o children: and to take every op­portuni [...] [...] making me happy by his visits. But I am not [...] a particular detail of the plea [...]es I [...]njoy: [...] have [...]nother motive for troubi [...] [...] letter

His [...], the beginning of this mont [...], [Page 80] was pleased, amongst the many instances of his goodness, to procure for me a chaplainship in one of the regiments now in Scotland; and as my attendance was immediately necessary, and my wife too far gone with child to think of going with me, as soon as I had prepared every thing for my journey, I sent an advertisement to the Daily Advertiser, in the following words.

‘Wanted, an agreeable companion in a post­chaise to Edinburgh. Enquire for the Rever­end W. B. at the Green park Coffeehouse, Piccadilly. Note, The utmost expedition will be necessary.’

The next morning, as I was reading a news­paper in the coffee-room, I heard a young gen­tleman of a very modest and decent appearance, inquiring at the bar for the Reverend Mr. W. B. I told him that I was the person, and calling for a couple of dishes of coffee, we sat down togeth­er, and entered upon the subject of the advertise­ment. He assured me, that if his friends did not flatter him, he was a very agreeable com­panion; that he had business of consequence to transact at Edinburgh; that he was particularly pleased to find, by the advertisement, that I was a clergyman, having a great veneration for gen­tlemen of that function; that he had entertained thoughts of becoming one himself, was a near relation of the Bishop of—, and though young, as he appeared, he was never so happy at when engaged in serious conversation with a worthy divine. He was p [...]eased to add, that he saw something in my appearance which entitled me to that character, and that he did not doubt of being greatly edified during so long a journey. Many civilities passed on my side in return; and, [Page 81] in the end, it was agreed that we should set out that very evening at six o'clock. He was punc­tual to his appointment, with a servant on horse­back, leading a handsome gelding for his mas­ter, who with two young gentleman, his friends, were waiting for me at the inn. I could not help observing, while the chaise was getting ready, that these young gentlemen were taking a good deal of pains to stifle a laugh, which, on our step­ping into the carriage, they were no longer able to contain: but I made no remarks upon their behaviour, and we set out upon our journey.

We reached Ware that night, without any thing happening worthy of remark, except that we were st [...]pt upon the road by two young gen­tlemen on horseback, and interrupted in a very serious conversation by their saluting my com­panion with ‘Z—ds Jack! what playing the saint, and travelling to heaven with a parson!’ My fellow traveller gave them a look of con­tempt, and after assuring them that he had not the honour of knowing them, and pulling up the glass, ordered the possition to drive on.

Our evening at Ware was spent in remark [...] on the dissolutene [...]s of the times, and the inde­cent liberties that wild and prostigate young fel­lows were every where taking with the clergy. After much ser [...] discourse, and moderate re­freshment, we retired to rest. I slept longer than usual in the morning, and no sooner was I awake than I discovered, with equal confusion and surprise, that I was in bed with a woman who, as I attempted to get up, threw her arm [...] about my neck, and compelled me to lie down. The struggle and the noise I made upon this oc­casion, together with the screams of the woman, [Page 82] who still held me fast, alarmed the whole inn, and drew a crowd of spectators into the room headed by my companion, and followed by a sol­dier, who owned himself the husband of the wo­man, swearing that he would have my heart's blood for currupting the chastity of his wife. I pleaded my innocence to an unbelieving audi­ence, whil [...] the woman accused me of having for­ced her against her will; pretending that it was her misfortune overnight to be a little in liquor, and that she had mistaken the room I lay in for her own.

To dwell no longer than is needful upon this disgraceful affair, I was in the end compelled to give a guinea to the soldier, and afterwards to submit with patience to the insults of a mob, who surrounded the inn at our entrance into the post-chaise, and followed it with hootings to the very extremity of the town.

From the passive behaviour of my companion at the inn, and the demure looks that he now put on, I began to harbour a suspicion of him not greatly to his advantage: and while I was deliberating in what manner to address him, an accident happened, which at once threw him off his guard, and discovered to me, that instead of an agreeable companion I was travelling with a [...]end. This accident was the sudden and vio­lent overturning of the post-chaise; upon which occasion, though neither of us was hurt, he dis­charged such a volley of curses on the postillion as made me tremble to hear him. I endeavour­ed to pacify him by the gentlest admonitions, which instead of calming his anger, turned it all upon myself; and amidst a thousand oaths and imprecations, he vowed revenge upon my head, [Page 83] telling me that he hated a parson as he hated Old Nic; that he had bribed the soldier's whore to go to bed to me at the inn, and that he came out upon no other business than to play the devil with me all the way. I stood aghast at what I heard, and refused getting into the chaise again; upon which a struggle ensu [...]d, and blows passed between us; till by the assist­ance of his servant, and the knavery of the pos­tillion, whom he gained over to his side with a whole handful of silver, I was thrust into the chaise, and compelled to go on.

We had scarce travelled a mile before we over­took a couple of gypsies upon the road; one an old woman, the other a girl. They were all over rags and filth, and so intoxicated with liquor that they reeled every step. My companion cal­led to the postillion to stop, and after question­ing those wretches about the way they were go­ing, got out of the chaise, and told me that he could not in charity fit lolling at his ease while two of the tender sex were walking barefoot on the road; and that if I had no weighty objec­tions he would make the old lady an offer of his seat, and miss, as he was pleased to call her, might with great conveniency sit upon my knee. It was in vain fo [...] me to expostulate, or to at­tempt leaping after him: his servant held me fast by the arm, handed the creatures into the chaise, and then mounting his horse, rode close by its side, talking obscenity to the wretches, and instructing them to behave to me in a man­ner not to be endured nor described.

In this manner we passed through the villa­ges, and entered Roysto [...], the postillion being ordered to walk his horses gently to the inn, [Page 84] that we might be followed by a mob whom my companion called to at every turning to smoke the parson and his doxies.

I stept from the chaise amidst the hallooing of the rabble and ran into the room, the door of which I locked. Here I determined to remain, or to fly to the magistrate for protection had not my tormentor made his appearance at the win­dow, telling me, that as the joke was now at an end, and as he believed I had enough of an agree­able companion, he had altered his intention of vi­siting Scotland, and should return to town that morning. I thanked him for the favour, but kept close to my room, till I saw him with his servant ride out of the inn, and take the road to London. I then ordered some refreshm [...]nt to be brought me, and a post chaise to be in readi­ness; but how great was my astonishment, when feeling for my purse, which contained forty gui­neas at my setting out, I found that my pockets had been rifled and that I had not so much as a brass farthing left me!

As it was no doubt with me, that the gypsies had robbed me, I made immediate inquiry after them, but learnt that they had disappeared on our arrival at the inn; and though the most di­ligent search was made for them, they were no where to be found.

It was now impossible for me to proceed; I therefore determined to stay where I was till I could receive a fresh supply from my wife, to whom I dispatched a messenger with a letter, setting forth at large all the cruelties I had met with.

When the messenger was gone, it occurred to me, that however i [...]l my companion had used [Page 85] me, he could not be base enough to concert this robbery with the gypsies, and therefore might be inclined to make up my loss, upon knowing that I had sustained it. For this reason I deter­mined once more to transmit my complaints to you: that if the young gentleman has any one principle of honour remaining, he may send to your house the sum I have been defrauded of. My demand upon him is for the sum of seven and thirty guineas, which unless he pays within six days after the publication of this letter, I will forthwith print his name in the newspapers, and proclaim to the public the injuries he has done me.

I have another reason for giving you this trou­ble, which is, to caution all gentlemen for the future against advertising in the papers for an agreeable companion in a post chaise; as it con­soles me not a little that I am enabled to make other people wise, even by my own misfortunes.

On the DEGENERACY of HUMAN NATURE.

IF we give credit to the vulgar opinion, or even to the assertions of some reputable au­thors, both, ancient and modern, poor [...]uman nature was not originally formed for keeping: every age has degenerated; and from the fall [Page 86] of the first man, my unfortunate ancestor our species has been tumbling on, century by cen­tury, from bad to worse, about six thousand years.

Considering this progressive state of deteri­oration, it is a very great mercy that things are no worse with us at present; since, (geo­metrically speaking,) the human ought by this time to have sunk infi [...]itely be [...]ow the brute and the vegetable specie [...] ▪ which are neither of them supposed to have d [...]dled or degenerated con­siderably, except in a very few instances: for it must be owned that our modern oaks are inferi­or to those of Dodona, our breed of horses to that of the Centaurs, and our breed of [...]owls to that of the Phoenixes.

But is this really the case? Certainly not. It is only one of those many errors which are artfully scattered by the designs of a few, and blindly adopted by the ignorance and folly o [...] many. The moving exclamation of—these [...] times! this degenerate age! the affecting lamen­tations over declining virtue and triumphant vice [...]nd the tender and final farewell bidden every day to unrewarded and discouraged public spirit, arts and sciences, are the common place t [...]p [...]s of the pride, the envy, and the malignity of the human heart, that can more easily for­give, and even commend▪ antiquated and re­mo [...]e, than bear co [...]empora [...] and contiguous merit. Men of these mean sentiments have al­ways been the sati [...]ises of their own, and th [...] paneg [...]r [...]s of former times. They give thi [...] [...]ne, which [...]ools, like birds in the dark, catc [...] by the [...] and whis [...]e all day long.

A [...] [...] has constantly been my endeavour [...] [...] ▪ or, if [...] could not, to expo [Page 87] the vices of the human heart, it shall be the object of this paper to examine this strange in­verted entail of virtue and merit upwards, ac­cording to priority of birth, and seniority of age. I shall prove it to be forged, and con­sequently null and void to all intents and pur­poses whatsoever.

If I loved to jingle, I would say, that human nature has always been invariably the same, though always varying; that is, the same in substance, but varying in forms and modes, from many concurrent causes, of which, perhaps we know but few. Climate, education, acci­dents, severally contribute to change those modes; but in all climates, and in all ages, we discover through them the same passions, affections, and appetites, and the same degree of virtues and vices.

This being unquestionably the true state of the case, which it would be endless to bring in­stances to prove from the histories of all times and of all nations, I shall by the way of warn­ing to the incautious, and of reproof to the de­signing, proceed to explain the reasons, which I have but just hinted at above, why the human nature of the time being, has always been rec­koned the worst and most degenerate.

Authors, especially poets, though great men, are alas! but men; and like other men, subject to the weaknesses of human nature, though per­haps, in a less degree: but it is however cer­tain, that their breasts are not absolutely stran­gers to the passions of jealousy, pride, and envy. Hence it is that they are very apt to measure merit by the century, to love dead authors bet­ter than living ones, and to love them the better [Page 88] the longer they have been dead. The Augustan age is therefore their favourite aera, being at least seventeen hundred years distant from the present. That Emperor was not only a judge of wit, but, for an emperor, a tolerable perfor­mer too; and Maecenas, his first minister, was both a patron and a poet: he not only encour­aged and protected, but fed and fattened men of wit at his own table, as appears from Horace: no small encouragement for panegyric. These were times indeed for genius to display itself in! It was honoured, tasted, and rewarded. But now—O [...]empora! O mores! One must how­ever do justice to the authors who thus declaim against their own times, by acknowledging that they are seldom the aggressors; their own times have common [...]y begun with them. It is their resentm [...]nt, not their judgment, if they have any, that speaks this language. Anger and despair make them endeavour to lower that merit, which, till brought very low indeed, they are conscious they cannot equal.

There is another and more numerous set of much greater men, who still more loudly com­plain of the ignorance, the corruption and the degeneracy of the present age. These are the consummate volunteers, but unregarded and un­rewarded politicians, who, at a modest compu­tation, amount to at least three millions of souls in this political country, and who are all of them both able and willing to steer the great vessel of the state, and to take upon themselves the whole load of business and burthen of employments for the service of their dear country. The admin­istration for the time being is always the worst, the most incapable, the most corrupt, that ever [Page 89] was, and negligent of every thing but their own interest, Where are now your Cecils and your Walsinghams? Those who ask that question could answer it, if they would speak out, Themselves: For they are all that, and more too.

I stept the other day, in order only to enquire how my poor country did, into a coffeehouse, that is without dispute the seat of the soundest poli­tics in this great metropolis, and sat myself down within ear-shot of the principal council table. Fortunately for me, the president, a person of age, dignity, and becoming gravity, had just be­gan to speak. He stated with infinite perspicu­ity and knowledge, the present state of affairs in other countries, and the lamentable situation of our own. He traced with his fingers upon the table, by the help of some coffee which he had spilt in the warmth of his exordium, the whole course of the Ohio, and the boundaries of the Rus [...]ian, Prussi [...]n, Austrian, and Saxon domin­i [...]ns▪ [...]saw [...] long and bloody war upon the [...], calculated the supplies necessary for carrying it on, and pointed out the best methods of raising them, which, for that very rea [...]on▪ [...]e intimated would not be pursued. He wound up his discourse with a most pathetic p [...]roration, which he conc [...]uded with sa [...]ing▪ ‘Things were not carried on in this way [...] Queen Eliza­beth's days; the public was considered, and able men were con [...]ulted and employed. These were da [...]s [...] Aye, Sir, and nights too, I presume [...] a young f [...]low who stood near him)▪ s [...]me longer and [...] accord­ing to [...]e v [...]tion [...]f t [...]e seaso [...] pretty much like [...]u [...].’ Mr. Pre [...]dent was [...] surpr [...]ed of [...]e sudde [...]ness and [...] [Page 90] interruption; but, recomposing himself, answer­ed with that cool contempt that becomes a great man, ‘I did not mean astronomical days, but political ones.’ The young fellow replied, "O then, Sir, I am your servant," and went off in a laugh.

Thus informed and edified I went off too, but could not help reflecting on my way upon the singular ill luck of this my dear country, which, as long as ever I remember it, and as far back as I have read, has always been governed by the only two or three people, out of two or three mil­lions, totally incapable of governing, and unfit to be trusted. But these reflections were soon interrupted by numbers of people, whom I ob­served crowding into a public house. Among them I discovered my worthy friend and tailor, that industrious mechanic, Mr. Regnier. I ap­plied to him to know the meaning of that con­course: to which, with his usual humanity, he answered, ‘We are the master tailors, who are to meet to-night to consider what is to be done about our journeymen, who insult and impose upon us, to the great detriment of the trade.’ I asked him whether, under his pro­tection, I might slip in and hear their delibera­tions. He said, Yes, and welcome; for that they should do nothing to be ashamed of. I pro­fited of this permission, and following him into the room, found a considerable number of these ingenious artists assembled, and waiting only for the arrival of my friend, who it seems was too considerable for business to begin without him. He accordingly took the lead, opened the meet­ing with a very handsome speech, in which he gave many instances of the insolence, the unrea­sonableness, [Page 91] and the exorbitant demands of the journeymen tailors, and concluded with obser­ving▪ ‘that if the government minded any thing now-a-days but themselves, such abuses would not have been suffered; and had they been but attempted in Queen Elizabeth's days, she would have worked them with a witness.’ Another orator then rose up to speak; but as I was sure that he could say no­thing better than what had just fallen from my worthy friend, I stole off unobserved and was pursuing my way home, when, in the very next street, I discovered a much greater number of people (though, by their dress, of seemingly in­ferior note) rushing into another public house. As numbers always excite my curiosity almost as much as they mutually do each others passions, I crowded in with them, in order to discover the object of this meeting, not without some suspi­cion that this frequent senate might be composed of the journeymen tailors, and convened in op­position to that which I had just left. My sus­picion was soon confirmed by the eloquence of a journeyman, a finisher, I presume, who ex­patiated with equal warmth and dignity upon the injustice and oppression of the master tailors, to the utter ruin of thousands of poor journeymen and their families; and concluded with assert­ing, ‘It was a shame that the government and the parliament did not take notice of such abuses; and that had the master tailors done these things in Queen Elizabeth's days, she would have mastered them with a vengeance, so she would.’

I confess I could not help smiling at this sin­gular conformity of sentiments, and almost of [Page 92] expressions, of the master politicians, the master tailors, and the journeymen tailors. I am con­vinced that the two latter really and honestly be­lieved what they said, it not being in the least improbable that their understandings should be the dupes of their interest: but I will not so pe­remptorily answer for the interior conviction of the political orator; though, at the same time, I must do him the justice to say, he seemed full dull enough to be very much in earnest.

The several scenes of this day suggested to me when I got home various reflections, which, per­haps, I may communicate to my readers in some future paper.

HISTORY of a YOUNG ADVENTURER.

AS the history of my life may be of some ser­vice to many of your readers, I shall re­late it with all the openness and simplicity of truth. If they give a due attention to the errors and mistakes of my conduct they will pass over those of my style. I am no scholar, having had a private education under the eye of my mother. Instead of conversing or playing with other boys, I went a visiti [...]g with her; and while she and my tutor were at Cribbage, in which they pas­sed a considerable part of the day, I read such books as I found lying about her room; the chief of which were the Atlantis, Ovid's Art of Love, novels, romances, miscellaneous poems, and plays. From these studies I contracted an [Page 93] early taste for gallantry; and as nothing pleased me so much as the comedies of the last age, my thoughts were constantly engrossed with the en­viable situation of the heroes of those pieces Your Dotimants and your Homers struck my imagination beyond the brightest characters in Pope; and though I liked the gallantry of fighting ten years for a woman, yet I tho't the Greeks might have found a readier way of ma­king themselves amends, by visiting their friends at Troy and taking revenge in kind. Such were the exploits to command my admira­tion, and such the examples which I looked up to▪ and having manifest advantages of person, I entertained most extravagant conceits of my fu­ture triumphs. Yet even in the height of those extravagancies I had no hope of obtaining every favour that I solicited; much less should I have been persuaded that such uncommon success could be productive of any thing but consummate hap­piness. The history of my life will prove the contrary; and I chuse to record it, with a view of showing what a succession of trouble, distress and misery, arose from the very completion of my desires.

I was precipitately sent to Oxford, on being discovered in an intrigue with a young girl, whom my tutor had lately married, and who had a prior attachment to me. As my love for her was excessive, this separation was inexpres­sibly painful; and I learned from it, that past joys were no consolation for present disappoint­ment. I found the university life to little suited to my taste, that I soon prevailed upon my mo­ther to let me come to London. Before I had been a week in town I was introduced to a young [Page 94] woman, whom I took so great a fancy to, that the very violence of my passion made me despair of success. I was, however, so agreeably disap­pointed, that I could scarce conceal the trans­ports of joy which possession gave me: but this joy was more than balanced, when at the end of some months I was told of the condition into which this kind creature was brought by her compliance with my desires. My anxiety upon this event was too great to be restrained; and honour, which alone had stopt the overflowings of my joy, prompted me to give a loose to my concern. I bewailed with remorse and tears the shame and misery of deluded innocence, and cursed myself as the author of so much ruin and infamy. I spared no expense to render her un­happy situation as comfortable as it could be made, and shut myself up with her till the ex­pected time of her delivery. That fatal hour infinitely increased our mutual shame, by giving birth to a little negro, which though it deliver­ed me at once from the pangs of conscience, put me to an immoderate expense in bribes to the nurses to keep the secret of my disgrace.

This unlucky adventure had almost spoiled me for a man of gallantry; but I soon lost all remembrance of ill usage in the innocent smiles and gentle sweetness of a young lady, who gave me every mark of tender love and constancy. Our mutual fondness made it impossible for us to bear that separation which discretion requir­ed: as she gave up all her acquaintance for my sake, she soon found herself abandoned by them; so that our constant living together, which hi­therto had been choice, was now become an ab­solute necessity This confinement, though it did [Page 95] not abate, but, if possible, increase my tender­ness, had so different an effect upon her temper, as to cause a total change of behaviour to me and all about her: she stormed day and night, like a fury, and did every thing to drive me from her company; yet if ever I went from her upon the most urgent business, she would throw her­self into fits, and upbraid me with the most bit­ter reproaches. On my being sent for to attend my mother in her last moments, she threatened, with horrid imprecations, that, if I left her then I should never see her more. I had scarce broke from her menaces when she flew from her lodg­ings in an agony of passion, and has not been heard of since.

Soon after the death of my mother, a lady of quality who visited her, and who had cast an en­vious eye upon her diamonds, which were not contemptible, took occasion to make some ad­vances towards me. Whenever we met, her discourse always turned upon the great merits of my mother, and the taste which she showed in the choice and manner of wearing her jewels; and this conversation as constantly ended in an assignation at her house. Though I was at first a little proud to find my presents meet so ready an acceptance, I was not exceedingly flattered in the progress of this amour; especially when I began to perceive that the strongest recommen­dation I had to her favour was growing weaker every day. I found also that a declaration which I had made of not loving cards did not contri­bute to strengthen my interest in that family.

My next affair was with a lady who was really fond of me, and I thought myself, then, at the height of my wishes; for she managed so dis­creetly, [Page 96] that we had not the least interruption from her husband at home: but her conduct a­broad was a perpetual scene of in [...]iscretion and tyranny. She obliged me to attend her every night to the opera, and never to stir from her side. She would carry me to the most frequented plays and keep me in a whisper during the most inter­esting scenes. Not satisfied with this, she made me walk with her eternally in the Park, the Old Road, and Kensington gardens; and to com­plete her triumph, she dragged me, a miserable object! about the streets of London, with the same pityless ostentation as the inhuman con­queror trailed the lifeless carcase of Hector round the walls of Troy. To complete my misfor­tunes, it happened that the beau monde establish­ed a new mode of gallantry, and all knights amorous were required to make love after the new fashion, and attend their fair on horseback. Unluckily for me, my mother, not suspecting that horsemanship would ever become, here, a requisite in gallantry, had made it no part of my English education: therefore, being an ab­solute novice, I procured the quietest beast that was to be got, and hoped that I was properly mounted: but I soon found my mistake, for the dulness of the beast tended to bring a most dis­graceful suspicion on the spirit of the rider; and I was obliged, at all events, to undertake a more mettlesome [...]eed. The consequence was this▪ the moment joined my mistress she drew out her handkerchief, which, fluttering in the wind, so frigh [...]ene [...] my horse, that he carried me directly into the serpentine river. While I was taken up with my own danger and disgrace, her horse, which had started at the same time, ran a [Page 97] different way, and as she was no otherwise qua­lified for a rider but by the consciousness of be­ing a woman of fashion, she was thrown against a tree, and killed on the spot. The remem­brance of her fondness for me, though so trou­blesome while living, was the cause of great af­fliction to me after her death; and it was near a twelvemonth before I settled my affections on a new object. This was a young widow, who though she did not give me the same occasion of complaint as the last, created me no less pain by turning the tables upon me; instead of requir­ing my constant attendance, she would complain that I haunted and dogged her; and would fre­quently secret herself, or run on purpose into sus­picious company, purely to give me uneasiness. Though confessedly her favourite, I have fre­quently been denied admittance, when the most worthless pretenders have been let in: and when I have offered her tickets for a concert which she liked, she has refused them, and accepted of an invitation to a dull play, with the most des­picable of my rivals. When we have been at the same table at cards, she has made it remark­ed by the whole assembly that her eyes and her discourse have been industriously kept from me; and such has been her cruelty, that when I have desired the honour of walking with her the next morning, she has answered with a significant sneer, she was very sorry she should not have my company, for she intended to ride. With all this, who could imagine that I was the happy man! and yet, as I spared no pains nor cost in the enquiry, I can venture to pronounce that no other person whatever shared her favours with me. Of all the tortures that can be devised for [Page 98] the punishment of poor lovers, there are none so excruciating as this inequality of behaviour.

Not to detain you with a farther detail of the plagues and disquietudes, the discoveries, expen­ces, fines, and dangers, which are incident to gallantry in general, I shall only tell you that I at last perceived there was no peace nor comfor [...] for the votaries of Venus but under the auspices of Hymen. To overcome my inveterate preju­dices against the conjugal state, so long despised, insulted, and injured by me, was the great diffi­culty: but as the thorough detection of the va­nity and folly of every degree of gallantry had by no means extinguished my unalterable love for the sex, I found upon mature reflection, that marriage was my only resource, and that I should run no great risk in exchanging the real for the imaginary pains of love.

Having taken this resolution. I stept into the ridotto, fixed my eyes upon a very engaging fi­gure, and immediately advertised for the young lady in blue and silver, requiring only a certifi­cate of her good-humour. I went to the coffee-house, received a letter for A. B. and in the space of a few months, from being a restless, tyranni­zed, tormented wretch, I found myself a husband▪ a cuckold, and a happy man. I lived ten years in a state of perfect tranquillity: and I can tru­ly say, that I once met with a woman who, to the day of her death, behaved to me with con­stant attention and complacency.

STORY of AGAMUS.

TO indulge that restless impatience, which every man feels to relate incidents by which the passions have been greatly effected, and communicate ideas that have been forcibly impressed, I have given you some account of my life, which, without farther apology or introduc­tion may, perhaps, be favourably received in your Book.

My mother died when I was very young; and my father, who was a naval commander, and had, therefore, no opportunity to superintend my conduct, placed me at a grammar school, and afterwards removed me to the university. At school the number of boys was so great, that to regulate our morals was impossible; and at the university even my learning contributed to the dissoluteness of my manners. As I was an only child, my father had always allowed me more money than I knew how to lay out, otherwise than in the gratification of my vices: I had sometimes, indeed, been restrained by a general sense of right and wrong; but I now opposed the remonstrances of conscience by the cavils of sophistry; and having learned of some celebra­ted philosophers as well ancient as modern, to prove that nothing is good but pleasure, I be­came a rake upon principle.

My father died in the same year with Queen Anne, a few months before I became of age, and left me a very considerable fortune in the [Page 100] funds. I immediately quitted the university and came to London, which I considered as the great mart of pleasure; and as I could afford to deal largely, I wisely determined not to endanger my capital. I projected a scheme of life that was most agreeable to my temper, which was rather sedate than volatile, and regulated my expences with the oeconomy of a philosopher. I found that my favorite appetites might be gratified with greater convenience and less scandal▪ in proportion as my life was more private: instead therefore, of incumbering myself with a family, I took the first floor of a house which was let into lod [...]ings, hired one servant, and kept a b [...]ace of geldings at a livery stable. I constantly fre­quented the theatres, and found my principles confirmed by almost every piece that was repre­sented, particularly my resolution never to mar­ry. In comedy, indeed, the action terminated in marriage▪ but it was generally the marriage of a rake, who gave up his liberty with reluc­tance, as the only expedient to recover a fortune —and the husband and wife of the drama were wretches whose example justified this reluctance, and appeared to be exh [...]bited for no other pur­pose than to warn mankind, that whatever may be presumed by those whom indigence has made desperate, to marry is to forfeit the quiet, inde­pendence and felicity of life.

In this course I had continued twenty years, without having impaired my constitution, lessen­ed my fortune, or incumbered myself with an illegitimate offspring; when a girl about eigh­teen, was hired as a chambermaid by the person who kept the house in which I lodged: the na­tive beauty of the health and simplicity in this young [Page 101] creature, had such an effect upon my imagination that I practised every art to debauch her, and at length succeeded.

I found it convenient for her to continue in the house, and therefore, made no proposal of re­moving her into lodgings, but after a few months she found herself with child, a discovery which interrupted the indolence of my sensuality, and made me repent my indiscretion: however, as I would not incur my own censure by ingrati­tude or inhumanity, I provided her a lodging and attendants, and she was at length delivered of a daughter. The child I regarded as a new incumbrance; for though I did not consider myself as under parental or conjugal obligations, yet I could not think myself at liberty wholly to abandon the mother or the infant. To the mo­ther, indeed, I had still some degree of inclina­tion; though I should have been heartily con­tent never to have seen her again, if I could at once have been freed from any farther trouble about her; but as something was to be done, I was willing to keep her within my reach, at least till she could be subservient to my pleasure no longer: the child, however, I would have sent away; but she intreated me to let her suc­kle it, with an importunity which I could not resist. After much thinking, I placed her in a little shop in the suburbs, which I furnished, at the expence of about twenty pounds, with chan­dlery-ware, commodities of which she had some knowledge, as her father was a petty shop-keeper in the country: she reported that her husband, had been killed in an engagement at sea, and that his pay, which she had been empowered to receive by his will, and purchased her stock. I now thought I had discharged every obligation, [Page 102] as I had enabled her to subsist, at least as well as she could have done by her labour in the station in which I found her; and as often as I had an inclination to see her, I sent for her to a bagnio.

But these interviews did not produce the plea­sure which I expected: her affection for me was too tender and delicate; she often wept in spite of all her efforts against it, and could not forbear telling me stories of her little girl with the fond prolixity of a mother, when I wished to regard her only as a mistress. These incidents at once touched me with a compunction, and quenched the appetite which I had intended to gratify; my visits, therefore became less frequent; but she never sent after me when I was absent, nor reproached me, otherwise than by tears of ten­derness when she saw me again.

After the first year I wholly neglected her; and having heard nothing of her during the winter, I went to spend the summer in the country. When I returned, I was prompted rather by curiosity than desire to make some in­quiry after her; and soon learnt that she had died some months before of the small-pox, that the goods had been seized for rent, and the child taken by the parish. At this account, so sudden and unexpected, I was sensibly touched; and at first conceived a design to rescue the child from the hands of a parish [...]urse, and make some little provision for it when it should be grown up: but this was delayed from day to day; such was the supineness of my disposition, till the event was remembered with less and less sensi­bility; and at length I congratulated myself upon my deliverance from an engagement which I had always considered as resembling in some degree the shackles of matrimony. I resolved [Page 103] to incur the same embarrassment no more, and contented myself with strolling from one prosti­tute to another, of whom I have seen many ge­nerations perish; and the new faces which I once sought among the masks in the pit, I found with less trouble at Cuper's, Vauxhall, Ranelagh, and innumerable other places of public enter­tainment, which have appeared during the last twenty years of my life.

A few weeks ago I celebrated my sixtieth birth-day with some friends at a tavern; and as I was returning to my lodgings, I saw a hackney coach stop at the door of a house which I knew to be of ill repute, though it was private and of the class. Just as I came up a girl stepped out of it, who appeared, by the imperfect glimpse I caught of her as she passed, to be very young, and extremely beautiful. As I was warm with wine, I followed her in without hesitation, and was delighted to find her equally charming upon a nearer view. I detained the coach, and pro­posed that we should go to Haddock's: she hesi­tated with some appearance of unwillingness and confusion▪ but at length consented: she soon be­came more free, and I was not less pleased with her conversation than her person I obser­ved that she had a softness and modesty, in her manners, which is quickly worn off by habitu­al prostitution.

We had drank a bottle of French wine, and were preparing to go to bed, when, to my un­speakable confusion and astonishment, I discov­ered a mark by which I knew her to be my child: for I remembered that the poor girl, whom I so cruelly seduced and neglected, had once told me with tears in her eyes, that she had imprinted the two letters of my name under her little NAN­ [...]'s [Page 104] left breast, [...], perhaps, would be the only memorial she would ever have of her father. I wa [...] instantly struck with a sense of guilt with whi [...]h I had not been familiar, and, therefore, felt all its force. The poor wretch, whom I was about to hire for the gratification of a brutal ap­petite, perceived my disorder with surprize and concern; she enquired with an officious sollici­tude, what sudden illness had seized me; she took my hand, pressed it, and looked eagerly in my face, still inquisitive what could be done to relieve me. I remained some time torpid: but was soon rouzed by the reflection, that I was re­ceiving the caresses of my child, whom I had abandoned to the lowest infamy, to be the slave of drunkeness and lust, and whom I had led to the brink of incest, I suddenly started up; first held her at a distance; then catching her in my arms, strove to speak, but burst into tears. I saw that she was confounded and terrified; and as soon as I could recover my speech, I put an end to her doubts by revealing the secret.

If it is impossible to express the effect it had up­on her▪ she stood motionless a few minutes; then clasped her hands together, and looked up in an agony, which not to have seen is not to conceive. The tears at length started from her eyes; she recollected herself, called me father, threw herself upon her knees embracing mine, and plunging a new dagger in my heart by ask­ing my blessing.

We sat up together the remainder of the night, which I spent in listening to a story that I may, perhaps, hereafter communicate; and the next day I took lodgings for her about six miles from town. I visit her every day with emotions to which my heart has till now been a [Page 105] stranger, and which are every day more frequent and more strong. I propose to retire with her into some remote part of the country, and to atone for the past by the future: but alas! of the future a few years only can remain; and of the past not a moment can return. What atone­ment can I make to those upon whose daughters I have contributed to perpetrate that calamity, from which by miracle I have rescued my own; How can I bear the reflection, that though for my own child I had hitherto expressed less kind­ness than brutes for their young; yet perhaps, every other whom I either hired or seduced to prostitution, had been gazed at in the ardor of parental affection, till tears have started to the eye: had been catched to the bosom with trans­port, in the prattling simplicity of infancy; had been watched in sickness with anxiety that sus­pended sleep; had been fed by the toil of in­dustrious poverty, and reared to maturity with hope and fear. What a monster is he, by whom these fears are verified, and this hope deceived! And yet, so dreadful is the force of habitual guilt, I sometimes regret the restraint which is come upon me; I wish to sink again into the slumber from which I have been rouzed, and to repeat the crimes which I abhor. My heart is this moment bursting for utterance: but I want words. Farewell.